The Book of Opportunity

A broken heart is like a melody; only a careful ear can find its tune. I learnt this from my mother.

His cries echoed from the main hall, the one I was meant to clean this afternoon. My rickety cleaning trolley stood close to the mahogany coffee table by the entrance of St Andrew’s Church as I peered into the main hall; an average-sized man, wearing new tan brogues (I could see the label partially ripped off from the bottom, that’s how I could tell) and an oversized grey suit that could pass for a parachute. On his neck rested a trio of chains of sterling silver that was partially tucked into his cream shirt, almost as if in replacement to where a tie should have been. His shoulders shook as he wept aloud from the benches, where the congregation usually sit on a Sunday morning.

There was something about the sound he made, a clear inner despair; a brokenness that all men know, but don’t talk about, except in hushed circles sworn to secrecy, considered myths or at least are unheard of within feminine circles…I think. Mama didn't tell me much about that.

It took everything in me to try and ignore the bitter cries, but my mother; God rest her soul, would kill me if I ever abandoned a person in need. Mother has passed on, but fortunately for me, and this suited man here, I knew what to do.

I smoothed the side of my grey hair, and fastened the strap behind my navy baseball cap and straightened the matching overalls. Mother always said that confidence is key. I made the effort to stroll into the church hall, my phone buzzing within my overalls pocket; the familiar chimes of ‘Singing in the Rain’ echoing throughout the hall. The man in the suit wiped his face with his mocha hands and raised himself from the benches, smoothing away the imaginary creases against his suit jacket.

The first thing to do at a time like this? Make the atmosphere warm.

“Women trouble?” I said without thinking.

The man sniffed. “No… at least not yet anyway.”

I carried my rickety old self and sighed with relief as my keister met with the wooden bench; yes, I would prefer a comfortable cushion, but these days, you take whatever is afforded to you.

“I won’t pry, but sharing is caring?” I said, tapping the bench.

His dark eyes began to wander across the front of the church; his eyes fixed towards a painting of a soft-skinned man, with flowing auburn hair, his tender corn blue eyes watching us...watching me…like he could see my soul.

“Women.” I said, taking my eyes off the painting, “Is it the money? Money seems to be very important to them these days. Birkin bags, $20,000 minimum on engagement rings...”

The man scoffed, scratching his bald head, the gleam that reflected from his head was almost comical. “You’re telling me.”

I crossed one leg over the other, the cuff exposing my white socks against my black shoes... “You dressed up for a meeting?”

The man shook his head. “Job interview.”

“Hope you got the job?” I said flashing him the warm smile that mama used to praise me for.

The man shook his head. “No.”

“It's just the one interview, son. It’s not the end of the world.”

The man sniffed, his eyes welling up with tears again. “It's not that simple, I've been out of work for two years. It's been interview after interview, I’m tired of failing. If it wasn't for my girlfriend, I wouldn't even have a roof over my head. But she doesn't even look at me the same, and that’s if she looks at me at all.”

I rubbed the stubble beneath my chin “I think I may have something to help.”

The man turned towards me, as I plunged my hand into my overalls, and withdrew a tiny ledger, a simple black book, no bigger than the length of a pen. Speaking of which, I fished into my overalls again and pulled out a pen, then scribbled a few numbers on the paper.

“Keep searching for jobs, but this will help you in the meantime; to tie you over.”

The man furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Who’s your favourite Avenger?” I said, shooting him a look, hopefully, to show him that I was being dead serious.

The man blinked twice. “Pardon?”

“The Avengers? Which one is your favourite one?”

The man pulled a confused face. “Iron Man?”

“Then consider me your Doctor Strange. If I tell you, it will never happen.”

I closed the book, placed the pen on top of the book and handed the bundle over to him.

“Don't give up hope. Believe in yourself, and go for gold. When you go home, place a full stop at the end of the figure you see written in the book. Then cross it out with an ‘X’.”

The man took the book from my hands. “But why?”

“You ask too many questions, Tony Stark,” I said, rolling my eyes.

The man simply stared at the book, and then looked at me as if I had lost my marbles.

“Okay. All I can say is this; that book has served me throughout my younger years…all you do is write a number, you want to have and it will be delivered to you.”

