[Wealth of Time 01.0] Wealth of Time

by Andre Gonzalez

  Andre Gonzalez

  Wealth of Time

  First published by M4L Publishing 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Andre Gonzalez

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-7327762-2-7

  Editing by Stephanie Cohen

  Cover art by ebooklaunch.com

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  To my mom, Julie, for always believing in this wild dream.

  “Time slips away like grains of sand never to return again.”

  -Robin Sharma

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Acknowledgements

  Enjoy this book?

  Also by Andre Gonzalez

  About the Author

  1

  Chapter 1

  One squeeze of the trigger and it’s all over.

  The pistol was cold on his tongue, like a metallic popsicle. It weighed upon his jaw, keeping it pried open as saliva pooled between his tongue and the small hole where the slug would come blasting out to end his life.

  Pull it, you coward. Darkness is waiting just on the other side. No more pain, no more regret. Just darkness.

  His hands didn’t shake this time, nerves long gone after going through this same routine for the tenth time in just as many years. He already knew that this would play out with him removing the pistol, cursing the world, and passing out on the couch. The pills in his stomach swirled around the tide pool of whiskey, along for another ride.

  Every September reminded Martin Briar of how much he hated his life. His once-normal life waited 22 years in the past. It was Labor Day of 2018 when Martin sat in his apartment with his pistol between his teeth. He had cried the first two years of attempting this, and knew that it was only a matter of time before the good graces of death would finally help him pull the trigger.

  Minutes ago, he had smoked a cheap cigar while washing down a handful of colorful pills with a glass of whiskey. From the balcony of his rundown apartment, he had a view of the sunset with its blue mountains and orange glowing sky, but he took it for granted. Whiskey and tobacco came from the Earth, and that was the extent he cared for Mother Nature.

  It was Monday the 3rd, and the upcoming Sunday would officially mark 22 years since his daughter’s disappearance. The Imagine Dragons sang through his cell phone speakers from the balcony’s chipped and rough handrail. He stood with his elbows on it, the only other neighboring object being an ashtray he never used.

  Lela, his ex-wife from many moons ago, had gifted him the ashtray. The bottom of the tray was a yellow circle with black lettering that read: World’s Greatest Dad!

  He had been the world’s greatest dad, too, at least according to Izzy. Izzy, formally named Isabel, had grown up to be quite the daddy’s girl, always running to him when he arrived home from work and jumping into his embrace. She was only 12 years old when she had gone missing in 1996.

  Kids have a way of distracting you from the fact that you are getting older with each passing day, and Izzy provided the same fountain of youth effect for Martin.

  He was 32 when she disappeared. His entire twenties had gone by in a blur, thanks to Isabel. While his friends went out drinking and partying every weekend, Martin stayed home and watched shows like Rugrats and Arthur. He wouldn’t have traded it for a single night out, loving every moment with his little family in their first home, a small ranch-style house just north of Denver in Larkwood.

  Martin grew up in Larkwood, his parents having moved there well before he was born. His mother still lived in his childhood home, just two blocks away. While most people would flee the quiet town after such a tragedy like losing a child, Martin couldn’t picture life anywhere else in the world. Larkwood was home and always would be. Going away wouldn’t bring Isabel back. If she were ever to return, it would likely be to the last place she could remember.

  Now at the age of 54, Martin didn’t know if he’d even recognize his daughter. She would be 34 years old, a beautiful woman approaching the tail end of her prime. Of course you’ll know her face. You stare at it every day. From the small picture he kept in his wallet, to the 8x10 on his nightstand, he would damn well know his own daughter if she showed up all of these years later.

  Martin stood in front of a mirror in his living room, staring at his pathetic self. His body had swollen over the years. What was once an athletic, six-foot frame of muscle was now a round collection of fast food and booze. His brown hair was plastered across his forehead with sweat. He started to wheeze, feeling his heart rate increase by the second as he stared at himself. His pale skin was now a light shade of red.

  “Isabel,” he mumbled around the muzzle. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he fought their attempt to run down his face.

  He ripped the pistol out of his mouth and threw it aside, falling into the soft couch waiting to catch him from behind.

  Well, here we are again. You chickened out. Is the temptation really that hard to resist?

  As he had done the previous nine times, Martin couldn’t pull the trigger, knowing that his mother would have to clean up the mess and bury her son. His brother had moved across the country years ago, around the same time that Izzy went missing, and had remained mostly estranged to the family. His father had passed when they were younger, leaving Marilyn Briar all alone, should Martin end his shitty life.

