The Notebook of Hemingway Laurels-Bright

Ralph the Rascal had lived on the street for most of his life, and he was good at it. He was good at many things: he could read tarot cards, play the guitar and inspire hope in just about anybody. Ralph would say ‘the day you lose hope is the day you lose the war.’ He had been in the war and he knew a thing or two about that. He knew a thing or two about losing hope too. Hope is the human pilot light and it must keep burning against the dark.

He was a king of beggars living under the bridge down by the river in a community of tents and tarps and lean-tos with other tramps and vagabonds. Ralph didn’t have much in the way of worldly possessions but he was free and without obligation. He considered himself the freest man in the world, like a bird, and he counted that as a lot.

He made his home in a 1960s VW Transporter bus that had careened off the road and crashed into a tree a long time ago, now forgotten and growing into the forest. It was overrun with vines and vandalized in free love and flower power. A crazy shrine to Ken Kesey types. The bus was entirely gutted on the inside except for a mattress on which he slept and his few possessions stored safely in the glove compartment: his tarot cards, guitar picks, and a Dora the Explorer watch he found that still told time.

Today, being no different than any other day, Ralph woke with the feeling that it was to be a very good day. He would make it so. He fastened his watch to his wrist, noticing that it was only 7:05, and put a fur trappers hat on his head, like Elmer Fudd off to hunt that damn wabbit! He stepped out of the bus and into the day with the cold sunshine on the smoky river and somewhere a woodpecker tapping in Morse code on a tree. Ralph pissed into the remains of an old fire from the night before making it sizzle and steam. He collected his guitar and beggars cup, being the tools of his trade, and hiked off into the city to make his way in the world.

****

Ralph parked himself on his favourite corner, begging for change with his Tim’s cup. He shared the corner real estate with Nelson Mandala, who made his meager living drawing mandalas, like so many colourful flowers of spring. By some lucky twist of fate, Ralph made a whole 10 dollars before lunch. He never made that much before lunch! It certainly was shaping up to be a good day after all. He tossed a coin into Nelson’s empty hat and then treated himself to a hot top up of coffee. He sat in the park watching the doves and savouring his coffee, feeling the warm spirit returning to his body.

Seeing that the weather was getting colder, he decided it wise to splurge what was left of the 10 dollars on a coat. At goodwill he fished frugally through the racks and finally found a coat that suited him fine. A purple peacoat that spoke to him and said, Ralph the Rascal you need this coat. In fact, it sang; deep purple April wine the perfect coat for the prince of paupers. And it was only 5 bucks! Ralph would even leave with a couple shiny coins to rub together. He walked out happy smiling in his new purple robe, making his way back to the mean street to peddle his woes. A couple fire-starter coins jiggling in his cup, as a bell for alms.

****

It felt like there was something inside the coat, something awkward and slightly uncomfortable. A bulge in one of the pockets maybe? Ralph searched the coat excitedly, turning out the pockets, but no sadly there was nothing but lint and old ticket stubs. He gave himself the old pat down, and yes there was definitely something in there. But where? Using his pocket knife like a surgeon's scalpel he cut a very careful incision into the liner of the coat and found, as if in a secret compartment, a small black notebook hidden inside. It was leather bound and by the gold embroidery looked to have belonged to one Hemingway Laurels-Bright. Well finders keepers, he thought. It now belonged to the estate of Sir Ralph the Rascal.

****

That night it started to snow. Whenever it would snow or rain hard Ralph would squat shelter in an abandoned shoe factory, in view of his home down by the river. It was a big crumbling 19th century building of burnt red brick and large panel windows once burning bright with ambition now bleak and derelict. To Ralph and many alike it was a beacon of hope and light, a warm refuge and quiet solitude. A place out of the weather shared with the wildlife. Birds made their nest in the rafters and many creatures stumbled in from the invasive woods nearby. Once Ralph had a standoff with a wired raccoon who refused to leave his spot.

That night Ralph made a warming fire in the hollow of a barrel, orange dancing flames making shadow puppets on the wall. Out the window he could see the frigid river running fast through broken glass. He sat around the campfire with another beggar, a cockeyed camper named Earl the Squirrel.

-That’s a nice coat! Earl piped up.

-Only paid 5 clams for it. Found this inside.

Ralph held up the small black notebook, illuminated by the glow of the fire.

-It belonged to some Hemingway Laurels-Bright, apparently.

Earl’s eyes grew bright and wide with excitement and surprise.

-Hemingway Laurels-Bright! The legendary jewel thief!

-Who?

-Hemingway Laurels-Bright! Have ya been living under a rock? He could steal a diamond off a lady’s finger while kissing her hand.

-Are ya saying I should return it? For a reward?

-No luck there, mans dead.

-How do you know?

