I put back all the photo albums and started looking around some more. I got so frustrated at one point that I sat in his chair and spun around on the swivel, just to get my mind off of what was going on. I leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. It was painted like a blue sky, with fluffy white clouds scattered about. I then looked down and saw that his entire floor was yellow pine. It was clean, but there was no wax on it. No one had been in there to wax that floor in a long, long time, if ever. Under my feet was an ornate rug. It covered the entire floor beneath the desk and extended an additional 3 feet outward in each direction. I looked beneath my feet. My shoes were on the rug. I pushed back so the chair would roll on its wheels until the chair was off of the rug and on the wood, with the back of the chair almost touching the wall. I kicked up the carpet in front of me and I saw that the wood was cut differently. I stood up and kicked the rug toward the desk. Yes. There was a secret door underneath. There was no knob. There was no keypad. There was nothing high tech or low tech. There was a handle made out of rope. I put my finger around it but then pulled my hand away. It made no sense. Considering all the keypads to get into this room, why would this be so easily accessible? And then I thought what on earth could he possibly keep on the other side of this door that could possibly be of more value than the vintage items in the store, and around me, or more priceless than the photos and photo albums in his office?
I thought about it for a brief moment and then put my fingers around the rope and lifted as the door came up.
There was no gunfire, poison darts, or rolling boulder to crush me. There were no explosions. There was nothing. No drama. I was almost disappointed. Seriously. I lifted the door all the way and saw a staircase. As I took the first step to descend a motion sensor was activated and lights lit up as I walked down. There were 12 stairs till I got to the bottom. I was in a basement. There were no windows. The first things I noticed were rows of bookshelves along the walls. In the middle of the room there were tables neatly arranged. There were jars and containers and boxes on them. They were filled with different types of glues, rubber cement, tapes, scissors, rulers, and other craft supplies. There were stacks of newspapers and magazines. I glanced at them. Many were 30-40 years old. There were two electronic shredding machines on the floor. They shredded vertically and horizontally and essentially created confetti out of whatever was put in them.
I walked over to one of the bookshelves to see what was on them. There were dozens upon dozens of thick scrapbooks. I looked around and saw a stereo on a stand. Next to them were bookshelves filled with vinyl albums. There were plenty of contemporary albums such as Thriller, The Dark Side of the Moon, Back in Black, Bat Out of Hell, albums from the Eagles and Led Zeppelin and Fleetwood. He had every single Beatles album, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Born in the U.S.A., lots of Queen albums, A half dozen Michael Jackson albums, Bridge Over Troubled Water, Madonna albums, Boston, Def Leppard albums, every Prince album, and I can go on and on. But then there were some rare, collectible albums from the 1920’s, 1930’s, 1940’s, and 1950’s, that were in immaculate condition. They looked brand new!
There was an album ready to play. I turned the stereo on and the album automatically dropped down and began to revolve. The arm swung in and then descended until the needle touched the vinyl. Seconds later I heard Buddy Holly’s voice as he began to sing. I closed my eyes and listened to the whole song before moving on. It really is an emotional experience to hear a song the way people listened to it for decades, before CDs and MP3s came along.
As the next song began to play I approached the scrapbooks (there were dozens of them) and took one out and opened it up. There were some great photos in the one I opened, but mainly there were tickets and menus and pamphlets and postcards and letters that he had collected over the years. In between and around and on and behind them was text. It seemed to be more like a journal. I skimmed over the text at first and then started to pay attention to what I was reading. They were written in the present tense, as if he was actually there in the 1950’s, and so on.
I looked through another journal, and then another, and another, and another. Each one seemed more and more amazing. It sure seems like Uncle Reese attended every single major music event since the 1920’s.
Uncle Reese wrote these. I accept that now. I don’t know how, but it is true. He was there when John Lennon met Paul McCartney. He was there when Elvis cut his audition tape at Sun Records. He was there when Meat Loaf met Jim Steinman. He was there when Madonna shot her first music video. He was everywhere! How? Why? And now he has disappeared. I am going to see what I can figure out.
More later.
Val
Junior Specialist, Private Sales
- Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.
* * *
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Val
Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 3:07 PM
Subject: Uncle Reese
To: Dad
Dad.
I found what I think is the last journal/scrapbook that Uncle Reese put together. When I pulled it out an envelope fell to the floor. It did not have any address on it, but there was a stamp on the corner. It was not sealed. I took it out of the envelope and read it. I am not sure if I should write any more emails to you. It might not be safe.
Call me.
Val
Junior Specialist, Private Sales
Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.
SENT FROM MY PHONE
* * *
From: Val
Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 7:22 PM
Subject: It’s me. Val.
To: Roman
Roman.