The tears had dried from his eyes, the sorrow replaced with his nostrils flaring, wide eyes and a pulsating vein across his temples.

Ah. He wants to see proof.

I snatch the book from his hands, and flick through the pages, stopping at the one I had just scribbled on. “Okay, I’m taking a risk here, so watch carefully.”

I closed the book and raised it to my head. “And…now.”

A gentle wind blew within the halls, I wondered how; seeing that the windows were sealed shut. Next, a bright light, not like the one from the bulb, but a light that was soft...gentle-like. The light subsided and on my lap lay a silver briefcase, the kind one that you see handcuffed to an agent's wrist if you’re into movies like that. The man's nostrils flared, his eyebrows upturned; his breathing shallow, lost for words.

“How did you do that?” His voice was barely a whisper, beads of sweat pouring from his face.

“I work for a company, simply known as The Bank of Opportunity. All you have to do is write the amount you wish in the ledger and it will be delivered to you. Interest-free. No hidden charges. No strings.”

I opened the book to the page and pointed to the area I had scribbled in small numbers with a thin cross within. The man leaned in closer and looked at the figure:

$20,000.

I outstretched my arms and tapped the briefcase. “See?”

The man’s sorrowful eyes transformed into one of confusion. He gingerly took the briefcase from my lap, and gathered his belongings; before taking the black book, his backpack and his Tom Ford mocha jacket, and bolted down the hall towards the exit leaving me all alone in the hall with nothing but the paintings of Christ himself to keep me company.

Believe me, I knew how he felt. I freaked out when the same happened to me.

Five years of service with an insurance company, with the ghost of redundancies swimming left, right and centre. Soon, my head was shoved onto the chopping block. I returned to an empty home that day to a note left on top of the dresser. Unable to continue our relationship? Unwilling is more like it. She always had a knack for comparing me to Lawyers and Doctors. I should have known she was looking at the guys on the screen, not the linear story plots of Suits and Ballers and Power.

The following day, there was a knock on my apartment door. I opened it to see this tall babe; black suit, brown hair, and the snobbish attitude of an ivy leaguer. An investment banker from this so-called Bank of Opportunity; the base of operations? The United States of the Unknown. No google page, no website, no nothing.

I didn’t believe it at first, but a few squiggles and $20,000 later, the same silver briefcase fell onto my lap, totally unexpected. It even proved true, when I was able to buy a fancy suit, the one those guys up in Wall Street wear. Legal tender. I was able to leave Delaware to somewhere quieter; somewhere I can be…forgotten; a place where I can be someone else, a winner.

I hope you like apples. I like my apples big.

Manhattan baby.

Life had been grand since then. Parties, booze, women, you name it. Any amount I wanted was what I got. I had lived like this throughout my thirties and forties, but no amount of money can save me from the terms and conditions, I discovered at the back of the book.

It was there, so small that you’ll probably need a magnifier to see; ‘The total withdrawal amount will be payable immediately, should this book still be in your possession past your fiftieth birthday.’

Always read the fine print.

So now, I’m here, trying to pass the book to another. If I don’t, I will need to pay back every cent I've spent. And trust me; I do not want to do that. My account had dried up, so I did the responsible, humble thing and started to search for my skills. Once, money would literally fall onto my lap, now I’m brainstorming on how to work for my money. I couldn’t do much, but mother cleaned homes and hotels to get us by. And she used to drag me along with her to help and made sure I had kept my room in order so…thanks mother.

I set up a new cleaning company located in Downtown Manhattan, 14th Street, where the fancy offices and hotels are. I called it, “Fast Swipe Cleaners.” Now, I know I’m not an investment banker, but this is a nice gig. I clean, usually at diners, cinemas and weddings. Heck, I’ve recently expanded to clean at funerals, memorials, and even Valentine’s Day events! Do you need a house or a hall smelling like fresh apples? Hit me up, I’m your man! I was pleased to receive a call this evening from St Andrews for my services…and then I met the crying chap.

Yeah, he was spooked, but he would have been the perfect recipient of this black book. There is only one criterion to fulfil to open an account at the Bank of Opportunity.

All you need is a broken heart.