Success, Dreams?

The neck of the champagne bottle clinked against the lip of the glass as the stream of bubbling gold poured from its mouth, filling the skinny flute full of fizzling foam. Randal pulled his arm back for a moment as the foam dissipated, a smile upon his greedy face all the while, and then reached back to fill both glasses generously.

"Let's make a toast," he said, hoisting the glass ungraciously between his grubby fingers, "to making money."

Jerry lifted his glass, forced a modest smile upon his face, and said, "To making money." The glasses clinked and the bubbling champagne tickled over their tongues.

The champagne was all Jerry was there for, it was all he focused on as words spilled from Randal's mouth as they always did, a rumbling avalanche of arrogance and vanity. The bubbling perfection, the fizzle of the foam rising and falling again and again as they poured drink after drink, each one seeming to vanish just as soon as it was poured.

Randal rambled. Jerry tried not to hear, smiling and bobbing his head like a dummy. Randal noticed.

"Jerry, you always did drag your feet. Remember that conversation we had outside of Rally's, what, forty years ago? It was the night before we signed the investment agreement. I told you I could double your twenty-thousand in a year, and look at us now, sipping from a fifteen-thousand dollar bottle of champagne."

"You also told me not to buy that damn lottery ticket which I won the money from," Jerry pointed out.

"If it weren't for me," Randal continued, his face flushing red from the champagne, "you'd be living out of that trailer you wanted to buy, with your own spot in Rusted Meadows next to the other trailer trash, once you got over your cabin fever, that is. Live off the land," Randal mocked, raising his free hand and making a face.

Jerry didn't retaliate. They'd been through this same conversation many times before, and he didn't see a point in having it again. "We sure made a lot of money Randal, there's no denying that. I certainly couldn't have done it without you."

"Yes, and money bought you that fancy house and those fast cars." It seemed Randal was intent on having the argument regardless, even if it was one-sided. "It got us into this club in a week's notice," he held his arms out to the lavish establishment. "This club has a three year waiting list," he chuckled.

Just then, the young and rather stunning waitress appeared at his side with a smile. "More champagne?" she asked, eyeing the empty bottle.

Randal looked at her with his greedy eyes. "Of course, another bottle! A bunch of old gentleman like us can still last a few rounds," he winked quite distastefully. "Ain't that right, Jerry?" he said, turning to face him. The seat across from him was empty. "Jerry?"

Jerry closed the door behind him. He breathed in the fresh air and exhaled deeply. He scanned the gardens which sprawled out before him, and as far as he could tell, he was alone- just as he had hoped.

He walked the pathways lined with bright flowers and disappeared between the bushes, shrubs, fountains and cherubs. This calm silence, he thought, is the most valuable part of this whole god forsaken "club", more valuable than the over-priced champagne and the social bragging rights, and I know this is a rare occurrence, to have the gardens to oneself.

He found a bench in a secluded corner, looking out into the woods across the open lawn. The deep-blue sky overhead streaked with orange and pink as the sun sunk into the horizon.

Jerry found himself wondering, why, if silence like this was so precious to him, did he spend his daily life with the likes of Randal, caught in the blaring orchestra of the city.

It was then that something pulled him from his reverie. He perked up, straining to hear. Though there wasn't any noise, it felt to him that someone was approaching. He turned and looked expectantly toward the opening which he'd entered through. There was nothing.

"Nice quiet corner you found here," said a voice from beside him on the bench.

Jerry twisted around in a flash, too stunned to cry out.

It was a man, dressed in a fine, deep-blue suit. He wore a matching top hat with a band of red that separated the crown and the brim. He held a cane in his gloved hands.

"Wh..who"-

The man turned to him suddenly. "Shakespeare once said that life is just a stage. So humor me this," he crossed one leg over the other and laid the cane across his thigh, "if we're all truly actors in a play, like mice within a maze, then why do we so reluctantly play our part? Or better yet, why do we follow anything but our hearts." He twisted the cane skillfully in his hand and poked at Jerry's chest, who still sat awestruck, unable to speak.

"They say we're the authors of our own story," the man said as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small black notebook. He held it out to Jerry. "Tell me, if you could send a letter to your younger self, what would you write?" He pulled a pen from his chest pocket and placed it in Jerry's. "You might need this," he said with a smile.

Jerry's eyes fixed onto the little black notebook. He reached out and grasped it in his hand. He ran his thumbs across the soft leather, lost in thought. Then, he tucked his left thumb under the cover and slowly lifted it away from the first page. In small black lettering, across the middle of the page, was his name: Jerry Hennen.

Curiously, he skimmed through the pages, growing more and more confounded by the contents of each one. It was his life, written in the confines of this little black notebook, as if by himself.

"What is this?" he asked, raising his head, but the man wasn't there. Jerry looked all about him, but saw no sign that the mysterious man had ever been there, except for the notebook he held in his hand.

Reverently, he flipped through the pages once more, remembering the days and moments, the people and places described within.

Suddenly he stopped. The date was March 2nd, 1981, exactly forty years ago- the anniversary of the investment opportunity which had been so incredibly lucrative for he and Randal. It was the early hours of morning which most people consider night. A younger Jerry sat on a bench beneath a street light, pondering what to do with the twenty-thousand dollars he'd unexpectedly come across.

His dream as a child, he remembered vividly, was to be a writer. To live modestly in a cabin in the woods, to travel the world in a camper.

Sitting here in this garden, in his lavish suit in this fancy club, he thought of his life, of all the money he'd made, and he pondered the words of the mysterious man. What would he say, after all, if he could write to that Jerry, that twenty-one year old Jerry, still full of dreams?

He raised his head and looked out across the lawn to the tree line. It was a night much like the one on March 2nd, 1981. The kind of night that called for adventure, like a chariot awaiting its passengers. The kind of night that made you wish one day you would've thrown caution to the wind and left everything you'd known behind. And it makes you wonder- if you had, would you have ever come back?

Jerry felt in his pants pockets for something to write with. He grimaced as he pulled out a few crumpled receipts. Suddenly, he felt a pen in the chest pocket of his suit, unsure of how it got there. He pulled it out and clicked it ready.

March 2nd, 1981.

Jerry, twenty-one years old and quite pleasantly drunk, stumbled out of Rally's bar and onto a bench under the nearest street light. He was alone. He had a lot on his mind. Randal had been in his ear all week about an investment opportunity, and the deadline was just twelve hours away. He had to make a decision, but he struggled to make up his mind. Everyone he knew, especially Randal, said what he wanted to do was a waste of time, and that he'd only end up regretting it. They were the foolish fantasies of a young, naïve heart. You had to make money to live in this world, there was no way around that. He knew it to be true.

Jerry exhaled heavily and leaned on his side. His hand felt something and he turned to see a little black notebook beside him on the bench. He picked it up. It was finely made, his hands seemed to enjoy the simple act of holding it.

Curiously, he opened it. On the title page was his name. Confounded, he skimmed through the pages, reading word after word describing his life up until that point. He looked about him, there was still no one around.

He squinted his eyes in disbelief as he flipped through the pages once more. He stopped suddenly once he arrived at the current date. March 2nd. He peeked beyond, all the pages after were blank, yet to be written.

At the bottom of the page, written in big, bold letters different from all the rest was the word GO! and beneath that, and don't ever look back.

Jerry raised his head and looked thoughtfully into the night.

The door of the bar swung open and Randal stepped out. "Still having second thoughts Jerry?" he called out. "Come on, Jerry, we need to make money!" He looked around, there was nobody in sight. "Jerry?"