I am going to call you in a little while to let you know what’s going on. Everything has happened so fast since we spoke last week. I need your help. Even though we have been friends a long time, we always had that unspoken deal where we would not talk about our work or our families. We shared so many common interests in college that it made sense that we should not allow our friendship to be diluted with all of the dull or frustrating or unpleasant topics that most people end up falling into. I’ve always been perfectly happy talking to you about art and music and books, and I know you have felt the same way. Well, I am sorry to say that I need to break our “rule” because I need your help. You’re the smartest guy I know.
My family is in the memorabilia business. We specialize in authentic and vintage posters, tickets, albums, instruments, cars, clothes, photographs, and other rare and valuable items associated with Broadway, Hollywood, Twentieth century music, and op culture memorabilia. You name it, and we've probably seen it and sold it. It's been a lot of fun. I've learned a lot. I feel fortunate that I have met so many interesting people.
During my entire life, my parents, brother, sister, and I have run an auction house and we deal with many elite customers. Some known. Some unknown.
My Uncle Reese is my dad’s brother. He and my dad are business partners. My Uncle deals directly with customers off the street. Since before I was born, he has run my grandfather’s memorabilia store called ROCKABYE SHOPPE. Like us, he deals with items associated with the history of music, Hollywood, Broadway, and other memorabilia associated with entertainment.
Whenever my Uncle Reese ever came across something of major historical significance, that was too pricey for his typical customers, he would pass it on to my parents who always had willing buyers waiting in the wings.
My family and I live in one city, and Uncle Reese lives in another. I have not seen him in about 10 years. He travels a lot. I always wished I could see him more. I always liked him. He always had such great stories to tell. He always made me laugh. Whenever I think of him I can see him smiling and laughing. What a theatrical guy! So animated! His eyes always lit up when he spoke - especially about music.
Abou
t a week ago my Uncle Reese disappeared. My parents did not call the police or the F.B.I. or anyone else. Instead they said they had an idea of where he might be and they left to search for him. They put my older brother and sister in charge of the Auctions and they asked me to go my Uncle's place and shut down ROCKABYE SHOPPE. They asked me to look around for any information that may pertain to his whereabouts.
I packed up. I made a hotel and car reservation. I left town. I went to my Uncle's place. That's when my parents disappeared.
I found some amazing journals and scrapbooks that my Uncle Reese kept over the course of his life. I don't want to sound crazy, but they read as if he had the ability to travel back in time where he was able to attend events, and meet people associated with music. Portions of the journals are filled with information that he seems to have had in his mind that he wanted to commit to paper. After and beyond that, the journals become more and more mysterious. For example, he talks about Buddy Holly as if he and was a close friend. Guess what? My Uncle was born long after Buddy Holly died.
Honestly, I was more and more confused as I read through one after another. I found dozens upon dozens. Interesting? Yes! Educational? Yes! But how and why did he write them the way he did? I could not wrap my mind around it all.
Until I found a letter he wrote to me. Yes, to me. It was as if he suspected he would disappear and I would be doing what I was told to do.
Uncle Reese revealed that he put secret codes, ciphers, clues, and puzzles in the text and images of his journals/scrapbooks. He told me that I was smart enough to figure them out and they would lead to the solution of how to bring him home.
You might ask why he didn't just reveal the info we needed right away instead of putting secret clues within text. I suppose he could not tell the answer straight out in fear that the wrong person or persons would find out where he is. This is quite a mystery.
I have not heard from my parents. No one has. I wish I knew what was going on. So here I am and here you are. I need your help. Can you please check it out and let e know if you or someone else you know can read through these and see if they can discover any secret codes, ciphers, riddles, or any other types of clues that my Uncle hid within the pages? If you do, please call me and email me and let me know. They can keep any “treasures” that they may find. That is fine with me. I just want my family back.
Remember me.
Val
Junior Specialist, Private Sales
- Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.
p.s. I scanned some of the items that I found in my Uncle’s office. Please check them out. I am then going to send you copies of each journal as I gather the pages together and scan them. Please let me know if you find any clues.
* * *
Hi, Val.
Obviously I have no idea of knowing when you will read this letter. That is, I am not sure if you are reading this before or after looking through some (all?) of my journals.
Either way, I am sure you are quite confused, so I am writing this to explain what’s going on and why you’re here.
As you know, your grandfather started the ROCKABYE SHOPPE many years before we were born. He always wanted us to be involved with it and to appreciate all of his collections, share his knowledge, and introduce us to his interesting customers. I’ve always been drawn to artists, musicians, interesting characters, creative people, and so I spent as much time at the store as I could. I never had a lot of friends, but I liked to spend time reading and writing and sketching, so those things took up a lot of my days and nights. I always assumed there would be time to hang out with dad at the store.