  Just wait until she passes away – then we can ride off into the darkness together.

  His mom was in great shape and nowhere near death, so it would take a few more years to reach that point. Once she was gone, though, there would be no more roadblocks, no hesitations from entering the darkness and leaving his lifelong sorrow behind.

  Tuesday awaited with a fu
ll day of work at the post office, as if he needed an additional reason to shoot himself. He took the job for the guarantee of having Sundays and holidays off. Days off were all he looked forward to anymore. The customers were needy and whiny.

  So many goddamn entitled little shits! he thought at the end of each shift. The days felt longer than eight hours as the clock on the wall teased him all day. His coworkers lacked any sort of personality and seemed to hate life as much as he did. At least they had that much in common.

  Martin had fallen into the trap of monotonously going through the daily grind. Leave for work at seven in the morning, slog through five hours of mind-numbingly boring tasks until lunchtime, eat a bland sandwich made half-assed while drunk the night before, slog through until four o’clock, go home to drink booze and eat microwaveable dinners, make the bland sandwich for the next day, and then go to sleep. Work. Drink. Sleep. Repeat.

  Sometimes he fantasized about being adventurous, but he had no clue what he would do. The numbness that remained in his chest since 1996 wasn’t going anywhere and made everyday life difficult to enjoy. He’d tried going to sporting events, the shooting range, even a book club. They all had the same result in leaving him unsatisfied and longing for the next day, one day closer to death where he could forget all of his problems and either start over or enjoy the darkness. Whatever the hell happens after this life can’t be worse.

  The pistol was somewhere in the corner of the room as he started to doze off. He knew he wouldn’t have the urge to use it again until next year. The intensity of sticking an instrument of death in his mouth was enough to last him a full three hundred and sixty-five days.

  Work. Drink. Sleep. Repeat. Tomorrow is another day in the glorious life of Martin Briar.

  2

  Chapter 2

  Martin had a nail jammed into the back of his head when his alarm buzzed obnoxiously at six the next morning. God, I hate that fucking sound. He downed his usual breakfast of two aspirin pills and a glass of water to remedy the situation.

  He slid into his uniform of a dark blue shirt and gray slacks. Larkwood Postal Services and his name were stitched across the shirt on opposite sides. “Hi, I’m Martin. Where would you like me to send your lovely package today, Mr. Asshole?” he said into the mirror with a drunken giggle. He kept the lights dim, not wanting to see the streaks of white and gray clawing their way through his brown hair. A scruffy beard had started to sprout on his face. “Oh, you need it overnighted to Australia? Let me pull out my magic mail monkey and have it swim across the ocean for you today!” His head throbbed when he laughed, but he couldn’t help himself.

  Let’s go live that dream today, since you couldn’t complete your task last night. Martin winked at himself, the bags under his brown eyes remaining plump, having a slight regret at not pulling the trigger.

  He maneuvered in the darkness to the kitchen to grab his lunchbox and left the apartment.

  The outdoor air always helped eliminate the nausea that accompanied his daily hangover. To the east, the skyline glowed a magnificent purple and orange from the rising sun. Autumn had always been Martin’s favorite season – that was, until his daughter went missing all those Septembers ago. Now autumn served as a reminder that life doesn’t owe you an explanation. Bad shit happened to good people every day. Some rose, some crumpled. Martin liked to think he fell in the middle of the spectrum, functioning as a member of society, but having no interest in improving his life. Just get me to the finish line already, he often thought.

  Hope kept him from pulling the trigger year after year. Hope that his daughter would return. Hope that his wife would come back and they could build a relationship for the twilight years of their lives. Hope that maybe one day, life would feel all right again. It couldn’t always be this bad.

  He and his mother had dinner together twice a week, each taking turns on choosing where to dine. His mother had always been a graceful soul, willing to open her heart to anyone in need. When she saw Martin struggle after Izzy’s disappearance, and his resulting failed marriage, she convinced him to move into her basement until he could regain structure in his life.

  Martin took joy in knowing his Tuesday evening would end with dinner with his mom. It was his turn to choose and he wanted nothing more than a juicy burger at the local joint, Roadhouse Diner. He might spend more time with his mother over the course of the week, with the anniversary of Izzy’s disappearance looming on Sunday.

  The morning dragged on as expected, but when lunch arrived he felt instant relief when he found the small break room deserted. The rusty microwave hummed in the corner while the stench of burnt popcorn filled the air.

