Randy's Lot

It's a chilly September morning. Dew coats the trees and bushes, the morning sun sparkling in each droplet. Randy opens his eyes to the all-familiar interior of his ragged grey tent. He sits and wraps up in the only blanket he has: a big, worn, woolen thing he's had since he was a boy.

Bird songs fill the air outside.

"Shit..." he grumbles, grabbing his backpack to find the honey bun he bought yesterday. He gobbles it down, taking breaks between swallows to suck air down his nostrils. The empty wrapper is shoved into the "trash pocket" of his backpack to throw away later.

"Alright..." Randy sighs. He packs for the day ahead, pulls his jacket on, saddles his pack across his shoulders, and--lastly--grabs the cardboard sign he holds up to strangers rolling by in their vehicles every day:

'Lost Everything

Anything Helps

God Bless You'

The tent stays behind as he walks from the woods. He loves having the patch of woods to himself. He looks back at his tent before crossing the tree line into a field. It's so much warmer without the tree cover. Randy smiles and quickens his pace: it's a fifteen-minute walk to his regular panhandling spot.

There's Main Street: traffic rushes by, one car after the other: horns blaring, baggy-eyed faces whizzing by, coffee cups lifting up to eager mouths. Most of these people are looking past the day ahead, looking forward to pulling their vehicles back into their own driveways or parking spaces.

Randy walks up to his corner-spot at the busiest intersection in town, his cardboard sign already held up for the world to see.

"It's going to be a good day," he says to himself.

The traffic light flashes yellow.

Most people glance at Randy then look away. He knows the drill. For every dozen or so people that ignore him, there's always one that hands him a couple bucks. For every dozen or so of the couple-buckers, there's always one who hands him a twenty-dollar bill or larger.

"There's one," Randy says to himself, crossing in front of an SUV to the next lane, fingering a twenty from a man driving a Cadillac. "God bless you, sir!" Randy shouts, jogging back to his spot. The light turns green as soon as Randy steps off the street.

"Let's hope it keeps rolling like this."

Randy uses the green lights to walk back to the corner. When the light turns red, he turns around to greet everyone with his sign. He is skinny from years of poor nutrition and walking everywhere. He continues panhandling for hours.

***

"It's a good day," Randy says to himself, pocketing a couple more dollars. He swigs from his canteen while nodding at the car he just came from. He decides to call it a day. The people, the weather, the police going by with their piercing eyes, have all been good to him.

Judging by the sun's position, it's early evening. Randy has been by the road since morning. He pats the mass of cash in his pocket and walks toward a strip mall right off Main Street. Randy's been going there for years and has made friends of the shop owners and clerks. The trick is to be kind and respectful of people and their livelihoods. If someone says "please don't loiter," then don't loiter; Randy knows how to play the game.

Randy approaches the gas station that sits away from the rest of the strip mall. He wants a big bottle of cold water and a slice of hot pizza if they've got it. They should, he thinks, it's getting close to supper time. Walking inside, fresh-cooked food is the first thing he smells.

"Hey, Cheryl," Randy says to the cashier, throwing a two-finger salute from his forehead at her.

"Hey, Randy!" Cheryl says, passing a receipt to a customer. "Have a good evening, ma'am," Cheryl says to her. Cheryl and Randy now have the store to themselves.

"So, how's your day been?" she asks.

Randy approaches the counter with a tall bottle of water and a pizza-slice-shaped box. "Oh, you know, so-so, like always." He feigns a frown and places his items on the counter in front of her.

"Eh, tomorrow's another one," Cheryl says, scanning the water and pizza.

"I'm playing," he says, chuckling, "it's been one of the better days I've had in a while. Made a killing out on that corner today... You know, on Main Street and Weston?"

"Yep, of course. I've seen you out there," she says. "I'm glad you did well today." She pats his hand and passes his change. "You be careful out there, OK? If I find out anything's happened to you, I'll find you and strangle you myself." She rests her chin on her fist.

They both laugh.

"OK, well, I'll hopefully see you tomorrow," Randy says.

"You better!" They both wave at each other as Randy opens the door and steps into the evening sun.

Randy starts across Main Street toward his patch of woods; it's about a mile away, fifteen to twenty minutes depending on traffic. He wolfs down his pizza on the way back. It's incredible, being the first thing he's eaten since the honey bun this morning.

***

Randy sees his patch of woods ahead and steps onto the sidewalk that runs around the field. The area is like a small open park. Randy notices a little black notebook zipped inside a large plastic bag, propped against the bottom of a trash can. Picking it up, he discards the bag and opens to the first page:

'Welcome to the rest of your life, stranger. The information contained within these pages should not be shared with anyone you don't trust. Keep this book to yourself. Do not seek me out. By the time this book is found, I'll be dead. I have a limited amount of time left on this earth, so this is my farewell.

