The Wheel

I spend most of my time thinking about wheels.

I’m not entirely sure why wheels in particular. I’m not entirely sure what kind of wheels I picture once my mind inevitably refers to them. No details, just their shape: circular. Or maybe I’m just thinking about circles? But circles don’t always spin, so we’re back to wheels.

Anyway, the reason why I always think about wheels is because they’re always doing the same thing: they spin. Sometimes they change direction, but they’re still spinning.

My life is like a wheel. Sometimes I’m at the height of the wheel, where I feel energized and content. Sometimes I’m at the bottom of the wheel, where there’s a lot of darkness and despair. Sure, I always come out of it, but that just means that I’m eventually going to come back to the bottom.

This morning is like every morning. I sit at the small table in the corner of my cramped studio apartment with the disgusting smell of downtown Montreal seeping through the window panes. I sip some coffee so off-putting that I have to drink it seven times to acquire somewhat of a taste for it.

Once I’m finished with my coffee I’ll go down the 3 flights of stairs to the lobby and lose my balance slightly on a patch of ice that never seems to thaw. I’ll go to work at a dead-end retail job and come home. Tomorrow I’ll do the same. I know, I’m just a barrel of sunshine, right?

I put my mug in the sink and brush my teeth. I grab a jacket and exit into the hallway. I notice my neighbor Taylor unlocking her door.

“Oh, hey Eric.”

“Hi, Taylor,” I reply. “Just getting in?”

“Yeah...I had to dish out some money for the bus to my parents’ house last night. Some idiot stole my bike.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” she sighs. “Thank god my parents had one. Oh well, not much I can do now. At least I still have a free way to work. Have a good one!”

“You too.”

Anyway, I make my way down 3 flights of stairs to the lobby and lose-

Except for this time, I fall. I stumble to the ground and smack my knee on the pavement. I want to curse, believe me, but I don’t really have the energy. I stand up slowly and look back at what I tripped over: a small, battered briefcase.

I pat the snow off of my knee and continue down the sidewalk. I don’t get far. Instead, I think about the briefcase again. Should I just leave it there? What if it belongs to someone? This isn’t a nice neighborhood. It could belong to Sam upstairs, or Stephanie and John two floors down. I should check, at the very least.

I make my way back to the briefcase, calm and collected. I look to my left then to my right before kneeling down and cracking it open. What’s inside makes my heart flutter.

It’s money. It’s all money; colorful and smooth and gorgeous and magnificent. There’s more money in here than I have ever seen, or will have ever seen, in my entire life. This can’t be real…

And yet they feel real. When I run my fingers over the bills, all the fives and the tens and the twenties. They feel real.

But they aren’t mine. And with that, all of my bright feelings dissolve as quickly as they arrived. I check any other pockets for some form of identification. Nothing.

Still, maybe I should turn this in to the proper authorities. All this money must belong to someone, and they would surely be missing it dearly.

I’ll just bring it up to my apartment and leave it there for safekeeping. I better hurry, I’ll miss the bus if I don’t leave within the next few minutes.

And for the rest of the day, all I could think about is that money. I should have just left it there. What if I got myself involved in something crazy?

Before I knew it, I came home with a bottle of wine. I didn’t even look at the label, or more importantly, the price. For all, I know this could be a bottle of rather cheap wine, but the point was that I didn’t need to check how much it cost. I just bought it.

I open the briefcase and refill my wallet with what I used to buy the bottle of wine. Maybe I should take a few extras? A twenty, maybe? The way I see it, if this money does in fact belong to someone, I’ll just empty my pockets and put the money back.

To be quite honest, the week after that was kind of a blur.

Now, I blast music from my new laptop and dance around the middle of the kitchen with a lamp that comes up just past my shoulders. With every beat, I down some wine straight from the bottle. I get lost in the music and tear the lamp from the outlet, pulling its cheap wire apart. I have plenty of energy to curse, but I’m too happy. I’ll just buy another one.

I run over to the briefcase and take out another stack of bills, finally revealing the bottom of the briefcase for the first time. I expect to see the lining of cheap fabric, but instead, I find a little black book.

I shudder slightly. This is more than likely the identification that I - let’s face it - barely looked for.

I reach for it and open it. Inside is a list of names. A long list. The list goes on for pages and pages. With each name, there’s a number.

Elizabeth Monroe……………..28

Charles Dumas………………..325

Mary Rivet……………………...127

And so many, many more.

I’m not sure what to make of any of this and frankly, it’s starting to stress me out, so I put the book down.

I sip my wine straight from the bottle, as usual. The same bottle as earlier this week, of course. I wouldn’t want this newfound dough to turn me into an alcoholic. I pick up the little black book again because it has spent most of its time sitting on my dresser and staring at me, simply judging me for not wanting to find out more about it.

And so, I finally pick it back up and make myself read every name. I’m not sure why, but at least I’ll have read all of the contents.

At first, the names, or their respective numbers, don’t phase me. Until…

Taylor Rivet…......................200

I read her name again, and again, just to make sure I’m not making it up for myself. I look at my bottle of wine, how much did I drink again? And then I remember my conversation with Taylor earlier this week. Her bike was stolen, her 200$ bike.

I put the book on my dresser and pace around my small studio apartment. So many thoughts clog my mind, so many impossible thoughts. Then, I grab an old calculator. I skim through each name and add up every number. Once I finally hit the equal sign, the number comes up to exactly 20,000.

20,000.

20,000$.

Each of these people has somehow contributed to this briefcase holding exactly 20,000$. But how? Do any of them know? Maybe. But that doesn’t explain Taylor. Why complain about a stolen bike if you sold it for cash and put it in a battered briefcase?

I have so many questions with no one to answer them. But one question keeps spinning in my head: do I keep it?

Let’s be honest, this money is probably stolen. And even if it isn’t, this entire situation is too strange to be a part of. I want no part of it.

And for a moment, I think of my bottle of wine, the first of many. I think of my laptop, perfect for when I can go back to school. I think of finally going back to school without having to worry about my maxed-out credit card or paying rent. It might not be a lot to some people, but 20,000$ could have fixed my life.

But it isn’t mine. And that’s why I can’t keep it.

I spend the rest of the week returning the things I bought. Whatever I couldn’t get my money back for, I shelled out of my own pocket. When all was said and done, the briefcase once again contained exactly 20,000$. That’s when I grabbed the little black book and its list of names. Whoever I could find through my own means, I managed to get them their money back, one way or another. Whatever was left in the briefcase by the end, I turned in to the police.

Now I’m walking home, slower than I have ever walked. The air is crisp and spring is just around the corner, just not the corner I’m about to round. I get into my apartment and let out a loud exhale. I lean back and hear a snap in the chair.

I’m not sure why, but I just start laughing. Yet another thing that will probably break in a few days, if not tomorrow. I laugh and it’s real, not a breakdown or anything. It’s real, glowing laughter. I shake my head, still smiling, and take a sip of some very cheap, off-putting coffee.

My life is like a wheel. Right now, I’m at the height of it and I’m going to enjoy every minute.