Untold Riches

“Why are you getting dressed?” Frankie asked. “Come back to bed.”

“I thought maybe we’d go to the antique store,” Guy replied.

“It's the first day off we’ve both had in a while,” Frankie said as they nestled even further into bed.

“So don’t you want to, like, actually do something?” he asked. “You’ve been in bed all morning.”

Frankie pulled the duvet over their head and groaned. Guy finished buttoning his shirt and sat down on the bed.

“Frankie,” he said, pulling the blanket down. “We won’t be gone all day. You like the antique store.”

He leaned forward and kissed Frankie’s forehead, “let’s go.”

Guy and Frankie finally left their Chicago suburban home. As they arrived at the shop, a camper van that looked like it probably had 200,000 miles on it pulled in.

“Check out this van,” Guy said, nudging Frankie. “I bet that’s been all over the place.”

“Yeah,” Frankie said. “Its owner has probably murdered in at least 30 of 50 states and 3 Canadian provinces.”

The door on the van slid open and a tall, heavy man stepped out. He had shoulder length white hair and long white beard. He could have been a Jerry Garcia impersonator in the summer and a mall Santa in the winter.

“Yo,” Guy said. “Check out Santa.”

Frankie leaned forward, “Oh yeah, that dude’s questionable for sure. You ready to go?”

Guy put his phone down, “Yeah, let’s go in.”

The bell rang as they walked inside. From behind the counter, a tiny mole of a woman shuffled across the musty carpet.

“Just so you know, we’re closing in fifteen minutes,” she said, adjusting her glasses.

“Okay, thank you.” Guy replied and turned to Frankie, “See, we’re not even gonna spend all day here.”

“I wanna check if they have any sewing stuff,” Frankie said as they reached the aisle.

Guy started sorting through old books.

“Oh, I got one here I think I want,” Guy declared. “Campfire Games: The Guide to Activities for Boys Who Will Someday Become Men.”

“Sounds super toxic,” Frankie replied.

“Absolutely,” Guy said as he flipped to the front of the book. “Published in 1918. That’s some prime ‘boys will be men’ time right there.”

Guy flipped through the pages of Campfire Games until the door chimed and the large, Santa Garcia-looking man came through the door carrying a wooden crate.

“Well hello Bob,” the old mole woman greeted him as he sat the crate on the counter.

“Heya, Millie,” Bob responded with a booming, jovial voice. “Got some stuff here for ya.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Millie’s eyes lit up like Christmas trees. “More booty from your travels?”

“Yeah, mostly sewing supplies from this estate sale in Missouri,” Bob replied, catching the interest of Frankie.

Millie dug through the box, eyeing a tarnished pair of scissors, thimbles, and a rusted metal thing that looked like a bumpy pizza cutter. She took a step back and mumbled some numbers to herself.

“I’ll give ya 250 for everything,” Millie replied. “I get to keep the crate, right?”

“For $250?” Bob replied. “Absolutely not.”

Millie let out a little sigh, “I’ll get it someday.”

As Bob headed out, Frankie approached the counter like a woodland creature approaching an abandoned picnic.

“See ya, Millie,” Bob said. “There’s an auction in DeMott, hoping for some old farm stuff.”

While Frankie inspected the tools, Guy noticed a leather accordion folder. Inside was a small, black notebook. The edges of the pages were soft like feathers, the black worn down to a soft grey on the corners. This notebook looked like it had as many miles on it as Bob’s camper van.

Guy thumbed through the pages of the notebook and found different weights and measurements in fuzzy, smeared pencil. Twelve pages in lived a pasted technical drawing of what seemed like a kit home from an old Sears and Roebuck catalog. On the back of that page, in pen, was an address.

“I’m sorry,” Millie started. “I’m gonna have to close up. Are you looking to buy that notebook?”

“Yeah!” Guy replied with enthusiasm. “And whatever they want.”

He gestured over to Frankie, who had a pile of sewing materials hoarded in front of them like a dragon with gold.

That night Guy lay awake imagining what life that notebook had before it got to him. He jumped out of bed, startling Frankie awake.

“I told you,” Frankie groggily mumbled. “If you have soda before bed, you’re gonna be peeing all night.”

“No, mom, it’s the notebook. I wanna look up the address.” Guy grabbed his laptop and began searching. “So the address belonged to an old bank in Phoenix, but now it’s just an empty building.”

“Great sleuthing, detective,” Frankie responded dryly, then kissed Guy. “Come back to bed, I can’t sleep without you for some stupid reason.”

“Do you think maybe there’s a safe deposit box with unclaimed riches?” Guy asked earnestly.

“If you come to bed,” Frankie responded. “It can be whatever you want it to be.”

Guy couldn’t forget about this unclaimed bounty that may or may not exist.

“We don’t live in Goonies,” Frankie said. “There’s not pirate treasure or unclaimed money or whatever.”

“Not with that attitude,” Guy interjected.

Weeks later, Frankie woke up to Guy packing a bag.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Frankie asked, half asleep.

“Bob’s picking me up,” Guy responded. “He’s gonna take me where he got that notebook from.”

“Who’s Bob?” Frankie inquired.

“You know, Bob,” Guy said with the inflection that he was talking about Santa Claus — which he kinda was. “Santa Garcia, you know!”

“From the antique store?”

“Yeah! He’s heading back that way and is also curious about what’s in the notebook.”

“I’m not letting you go be alone with Bob in that murder-mobile.”