-Shot dead right between the eyes in a poker game gone sour.

-How do you know?

-I was picking through the garbage in the alley outside. Heard it all.

There was a moment of silence, as usually precedes the news of a death.

-There was nothing inside the notebook, Ralph confessed, except for an address and a name, Esperanza.

Earl the Squirrel knew of the address instantly and said it was that of the marine scrap and salvage. The boaty graveyard he called it.

-You’ll never make it though, old miser running the place Is crazy! He's got a big dog with big teeth too!

Earl pantomimed a pair of fangs with his fingers, looking menacing in the shadowy firelight.

-One of them Rottweilers. You’ll never make it Ralph.

-Never say never, Ralph concluded.

He then tossed the notebook into the fire fueling the flame, after taking the information inside to memory. Stored upstairs for safekeeping.

-It means hope, Earl blurted out of the blue.

-What?

-Esperanza. It’s a Spanish word.

And with that Earl nodded off falling to sleep sitting up like a cow asking to be tipped over.

Ralph then snuck off to a cozy corner out of the howling wind, and falling to sleep himself on a mat on the floor dreamed up tremendous dreams of what an infamous jewel thief might leave behind. And that name Esperanza. Hope in Spanish. Ralph clung tightly to the idea.

****

Not being one to take no for an answer, Ralph found a way into the marine scrap and salvage, blockaded by sharp barbed wire fence and No Trespassing signs. Whoever owned the place sure liked their privacy. Sneakily he made his way through a ghost yard of nautical disasters and rusty keels. Tombstones to lost voyages. A lonely armada left in limbo. No winds left to sail, forever caught in irons. Among the sad boats he spotted one, a Bermuda sloop painted key lime with a name on its hull, weather worn but still illegible, Esperanza. It was the name of a boat! Of course it was, he thought.

He climbed aboard the rocking vessel and picked through the cabin, in search of what a jewel thief had stashed away, something important enough to write down in a notebook. Inside the boat was far from ship shape: spiderwebs in the portholes, old frayed rope and mildewy life jackets orange as over ripe pumpkins. He combed through it all, leaving no piece of junk unturned. In the berth under a cockroach cot tucked far back in one of the holds he found a box of Punch cigars smelling of musty cedar wood. The box was caked in a thick film of dust. Ralph blew it off like an old record and cracked it open. Lo and behold, his eyes grew large as saucers at what he saw inside. The meek shall inherit the earth.

A stash of hidden gems! A handful of loose diamonds, flawless ice cold rocks reflecting all the lust of mankind. The carated inheritance of Hemingway Laurels-Bright. For a second or two Ralph was bedazzled by the shiny diamonds, like a deer lost in the headlights. He just stared at them. He had never seen such perfect glittering jewels in his life. Not wasting a second more, he scooped up the diamonds, wrapping them in a handkerchief, and packed them away safe and sound in his pocket.

Man overboard! Ralph hopped over the gunwale of the boat, landing with a thud firm on the gravel. He took off running with the stolen diamonds in tow, towards the fence and freedom. He was almost in the clear, and then he heard barking. Panic flooded his brain, running as fast as his legs would carry him. He got chased out by the junkyard dog. Not a Rottweiler, but a small dog with a big bad attitude. A demonic Pomeranian straight out of the fiery depths of hell. As Ralph hopped the fence the Pomeranian jumped like a loaded spring and bit him in the ass tearing out the seat of his pants. He managed to shake the demon loose and escaped over the fence with the diamonds accounted for. Without looking back he ran off showing the hearts of his undershorts, and feeling a very cold breeze.

****

From this point on things improved greatly for Ralph the Rascal.

With a couple of the diamonds he was able to purchase the deed to the old vacant shoe factory where he and many others had squatted and found their solace for years. He completely renovated and transformed the once derelict building into a new safer and warmer apartment complex, a rent free community for all his vagrant children. He called it Hotel Esperanza.

To some it was thought merely a dirty place full of junkies and bums, but say what they may, it was rightly owned by the king of the beggars now. He had given it to his people and no one could take it from them. They were finally secure. It was a place out of the cold, a hermitage for those who warmed their hands over fiery barrels and slept on park benches. A home for the homeless, and a place of hope.

As for the rest of the diamonds, Ralph hid them around the city like Easter eggs. He stashed them away in the most obscure and remote places he knew, the deep crevices and cracks of the city. For every hidden diamond he got a small black notebook, similar to the original, in which he left a roadmap to its whereabouts. More mysterious addresses and cryptic names, clues to piece together.

Finally he acquired a bunch more hobo-chic coats and craftily sewed all the treasure-map notebooks into their liners. Giving back in a way he saw fit, Ralph then donated all the coats back to goodwill for someone else to find. Another story for another rascal.