The Dresser

I’d had my eye on it for months. But of course there was never any money left over after groceries and bus tickets. Still, the dresser stayed in the window of the shop. No one else was in love with it, apparently.

I walked by that shop every day, twice. It’s on the way to the bus stop from my flat. Actually, it’s on the same strip as the grocer and the laundromat, so I guess I spend a lot of time walking back and forth on that street.

Last week something changed. My boss gave me a bonus. I’d been working there as a clerk for six months, which was a good start for me, and he said he’d noticed my diligence and attention to detail. I didn’t tell him that diligence and attention to detail had not prevented me from losing three other jobs in the previous two years. The economy was in a shambles and it hit me hard.

I thanked him, maybe a bit too often. He smiled and thanked me back. Then I went back to sorting papers and putting them into the right drawers. I smiled too, on the inside, the rest of the day and on the bus ride home.

The weekend came and I was not sure what to do with the bonus. It was only fifty dollars. I had a long list of needs and an even longer list of dreams. “Maybe I should split it up, and do a little from both lists,” I mumbled to myself. The two lists were only in my head, and items often shifted from one list to the other.

I put on a coat and went down the stairs and out the front door. I walked to the grocery and went in. I’d already done my regular food shopping earlier in the week. You know, the part of the week when you still have money left from the last paycheck? I grabbed a basket and strolled down one aisle and then the next. I bought flour, sugar, chocolate chips, butter, some baking powder, and a metal baking sheet. When the clerk rang it up, I asked for a lottery ticket. The two dollars would round up my purchases to a twenty dollar bill.

It the most frivolous thing I could think of to do. “Waste two dollars?” I thought. Why not. I typed in my numbers, then stuffed the receipt into my pocket. I walked home with a little tingle going on in that pocket and the smell of chocolate cookies already in my nostrils.

On Tuesday, I made sure to get the right bus and get home before the lottery drawing. It was all new to me. All my life I’d laughed at the people putting their hard-earned money into tickets like the one I held in my hand. Maybe this would be both the first time and the last time I’d try this. It was a kind of illicit fun and made this particular Tuesday different.

The next morning I went to work as usual. It was an ordinary day, sorting papers and putting them away. Working in the news archives was a chore, but it paid well. And it was warmed in the winter months and cooled in the summer months. At the end of the day I took the bus home and walked by the shops.

As it happened, I was in front of the furniture store when the lottery drawing came in. I stopped to look in the window at the television mounted there. Of course, I didn’t have one of my own anymore. It had gone with some other things in the latest ‘lawn’ sale during the breaks between paying jobs. Ah well. I had been getting a lot of reading done. Anyway, I stood and watched. I held my ticket in my hand, even though I’d memorized the first few numbers.

One, right. Two, right. Three, got it! Four, oh my god, got it, too! Waiting…

Crap! Missed the fifth one. Millions of dollars flew out of my pocket. Millions that had only ever been there in my imagination. Ah well. This is what happens when you waste two dollars on a lottery ticket.

Then the announcer came back on. “Well, folks, we won’t know who won the mega jackpot for a couple of days. But there are probably a few of you out there with smaller winnings.”

“Smaller winnings?” Is that what he said.

“If you’ve matched three of the five numbers, you can claim four $50 winning here at the Lottery Office. If you’ve matched four of the five – and we hope there aren’t many of you – then you can claim your $20,000 here. He smiled, and looked to his left and right as if those winners would burst into the studio booth and swarm over him.

That’s what I felt like doing! I almost swooned. Honestly, I almost sagged right down to the cement sidewalk right then and there. Somehow I held myself up. I lifted my right hand and held it in my field of view along with the screen of the TV behind the glass. The numbers were still displayed there. One, two, three, four … Oh my God! Sweet Jesus! Oh my God!

I didn’t even know where the Lottery Office was, never mind knowing how they’d get the money into my hands. Still panting with excitement, I staggered home. I hoped I’d get some sleep that night.