“So you’re coming with me?”

“Not sure if I have a choice.”

“Great! I already packed you a bag,” Guy plopped an overstuffed backpack on the bed.

Frankie groaned and pulled the duvet over their head.

In a few hours, Guy and Frankie found themselves cruising down I-55 in the surprisingly clean camper van of Bob O’Malley. Guy rode shotgun, which meant he got to have a lengthy thoughtful and spiritual conversation about Big Bang theories, that Campfire Games book, and Bob’s personal religious preferences.

“Look, I ain’t saying that spirituality is hokum but,” is how Bob started that conversation. “If I’m gonna worship someone, why not the Macho Man Randy Savage, brother?”

“So, is this a real religion?” Guy asked. “I mean, are there other practitioners?”

“I heard it on this podcast,” Bob responded. “And I mean, if anything makes sense in this world of chaos, it’s the tenets of Macho Madness. You know what I mean, brother?”

Guy really didn’t. While this conversation made Guy more at ease with Bob’s nomad lifestyle, it only confirmed to Frankie that Bob was a weirdo.

Bob also told them why he chose this nomad lifestyle.

“So, what do you do?” Bob asked Guy.

“I’m in a band,” Guy said with very little confidence.

“Oh, so do you work retail or something?” Bob cut deep. “No shade, brother. I worked a 9-5 about 15 years ago. Woke up one morning and I was like, ‘I don’t have kids, I don’t got a wife, what the fuck am I doing?’ Quit my job, sold my car, house, bought this camper. Never been happier.”

“So how do you pay for anything?” Frankie asked.

“I travel the country, buy stuff at yard sales, auctions, wherever,” Bob answered. “I fix it up, sell it at stores for more than I paid. It ain’t much, but it allows me to see the continent, enjoy the beauty of things. Y’know what I mean?”

“Yeah…” Guy said while wistfully staring out at the open fields.

A few more hours passed. Frankie had fallen asleep in the back and the front conversation lulled. They got off the highway and after a few left turns and a couple of rights, the van stopped at a house.

Guy picked up the notebook and flipped to the technical drawing. This was the house of the estate sale.

“This is it,” Guy shouted. “This is the place in the notebook!”

The door opened and a rail-thin, old man stepped out. His orange Hawaiian shirt popped against his translucent skin.

“Back again, Robert?”

“Yeah, John,” Bob shook his hand hardily, unafraid of crushing John’s fingers. “Thought I’d pick up some more stuff.”

“Who are your friends?” John asked. “That’s Guy, and that’s his partner, Frankie,” Bob replied as he entered the home.

“It’s nice to meet you, John.” Frankie replied.

“I found this,” Guy presented the notebook to John as if it was some holy relic. “It was in some stuff that Bob brought to sell.”

“Oh, thank you!” John said, elated. “I was looking all over for this.”

“Hey, so,” Guy hesitated. “I noticed that there was an address in it to a bank in Arizona.”

“Oh god,” Frankie interjected. “Don’t do this.”

“No, it’s fine,” Guy turned to Frankie. He then turned back to John. “You didn’t happen to have untold riches in that bank, did you?”

John laughed and laughed. “Untold riches? Heavens no. Untold riches,” John laughed again. “Just the plans for this house.”

Guy's shoulders slumped forward in defeat. He turned to Frankie — who struggled to not look smug, “I guess you were right.”

“The untold riches,” John said as he leaned in and tapped the side of his nose. “They’re in a secret room in this house.”

Guy grabbed Frankie’s arm. At that moment, Bob walked out with a full crate.

“Are you two ready to go?” asked Bob. “John, I’ll call later.”

“Alright Robert,” John replied.

Bob loaded up the van, and they took off back toward Chicago.

Although disappointed, Guy still buzzed about everything for weeks. Guy and Frankie had a serious discussion about becoming nomads — to which Frankie was totally opposed. They started Geocaching, which somewhat satisfied Guy’s restless wanderlust.

One day, the doorbell rang, an envelope slipped under the door. Inside they found a letter. It read:

Frankie and Guy,

I wanted to write sooner, but I spent too much time at Yosemite. I hope you’ve both considered the nomad lifestyle or, at the very least, followed in the faith of Macho Madness. I just wanted to thank you for joining me on my trip to my parents in Missouri. Things get tense between my dad and I, it’s nice to have that buffer. Enclosed is a check for $20,000. I hope it helps you both get your passion projects off the ground.

Now, an explanation. On one journey last year, I stopped at a casino in Minnesota and hit it big. I mean, big big. 1.3 Million dollars big. First thing I did was buy my dad the house he always wanted. Then I decided to have some fun leaving clues around shops where I’d sold my wares to find someone to give some of this money to. I hoped if I hid an old cryptic notebook, it would spark someone’s imagination of untold riches. I’m glad it did.

Thanks so much for playing with me.

-Bob

They raced out the door as the van pulled off.

“Wait!” Frankie yelled. “We can’t take this!”

“Sure you can!” Bob replied and tossed another notebook out of his van window.

“What the hell is happening?” Guy asked Frankie.

Frankie picked up the notebook. As they started thumbing through it, they noticed that all of the blank pages were numbered. The only writing was on the inside of the back cover. It read:

If you want to play some more, you’ll need some warmth in your words. Y’know what I mean?

“I think we live in Goonies.” Frankie replied. “I’m gonna need a lighter.”