  Martin took the seat closest to the window with its breathtaking view of the parking lot for all of the mail trucks. He laid out his sandwich and chips before calling his mom.

  “Hi, Marty,” she greeted him warmly.

  “Hey, Mom, how’s it going today?”

  “Oh, you know, just raked some leaves and made a pot of tea. Gonna be a long afternoon of soap operas.”

  “Of course, can’t miss those. I just wanted to confirm that we’re still good for tonight. I was thinking we could go to Roadhouse.”

  “Oh, perfect!” Her voice rose in excitement. “I just heard from Esther about a new antique shop that popped up a few blocks from the church. I don’t remember hearing anything about it, but it’s apparently open now. Do you mind if we stop by before dinner, since it’s on the way?”

  “I don’t mind at all. I can pick you up at 5:30.”

  “Great, I’ll be ready. See you then.”

  They hung up and Martin wondered what his mother’s life was like. She spent her mornings in the yard, took a nap, and lazed the afternoons away on her recliner watching bad TV. Once a week she’d visit a thrift store or antique store with her friends in search of some rare find. Occasionally, she invited Martin to join her on these outings if her friends weren’t able to go. He didn’t mind keeping her company, but all these stores carried the same loads of useless shit and musty odors that reminded him of an attic.

  Probably because all this shit is from someone’s attic.

  Regardless, he set his focus on the double cheeseburger with bacon awaiting him at the end of his day’s journey.

  3

  Chapter 3

  Martin’s stomach growled as he pulled into his childhood driveway. He made it through another day, and thanks to the short week, tomorrow was already Wednesday.

  His mother waited at the front door and stepped out of the light gray house as soon as he pulled up. Two patio chairs sat on the porch where Martin used to watch the sunset with his father as he spewed about baseball, the weather, and the mysteries of life. Many of his lessons came right from those two worn-down chairs, and Martin was glad his mother held on to them after making many renovations after his father’s death. The front yard appeared leafless and immaculate. His father had always taken pride in a clean and green yard, and when he passed, his mother took the responsibilities in stride, claiming it made her feel close to her lost husband.

  Martin watched his fragile mother wobble down the steps. She claimed to feel great despite her body starting to break down, and he had no reason to not take her word as she remained active, even as she was pushing 75. Her silver hair flowed graciously behind her as she cracked a warm smile in his direction. Underneath the wrinkles he could still see her youthful beauty. He remembered his mother being the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen, and while time altered her outer appearance, he knew the woman from forty years ago was behind her gentle green eyes.

  She pulled open the car door and plopped down in the passenger seat. “Marty! How are you?” she greeted him warmly, grinning ear-to-ear.

  “I’m as good as can be,” he said, forcing a matched enthusiasm.

  This was the answer he reverted to whenever anyone asked him how he was doing, and it was true. He hated his life, but tried to make the best of the days while he counted down to his eventual d
eath. That was the best he could offer the world.

  “So what’s this antique store we’re going to?” Martin asked before his mother could dig into how he really felt on this dreadful week.

  She clicked her seat belt and slouched back as Martin pulled back onto the road. “Oh, just a new store I heard about from Esther and Toni when we had lunch the other day. They told me it has an impressive collection of treasures. They walked out of there with a thousand dollars of stuff each.”

  A thousand dollars worth of shit, probably.

  “I won’t go spending all that,” she continued. “I just like to look around. Maybe one day I’ll see something that reminds me of my childhood or your father. Then I’ll buy.”

  Martin nodded as she spoke, keeping his focus on the road. The church was only a five-minute drive, and this new store was supposedly a couple blocks from it.

  “Well, I hope you find something you like, Mom. Don’t keep us too late, though, I’m starving.”

  Smooth jazz poured out of the car speakers, his mom’s favorite, and they hummed along until they pulled up to the store.

  The building was a bland gray that blended in with the cloudy sky. Black, plain text lettered the front in a generic font: WEALTH OF TIME. Three panes of glass were centered below the lettering with the middle one serving as the only door.

  “Has this building always been here?” Martin asked, unimpressed with the exterior.

  His mother lowered her brow in thought. “I honestly don’t know. In my sixty years living here, I can’t say I’ve ever been in this part of the neighborhood.”

  They had passed the church and driven through a residential neighborhood for two blocks before spitting out into a random lot where the building stood.

  “They certainly won’t last long in this location. How is anyone supposed to find it?”

  “We found it easily enough.”

  Martin wanted to tell his mom that wasn’t the point, but let it slide as he sensed her growing excitement to get inside the store.