Your father, on the other hand, was not interested in the store at all. He always had a low tolerance for unusual people and situations. He liked to play things safe in life. He liked to do things where he had a pretty good idea of what the outcome would be. He was never a risk taker, and he is the first to tell people that, so I am not talking behind his back. As you know, soon after he got out of college he married your mom and had children. He bought a home. He got a job. He always had stability. That is great. Society needs people like that.
After I graduated high school, I packed a bag and travelled around Europe.
Not too long after, your grandfather passed away. After doing the best we could to recuperate from the grief that descended upon us, we took on the task of deciding what to do with his business – the “Rockabye Shoppe.” Since our mother passed away years before our father, we could not turn to her for guidance.
We had many options. Liquidating seemed like a good idea, but how does one liquidate an entire store filled with thousands of items? If anyone was interested in buying all of it, or most of it, how come they never showed up while my father was running it?
The fact of the matter is, people wandered in periodically, looked around, and some bought items here and there. As far as I know, no one ever backed up a truck to the front door and bought boxes and barrels of memorabilia. That’s just not the type of business it was. At least that is not how our father chose to run it. He made plenty of money with the high-end items to allow him to coast for days, weeks, and months without big money coming in.
He liked when people wandered in off the street and looked around, though they had no intention of buying anything. He liked to watch their eyes light up when they saw something they had not seen since they were children. My father took pleasure in watching other people become joyful before his eyes. There aren’t many people like that in the world, but he was one of them. It was not a conscious effort either. It was in his DNA. It was in every pore of his body.
My father usually never exhaled air silently. His exhalations were typically accompanied by a giggle as if he was remembering a funny incident. When I looked into his eyes I could see that he was not only living in the moment, but he was also reflecting back on a memory, a fine moment, something someone said, did, how they looked, something, something, something, that he clearly appreciated, for he always appreciated the little things in life and had a gift of instantly capturing that split second in someone’s eyes or voice or in the movement of their head or hair or hand that brought them back in time, away from where they were, to a time when they were happy. It was wondrous to see.
I wish I spent more time with him. I wish I were more like him. I am not sure if I know how to spot that millisecond of joy that is reflected in someone’s eyes, but I do know that there is something that has been instilled in my DNA, something that makes me different from many others, and I got that from my father - your grandfather. I don’t know why I am the way I am but I seem to be the one who has the personality that seems to bring joy to other people. It is not a conscious effort. Maybe it is because I make myself laugh and I think most people take things way too seriously.
But back to where I left off. Your father and I did not know what to do with the store’s inventory. We spent days going through paperwork, boxes, upstairs, downstairs, in drawers, in cases. It was overwhelming. Your father had quite a look on his face. He wanted to be anywhere but there. Part of it was a combination of utter boredom and frustration, but part of it was external influences as well. He was not thrilled with his career at the time. I think you know this. We have joked about his first career during family dinners when I used to come over many years ago. He was looking for a change. Another idea. Something to pursue to make the best use of his natural talent to interact with professionals in the way that people who wear suits and ties interact with one another.
Me? I know how to interact with people who have watercolor paint on their shirts, and whose fingers are burning from typing novels, and whose voices are hoarse from singing on a stage.
One morning someone walked into the Rockabye Shoppe and started calling out my father’s name. Your dad and I stood up abruptly. We were startled. We were sure that we locked the door and turned the sign to say we were closed. When my eyes adjusted to the da
ylight coming in through the door I saw Mr. Teal Vetrim and a friend of his, whose name I do not remember. You never met Mr. Vetrim. He is not a friend of mine and I call him by his first name. He was a steady customer of my father’s for as long as I could remember. He was one of the gentlemen who purchased the expensive collectible items that helped pay the bills to keep the store open during slow periods. He was always dressed impeccably well. I never knew what he did for a living but he clearly did well for himself. He was always so clean and proper. He certainly did look like someone who was interested in buying the vintage guitars, posters, sheet music, and albums that he always had his eyes on. While growing up I assumed that he was buying them from your grandfather at a fair price and then turning around and selling them to another buyer at a substantial mark-up. If so, I told myself, then that is fine. Fair is fair. As long as my dad got the price he asked, or an amount that was fairly negotiated, there was certainly no reason to get hot under the collar about it. Besides, like I mentioned, I always liked him. He and my father were good friends. They smiled and laughed together. That is a great memory to have. I am not sure if you ever saw your father smile or laugh. I certainly have not.
No need for me to get into the details at this time about Mr. Vetrim’s reaction to the news about my father, but I will discuss that with you at a future time.
Letters From My Time-Traveling Uncle Page 2