The Gift

When my father died, he anointed me with his debts. The man was penniless in life and struggled financially; traits that I wouldn’t wish upon my enemy, were endowed upon me. Anything that required financial responsibility or even capability was better left for those with the blood that could afford such delights. He was, simply, simple. My uncle, however, was very different.

He owned the largest home I had ever set foot in, the nicest cars, and hired a private chef. Luxury was an every-day commodity. I often asked my father the reason for the large discrepancy between their lives; his response was often the old adage: “You don’t deserve what you haven’t earned”, I hated hearing him say that. Yesterday, February 29th, my uncle died in his luxurious home. I had only visited the manor twice: once as a child, and again after my father’s funeral. Today will mark my third visit.

***

I awake as I usually do, the sound of heavy grinding and rolling of the ‘L’ as it speeds by on its elevated tracks. Within my 600 square foot sanctuary it’s easy to notice the noise through the paper-thin walls. Grabbing the nearest clothes that smell the least offensive I begin my day in the yellowed walls of my metropolitan prison. While staring, ritualistically, at my massive twenty thousand dollar credit card debt I hear a noise outside the door; though not unusual to hear the random, drug-addled vagabond, this was a unique sound: my uncle’s keyring. There was a small, silver bell that hung from it and it’s high-pitched jingle would be hard to forget.

As I turn my head, perplexed, something slides beneath the door, and a shadow from the other side steps away. I quickly approach and press my head against the metal entrance, my eye leering through the small glass hole. Empty. No soul in sight. Furrowing my brow I retrieve the rough, brown, paper envelope from the foot of the door. Turning it over I see my uncle’s initials, written in ink. Opening the parchment I find two keys within: one with the engraving “Self Storage 1” and another with a silver bell hanging from it.

***

Parking my car and looking up at the storage building I can only wonder what will await me inside this unkempt building. The South Side isn't known for its stability or predictability. Is this some crude joke? Is someone looking to entrap me and extort my uncle’s money? I chuckle to myself at the idea before taking a steadying breath and exiting my vehicle, pressing the lock button twice.

The chipped brick and plaster outside was immaculate compared to the stained linoleum and spoilt milk smell of the lobby. A stout, elderly woman sits behind the service desk, a burnt-out cigarette hanging from her wrinkled mouth. She doesn’t look to acknowledge me before speaking in a harsh, raspy voice, “If you’re homeless you can walk two miles to Lincoln Park. I'm tired of tellin' ya people!” I scoff, looking down for a moment at my dirty clothes before retrieving the storage key from my pocket and asking her directions to the unit. She points, giving me verbal directions in-between exchanging her cigarette for a fresh one and placing the expired filter with a large collection in a small ashtray.

Four floors to the top of the building seems to be too much for the ancient elevator and I exit it quickly, looking around for any sign or direction to the shed numbered on the key. Eventually I arrive at a small door and my mind begins to race with questions once again at the possibility of what could be awaiting me within. Holding the key in my hand and looking towards the ceiling I shake my head before unlocking the large latch. Pulling the door upwards I stand stunned at the sight: emptiness.

I begin to laugh a low chuckle before entering the unit and holding my arms out, exclaiming loudly “Thank you so much uncle!” ignoring the echoes of my voice against the aluminum walls. As I begin to turn, my foot kicks something across the floor, scattering the accumulated dust and dirt. Looking down I see a small, black, leather-bound book. I approach to inspect it further and pick it up, turning over the soft leather to examine the back. As I do, something slides out, clattering on the concrete floor. A coin: bronze and faded; about the size of a half-dollar, and etched with unrecognizable symbols and images. It looks to be some kind of old, foreign coin, possibly from a collection. With a shrug I drop it into my pocket and return my focus to the book.

The dyed leather binding is supple, showing no signs of wear or aging, not even a scratch. Flipping through the pages I find what appears to be a ledger, one that accounts for many extravagant and innocuous items. It seems to have been my uncle’s, a record of every earthly pleasure he owned. Beside each entry there is a name and a number, the numbers seemingly random, but never exceeding two digits in length. After looking over a few pages I turn to the beginning of the journal and find a note written inside the front cover:

“Your father would kill me if he knew I gave this to you, good thing we're already dead!

This book and coin were my most valuable possessions, and the secret to my wealth. Kid, this coin can buy you anything you desire, so long as it has a monetary value. The only price it requires is a soul. One human soul. Easy trade since most people sell theirs anyways. Give them the coin and they will be forced to take it as compensation! And, as long as you keep this book, the coin will always reappear. For over 40 years it hasn't left my side, now it's yours.

You’re a good kid. Live a better life than your pop did.

P.S. Don’t worry about keeping a log, the journal writes itself!

P.P.S. The house is yours, too.”

My palms begin to sweat as I reread the note multiple times, coming to terms with the words within. I think it must be some joke, my uncle getting a last laugh from beyond the grave. Frustrated, I pull the coin from my pocket and it greets me with a pure glint of bronze. The shine looks brand new, as if just pressed and polished. I look over the markings and begin to rub the coin between my fingers, heating it up as my pulse begins to hasten.