Play Money

PLAY MONEY

by Douglas P. Marx

"That's your great grandfather, Charlie. Charles Alexander Frankel," Uncle Marty said. "It's who you're named after. He built this house, died just before the Great Depression." Charlie gazed at the portrait of the old man in the dark suit and tie. The man looked scary with the bristly beard and thin white hair up top. His eyes looked kind, though. He held a small black book in one hand and a fountain pen in the other. Charlie would have liked him, he bet.

Uncle Marty, at the insistence of his mom, decided Charlie needed a tour of the house. Charlie knew his uncle was just keeping him from "being underfoot." The grown ups had shooed him out of the kitchen several times already since they got back from PapPap Joe's funeral. Still, he liked Uncle Marty, so he didn't mind the tour. He didn't talk down to him like a little kid.

Uncle Marty led Charlie around the house and talked with a lot of big words he only half understood. He pointed out more paintings and various collectibles, items not to play near, and what were just cheap knockoffs. The family house was much bigger than his home back in Cleveland. Old houses were, well, old and mysterious. Adventure could be around any corner in a house like this. Mom said during the trip that Grandma Cleo was going to sell the house because of darn fool PapPap Joe.

They stopped in the library and Uncle Marty plopped down in a big leather chair with a grunt. "Now have a seat while I check my eyelids for pinholes for a spell." Charlie knew Uncle Marty meant he was going to take a nap, but he never said it that way. Uncle Marty was funny like that.

The library smelled like leather and the tobacco. Great big shelves filled with hundreds of books rounded the room, statues and paintings decorated the walls. Charlie knew from TV that libraries almost always had a secret room somewhere. Some book or button would trigger a mechanism to a hidden chamber or safe. He began a thorough search, removing every book and every statue to see if he heard a click or some muffled movement of machinery. Uncle Marty's snoring didn't help him listen. But after he had checked every book and wooden wall panel in reach, he still had discovered no secret levers anywhere.

Nothing.

He scooted over a wooden chair and stood atop to reach the higher shelves. It was then that he knocked over a short metal statue, and a tumble of books came crashing down to the carpet. Uncle Marty grunted, but didn't wake up. Charlie watched carefully for a moment, to be sure he wasn't in trouble, and then started gathering books to put them back.

On the uppermost shelf, Charlie noticed a small black book tucked behind the regular books. It had no printing on the spine, and nothing on the cover. But it looked a lot like the black book in his PapPap Charlie's portrait. He abandoned the rest of the books and took it down to examine it.

Yep, the same type of book in the portrait. Maybe there was a map inside with a big X to mark the treasure chest. He opened it up and flipped through the pages, but the book was blank except for the first page with some squiggly writing.

Charlie approached Uncle Marty and jostled his arm. He didn't wake up. Charlie poked his Uncle's enormous belly several times until his eyes opened.

"Uncle Marty, what does this say?" He shoved the book under his uncle's nose. Uncle Marty blinked and sat up.

"Hmmm? What's this? What ya got there?"

As usual Uncle Marty made a big display of pulling out his eyeglasses and rubbed the lenses with a handkerchief. "Now let's see. An old notebook, hmmm. It says, "For daydreams and nightmares, sparks of imagination, silly and/or profound, sketch them out, write them down."

"Uncle Marty what does it mean?"

"Well, your namesake was a writer. This must have been one of his notebooks." He looked it over and handed it back to Charlie. "You write your ideas down in it, to save them for later, remember them."

"What happens then?"

"Whatever you want, I guess. It's your book now. Where did you find it?" Uncle Marty then noticed the pile of books all over the floor and grimaced at Charlie. "Never mind, I see."

Charlie smiled, turned, and dashed from the room. His shoes had been too muddy after the cemetery to wear inside the house, but running in socks was better anyway. Sliding on the old hardwood floors made him feel like an ice skater. He only fell a few times.

Upstairs, Charlie took the notebook to his parents' room and rummaged around inside his dad's suitcase until he found one of the mechanical pencils his dad always had. It was Charlie's favorite mechanical pencil. Steel and brass, fine threads, and delicate pencil leads. It was one of the few things that still worked when he took it apart and put it back together again. That's why it was his favorite. And it made a clicking noise as the lead came out. Things that clicked were always great.

Charlie laid on the bed, flipped open the book, and stared at the blank page. He chewed his lower lip and turned back to the first page to read the words again. Turning back, he clicked the lead out and wrote, "Hello, PapPap Charlie. How are you? My name is Charlie too. Uncle Marty says you died a long time ago before the great dress onion. I don't know what that is, but it sounds scary. I found your book in the library. I hope you don't mind. Mom says Aunt Cleo is mad at 'darn fool' PapPap Joe. I don't want her to be sad. I like your house." He closed the book and flipped it around in his hands. A little gap between the back cover and the last page made him look closer.