The next day I called in to work and said I’d be taking the morning off. “I have an important meeting downtown,” was my explanation. My boss said it was okay as long as I caught up with my filing this afternoon. I checked the bus map, and took the right one downtown. I walked the last few blocks to the Lottery Offices. I walked up the steps, thankful that there was no line of people making their claims.

The lady behind the screen spoke through the small opening. “May I please see your receipt?”

“Yes, of course,” I replied. I’d rehearsed this conversation during my bus ride over.

She gazed at it, then scanned the bar code at the bottom. I could almost hear the computer buzzing. I imagined it printing out a stack of bills which she would hand to me, still warm.

“Thank you. Congratulations. We have confirmed your winning ticket. Please fill out this form.” She handed me a one-page form through the slot below the glass.

I move aside, then sat in one of the chairs thankfully provided there. I entered my name, address, bank account number, and phone number. I even wrote in a short testimonial in the space provided. That part was optional but I figured this might be my only fifteen minutes of fame.

I stood up and handed the form back to the lady. There was no one in line, so the exchange was quick. She looked up briefly and gave me a warm smile. Maybe it was from the testimonial I’d written. Maybe she could see from my slightly ragged coat that this was a godsend.

“The money will be transferred to your bank account within two business days,” she announced. She looked up with one more smile. “Thank you for playing our lottery. Good luck.”

I staggered back to the bus stop. When it came, I slogged up the steps and put in my fifty cents. I took that bus, then transferred to another, and was at the office by eleven o’clock. Before I went in I stopped at the local grocer and bought a bag lunch for later. While I waited for my sandwich, I sent up a prayer – another prayer – of thanks. “Good luck,” she’d said. I was hoping so.

Three days later, after checking by phone at least twice a day since the Lottery Office visit, I confirmed that the twenty thousand was put in my account. Since I wasn’t making much in the way of income, I figured I wasn’t going to be paying much in the way of income tax. So, the money was there for me to use.

Twenty thousand dollars! What could I do? I’d had daydreams, night dreams, pencil sketch dreams in the last three days about how I’d use it. The wait for the bank turned out to be a blessing because I got my priorities straight. Some of the excitement dissipated like perfume at the end of a long date.

The first place I visited was my bank. I waited and then sat down with the bank person, whatever their title is, and we went over the situation of my sudden wealth. She had some good advice, and it was nice that she seemed to take an interest in me. I’d never even talked to anyone but the teller before. I withdrew one hundred dollars from the account, and walked back into the sunshine. I looked up. Yes, the sun’s warmth seemed different today.

The next place I visited was the department store. I bought a package of new underwear, a new tea kettle (to replace the one I’d left on the burner without water), and one of those little black notebooks – you know, the ones you can fit into your pocket and make notes in? While waiting in line to pay I imagined myself on a train, making notes about the towns and farms sliding by… I’d never been in a train trip, and I’d never made notes in a diary before. I decided this was a good time to start.

The third place I stopped in was the furniture store. “How long has that dresser been in the window?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Oh, a long time. Maybe six months,” he replied. “Are you interested in it?”

“I might be, if the price is right.”

“I can give you a good discount,” he continued. “We need that space for something new. How about fifty dollars?”

“How about forty? And you deliver it? I live only a block away in a second floor flat.”

“Hmmm. It’s not busy today.” He hesitated some more. I worried I’d asked too much.

“Sure. It’s a deal!” he announced.

I whipped out the forty dollars – two twenty dollar bills, fresh from the bank. I wrote my address on a piece of paper, and told him I’d be there in half an hour and all afternoon.

He smiled. I smiled.

I turned on my heel and walked out to the sidewalk. I could have spent a lot more in that store, to be sure, but spending was not a habit of mine. And I wondered to myself it could become a habit or not.