'Inside these pages are instructions for acquiring my gift to you. I wish to leave something behind for you, for I have no one else to give it to. It would have sat in one of my bank accounts until the IRS or some other damned government agency came and collected it for themselves, after my death...'

Looking around for anyone who might be watching, he sees no one. He closes the book and shoves it inside his pack. He's so close now as the sun creeps below the tree line ahead. Sensing he may have hit the jackpot, he runs toward the woods, not able to contain his excitement.

His tent, finally: Randy piles up some brush and twigs in front of it. Producing a lighter from his pack, he lights a fire. He settles in front of it, grabbing out the notebook. Hands shaking, he opens to the second page:

'I'm going to keep this all entirely brief. All the instructions will be written below on this page. I hope this notebook finds you well, and if it has not, then I hope what follows will soften the pain you are enduring.

'I, too, have suffered pain, for much of my life, but now I am filled with gratitude. My suffering will conclude soon, and I hope yours will as well. The rest of the notebook is for you, for whatever you want to fill it with. I hope you find much to fill it with.

'Here are the instructions:

'My gift to you is buried 50 paces west of where you found this notebook, where the trees meet the field, right beside the honey-suckle, under a big flat rock.

'I hope this gift changes your life for the better.

'Farewell'

Randy closes the notebook. "Oh, my god..." He springs up and out of the tent. The sun is almost gone now. The dim blue sky peeking through the trees guides him toward the field. He rushes out into the open, looking toward the area where he found the notebook; he looks left along the trees, then right--

--the honeysuckle.

Randy lifts the flat rock: the dirt is loose. He uses his hand to scoop up pile after pile of damp earth. He scrapes something solid: "There it is." Lifting it out, he places it on his lap. It looks like a fancy weatherproof time capsule, about the size of a large thermos. Randy unlatches the top--releasing a hiss of air--and unscrews the air-tight lid. Inside are two thick, banded stacks of crisp cash. He grabs one of the stacks: the band is gold, the amount says '$10,000'.

A roaring "HAAAAH! HAAAAAH!" erupts from Randy. He does a dance, twirling with the fancy canister and twenty-thousand dollars hugged in his arms. "Oh, my god... WOOOOOOOO!" Randy laughs and dances back into his patch of woods, his small camp fire a landmark ahead of him.

***

The fire has been out now for a while. Randy--after hours of laying in his tent awake, grinning, thinking about the canister next to him--is asleep. Nothing stirs in the patch of woods except the wind through the trees.

***

A new day; it's warmer than yesterday. Randy walks out of the woods, standing a little straighter, walking a little taller. There's a smile on his face that could be permanent. Morning bird songs fill the air, and Randy joins in with a whistling tune. Twenty-thousand dollars rests inside the backpack strapped across his shoulders. He steps onto the sidewalk next to the miracle trash can and heads for Main Street.

***

"Good morning, Cheryl," Randy says, walking into the gas station.

"Randy! You're here early today." She smiles as Randy walks up to the counter. "Tell you what... You want some coffee?"

"No, thank you. I have something I want to show you." He slings the backpack off his back. "I still can't believe it, myself," he says, unzipping the largest section of the pack--

--All of a sudden he feels something in his chest, a feeling he's never felt before: some strange shifting pain. He clutches at his chest and grimaces, leaning against the counter while placing his pack down. "Oh, wow," he says quietly, his face tightening, eyes closing, "I think I'm having a heart attack."

"Oh my god, Randy!" Cheryl says, reaching for him. "I'm going to call 911!" She picks up the phone and dials.

Randy collapses onto his knees, clutching his chest.

***

The EMT's surround Randy, who is now laying down on the cold hard floor, still clutching his chest. They help him onto a gurney. He opens his eyes and looks at Cheryl, her eyes red and dripping with tears. "Please, Cheryl, don't cry." He smiles at her. "My backpack... I want you to have it. I want you to have everything in it. What I wanted to show you... is yours now... Please don't argue with me, I'm not going to make it. My father died of a heart attack when he was younger than I am now..."

"Stop it," she says, "you're going to make it..." She covers her mouth with her hand.

Randy smiles at Cheryl. "Please," he says, winking at her, "it's yours. Keep it. You've been nothing but an amazing friend to me for years, and, for that, I am grateful. I am grateful for you."

Randy is pushed outside and loaded into an ambulance. Cheryl watches from the window, tears dripping down her cheeks.

***

Cheryl is sitting in her den at home. Randy's backpack sits on the coffee table in front of her. Her eyes are swollen, red and puffy. She reaches for the pack, unzips it, and looks inside: the unusual canister is closed. Pulling it out, she places it on her lap and unscrews the lid. Two banded '$10,000' stacks of cash are inside; Cheryl gasps and sinks back into her chair.

Her telephone rings.

Tears well up in her eyes again as she gets up to answer it.