In the back of the book, thick paper concealed a slight lump. The paper, tucked and folded perfectly, formed a secret pocket. Grinning excitedly, he pried around the sides until one edge lifted and he saw something inside. Tilting the notebook open, some weird money poured out.

"G..R..O..V..E..R." He sounded out the letters under the man’s picture slowly and then combined them. Grover? Like on TV? It didn't look like the Grover he knew. Some old guy that looked more like his PapPap Charlie than the puppet.

Charlie kept PapPap Charlie's secret book with him as he played under the kitchen table. He looked up and asked, "Mom, why was Grandma Cleo crying?"

Aunt Doris answered him, "Your Granddad Joe was a great man, but he wasn't great with money." His mom looked at Aunt Doris and shook her head.

"Sweetie, there are just some grown-up things happening you don't need to worry about."

"I found Grover money, from home, Mom." He showed her a bill, but she barely looked at it. "I can give it to you for the house and Grandma Cleo."

"That's very sweet, dear. We can play a board game later. Tell Grover thank you, but we'll figure something out. Now run along. Go find your Uncle Marty."

"He's still 'checking his eyelids for pinholes.'"

"Well, go find your cousins then."

His cousins were too old to play with him, and none of them were interested in an old book. They shooed him away from the game room. His dad and other grownups were in the garage drinking beer and telling dirty jokes. They pushed him out cause he had "little ears." Finally, he found a place under the stairs where no one would tell him to go away.

"Charlie,” his mom called out. “You want to come with me to run an errand?" Charlie jumped up, ran to put on his shoes, and was already outside by the car when his mom came out. She shook her head and retied his shoelaces properly. Charlie knew his mom was just keeping him out of trouble, but a trip to town would be nice. He could buy some candy and maybe a comic book. After a winding drive they pulled up to the market. He opened the heavy car door and bolted into the store. A spinner rack of comics stood by the cash register. Dozens of colorful, exciting covers stared out at him. He pulled out several, grabbed a couple candy bars, and plopped them down on the counter. He had money, he could buy a lot. His mom came up with a basket of groceries and stood behind him.

Charlie pulled out one of the Grover bills and offered it to the store clerk. The clerk chuckled, looking at his mom, and said, "You keep your money, little fellow."

"But I can pay, honest." He pushed the note across the counter as far as he could. "See?"

"Charlie, put your play money away. I'll get the candy bars and comics for you, but you have to be good."

"Hey, wait," the clerk said. "Let me see that bill."

"It's just play money. No such thing as a thousand dollar bill."

"Not anymore, but there used to be."

"See, I told you. PapPap Charlie left it for me."

"Charlie, where did you find this?"

"It was in PapPap Charlie's book. There's a secret pocket in the back." Charlie opened the book and showed the pocket and the other bills inside.

"Holy cow," the clerk said. "Maam, if these are real, that's quite a bundle he's found. I'm not sure of the value, but Stewart at the post office collects coins and such. You should go ask him."

Mom paid for the comics and candy bars, grabbed him by the arm, and hurried him along toward the Post Office. She seemed nervous and rushed inside. Charlie chewed his lip. Did he do something wrong? The building smelled like school glue, paper, and old wood.

Mr. Stewart was a round man with a big round belly that almost hid his face from Charlie's angle. He only had a ring of hair above his ears, but nothing on top but shiny skin like a bowling ball. Big bushy eyebrows and chubby cheeks made him look like he was always ready to laugh.

Mom handed the bill to Mr. Stewart, and she repeated the story from the market. Mr. Stewart looked surprised as he turned the bill over and looked closely.

"Wow, that's quite some find there, Charlie," he said. "You say you have more than just this one?"

Charlie nodded and held out the notebook proudly. "My Grover money. From home." "Twenty in all. I counted." He opened the old book up revealing the secret compartment. Inside sat nineteen more Grover money.

"Grover money?" His mom asked. "Why does he keep calling it that?"

"President Grover Cleveland was on the 1928 $1000 dollar bill. And the 1934 versions too."

"And we're from Cleveland. The boy's smart, a handful, but smart." Mom shook her head and patted his shoulder. "So they are real?"

Mr. Stewart nodded. "The Treasury stopped printing these in the 40s and pulled all of them from circulation in the late 60s."

"But they can't be worth anything, they're too old."

"Oh, no. Old currency is still worth the original value, all currency is. And to collectors, these are worth much more than face value. That twenty thousand is probably worth forty or sixty thousand at least."

Charlie grinned. "So Grandma Cleo doesn't have to sell the house?"

"I guess not."

"PapPap Charlie saved his house."

"And he some help, it seems." She meant him, Charlie had helped. He smiled.