The dresser arrived two hours later. The store clerk himself came, with a helper. They wrestled it up the stairs, then made two more trips to bring up the empty drawers. I had used the time before it arrived to pick up the place, including the bedroom a bit. I made a spot along one wall for it. Once it was there, drawers and all, and I’d thanked them and given them each a five dollar tip (which had been my plan for pushing the price for ten dollars), I sat on the edge the bed and just admired it. I sat there for an hour.

I looked carefully, detail by detail, admiring the oak grains, the metal drawer pulls, the antique wheel on each of the legs. I checked out the top, solid and smooth, with only the hint of a few scratches.

Then my mind turned to imagining the story of this dresser. Where had it lived? How long had it been since someone had filled it with underclothes and blouses? Or T shirts and jeans? Who was the first owner who had bought it from the furniture maker? Where had it been made?

I supposed that there were people who could look closely at the dresser and provide some of those answers. But I didn’t care if it was an antique or made in China. It was beautiful and it was mine! In my bedroom, in my flat. I carefully pulled out each of the drawers and set them on my bed. I had not considered the possibility of them being cracked or loose. But I was in luck: they were all well-made and sound.

There were two narrow drawers on the top row, then a full-width drawer, then a second full-width drawer. After checking them over, and thinking how I’d have to buy some paper to line them, else my delicates would get snagged, I noticed something odd. The left-hand top drawer was heavier than the right-hand one.

On further checking I noticed that the bottoms of the two narrow drawers were thicker, much thicker than the bottoms of the wide drawers. “That’s odd,” I thought. “It should be the other way around.”

I turned over the left-hand top drawer to inspect it more closely. The dovetail construction had been used twice on each drawer’s bottom. I pushed on that bottom surface. It flexed, not as one would expect a thick board to do. I pulled out the right-hand top drawer again, flipped it over and pressed against the bottom. It flexed, too.

I turned the drawer right side up and pressed on the bottom from below, good and hard. I felt the bottom flex, but didn’t see the top move at all. Huh? Two layers? Why?

My curiosity burned bright at that moment. Why would there be two layers in the bottom of two dresser drawers? And a space between them, evidently? I looked more closely. I could see two small notches along one edge. As it happened, I had a screwdriver in the kitchen drawer. I fairly ran in there to get it, carrying the right-hand drawer with me. With tool in one hand and the drawer in the other, I pressed the blade into the notch and levered it with some serious force. I thought, “If this is oak, it shouldn’t snap.”

Snap it did not. Pop it did. The upper layer of the drawer bottom popped right up. Underneath it was an empty space, about a quarter of an inch thick. My heart sank. There was nothing hidden there.

I practically flung that right-hand drawer across the kitchen in my haste to get back to the bedroom. I grabbed its mate and checked inside. Sure enough, there were notches there, too! Press, lever, pull, pop!

This time the space was not empty. Inside were four thin books. Three were folded paper with red covers. One was more stiff, like a real notebook. It had a black cover and I could see a ribbon sticking out the bottom edge. All of it was dusty. The edges of all four books were worn. But nothing had ever been damp, nor eaten, nor rotted away.

I sat down on the bed, wondering where to begin. My first thought was “What’s inside?” My second thought was “The shop didn’t know these were in here!” My third thought was “How old are these?”

I could not wait. I could not stay away and make myself a cup of tea, or call a friend, or put the other drawers back into place. I chose one of the red books. I opened it. It was full of writing. All the pages were full, in a small, neat handwritten script, probably fountain pen. But it wasn’t in English.

I opened the second red book, then the third. Same thing.

I opened the single black book. Different handwriting, ballpoint pen. Legible. The back cover marked "Made in USA". But still no English!

The first entry had a date, “21 srpen 1968”. It meant nothing to me. I thought back to 1968. I looked back in the red books. The handwriting used the Western European alphabet, but with lots of accents. I went to the computer. I typed in “21 srpen 1968”. The search engine came back with “The Warsaw Pact Invasion of Czechoslovakia”. What had I found? Where had this dresser been?

This was going to take some time. But not a bad investment for my forty dollars, eh?

Copyright 2021 by William Altmann, all rights reserved.