The Test of Time

Stuck in a rut, literally, this little black book is jammed in a cracked and decrepit wall that stands - barely - next to the riverbank. Rushing water flows by me treacherously and the long unkempt grass is dotted with wildflowers and weeds that sway on the banks, thanks to the breeze that floats off the tumultuous water, all while this brick wall stands, defying gravity and slowly succumbing to the elements. Vines bleed through the grey cracks, and a spider’s webbing floats along the many shades of crimson that make up the wobbly remnants of a long forgotten structure. Scattered next to the wall are rusting beer cans, smashed bottles, and miscellaneous wrappers - their identifying marks long since worn away. Amidst this scene, standing out as if screaming to be rescued, is a black bound book perfectly placed inside a toppling wall.

To say I have fallen on hard times recently would be an understatement. To be more accurate, I have been rolled, kicked, smothered, and impaled by misfortune. Positive thinking has kept me from giving up but positivity doesn’t pay the bills, though bills are a luxury that I no longer have. I have nothing, nothing but a car that has been parked next to the riverbank since it ran out of gas and refused to be fueled on good intentions. I have been destroyed but as of yet, I have not been defeated, and with idle hands I have become an urban explorer - scouring the landscape between the rushing river and the soon-to-be demolished warehouses with smashed windows and rodent tenants, in search of anything that may be of value.

I curl my fingers around the exposed side of the book and pull by the tines gently, causing the concrete from the wall to crumble like shortbread and fall to the ground; turning to dust. On the second attempt, a colony of ants scurries away when, easier than expected, this book - clearly no match for the wall that was it’s prison - is released and safe in my hand. I am it’s saviour and - soon I will learn - it is mine.

Once a successful and thriving artist, it took trusting someone to find out that they should not have been trusted and before I realized what had happened to me, my home, my wife, my career and my bank account had all disappeared and with them my ambition; my sanity soon followed. It’s nearly impossible once you’ve had it all, and it has been taken away, to claw your way back to success. Integrity, whether real or the illusion, once questioned is hard to prove again. I didn’t steal the ideas, I didn’t rip off the paintings, and I didn’t cheat the system, but the lawyers made a more articulate statement, and so, here I sit in all that is mine - a car - with a book that looks old, weathered, but somehow still bound, strong, and solid. It is without question that had I not found it, this little journal would have outlasted the flimsy wall perched on the side of the water’s edge.

I slowly open the black cover as I sit on the edge of my seat - the seat of my fuel-challenged vehicle that is - and the paper that sticks only slightly to the next page, flutters gently in the breeze. A tiny spider saunters across the water stained paper as the black ink pops from the yellowed page. Written in the dying art of cursive, the words are at first hard to read but slowly, as I make out individual words... ‘and’, ‘the’, ‘tried’, ‘cry’... the flow of dialogue and the beautiful melody of language wraps itself around me and I, myself, become lost in this long forgotten and mysterious poem.

I read it over, again and again - eight lines, continuously - from the middle of the day, noon is when I started - I can only assume as my watch, along with my car (and my dreams), have died of neglect - until the sun sets and I find myself straining to see the words. As I close the book gently, like placing a sleeping baby in a warm crib, the back cover opens and a signature appears. The owner of this book perhaps? Written in the same flowing script as the poem is a name: Ernest Hemingway.

It’s late and every business within walking distance is closed, I will find someone once daylight arrives to tell me whether this treasure chest holds any value beyond the beauty of the words written in it. I drift off to a dreamless sleep as I recite the poem, a poem of hope that I have now memorized and adopted as part of my being.

Morning arrives and the sun reflects off the rearview mirror, when I open my eyes I at first think I am blind since all I can see is white light. I’m holding my new loyal friend, the black bound book, clutched to my chest the way I held my favorite teddy bear as a child. It feels warm, safe, powerful.

The walk isn’t far to the nearest, and possibly the last standing, classic used book store. When I push on the door, the bell signals that I have entered and I welcome the look of contempt from the shop owner. He expects me to ask for change, or a restroom, or some other handout that he is unwilling to give. I pull out my book and delicately open it to the cover, with the signature, then recite the poem from memory. Contempt turns to curiosity, then shock, and finally pleasure when he confirms - after many hours and second, third, then fourth opinions - that the signature is authentic, and these eight lines, in this order, have never been seen before.

An old signature and a divine poem sold for money that was deposited into a new bank account. Money used to buy a new suit, a tank of gas, a watch battery, and my own black bound notebook which now holds sketches and plans for a new life; a fresh start. The funds from the sale of my little treasure: $20,000. A little black book that held up a brick wall and saved my crumbling life.