Letters From My Time-Traveling Uncle
Page 4
“Yes,” I said. “Of course. I’d love that! 1950’s. What a blast.” I then looked at the guitar and shook my head and said, “If only, huh …? That would be great.”
Mr. Vetrim then looked at my brother. Your father’s eyes narrowed. His eyebrows came close together. He respected Mr. Vetrim. And I could see that the wheels were moving quickly in your father’s head as he tried to figure out the best way to answer him without making him feel uncomfortable for what your father thought was a silly question.
Finally your father said, “Of course I would. What an opportunity that would be. What year did this building go Co-op? I’d buy up half of it and then fly to Miami Beach and buy up Biscayne Bay!” Your father nodded his head in approval of his own idea. Mr. Vetrim half-smiled and turned to me. He motioned that it was time to leave the mysterious room and say goodnight.
When we got to the front door of the apartment Mr. Vetrim asked us to promise him that we would never tell anyone about that room, or his collection, or that we were even at this apartment. We agreed. We certainly understood the security precautions someone like that must take. He shook my brother’s hand as he walked out the door. He then shook my hand and as I turned to go he said to me, “Look at this door handle. It’s the original. Beautiful, isn’t it? Look at the detail they went through just for a door handle. It was made in the days when there were real craftsman, who cared about their art.”
“Once upon a time …,” I said. And as I backed away from the door I saw that the door handle he showed me was only on the inside. There was not one on the outside. Just a box on the wall. Inside was clearly a keyboard with a digital key code to open the door.
No one was getting into Mr. Vetrim’s apartment unless he wanted him or her in there. I learned a lot from him.
Uncle Reese
Please read the next letter. It is hidden in this room. There is a rumor that the songbirds keep singing like they know the score. But that might just be second hand news. Follow your dreams but keep your visions to yourself. Have you any dreams you’d like to sell?
* * *
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: tin.soldier@ RockabyeBox.com
Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 6:10 PM
Subject: Autographed Music Sheets.
To: ValTermeti
Ms. Termeti.
I would like to purchase music sheets that were autographed by rock and roll pioneers. Please contact me immediately if you have any for sale, or will anytime soon.
Regards,
Billy J. Laughlin
Tin Solder Collections
* * *
Val,
Exactly one month after your father and I left New York City, Mr. Vetrim called me and asked if I could return for an extended period. Perhaps a week, as part of a vacation. He offered to put me up in a guest room in his large Dakota apartment. He assured me I would have plenty of privacy. I loved the idea. I had been working non-stop since I took over the Rockabye Shoppe. I could use a break. I considered letting one of my part-timers run the store while I was gone, but thought better of it. I decided I would just shut the store for a week. Why not, right? Mr. Vetrim asked me to not mention that I was going to see him. Once again, I understood. Privacy. Security. I told no one. Not even your father.
When I arrived at J.F.K. airport, Mr. Vetrim’s limousine was waiting for me. I was taken straight to the Dakota. Once the elevator opened and I was in the hallway Mr. Vetrim opened the door and welcomed me. We spent a good deal of time together. We had lunch. We played the piano. We sang some songs. His personality was quite a bit different from how it was when I had seen him last. His guard was down. He loosened up. He was having fun. He reminded me of my father. That night we went out to the theater. He introduced me to many of his friends. Many of them performed on Broadway. We got back after midnight, close to 1:00 a.m., I believe.
The guest room was large and comfortable. Like the rest of the apartment, it was decorated as if it was 1885. I woke up a few times during the night and looked around. In my half-daze I had fun convincing myself that it was the 19th century!
Early the next morning we enjoyed a delicious breakfast of fresh fruit, warm bread, scrumptious jam on warm scones, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. We then went for a walk in Central Park. We kept close to the west side since he told me that he did need to return home to make some calls.
The air was fresh, brisk, and cool. Central Park is wonderful. Even though the buildings, cars, people, the machinery of contemporary society surround one, it all disappears once you’re 10 feet into the park.
Don’t look back. Look down. Look up. Look around. You are anywhere. Anytime. There are no clocks anymore. No steel. No rivets. No honking horns. No wires. No pavement. No motors. Nothing but nature and your thoughts. Close your eyes. Open them. Look around. Trees. Leaves. Grass. The things that have always been around. The things that don’t change.
We reached the Bethesda terrace and looked out toward the lake. We walked 2 more feet and went down the east side staircase, toward fountain. Dozens of people strolled near and around us as we admired the bronze, eight-foot statue of a female winged angel touching down upon the top of the fountain. I closed my eyes and listed as the cascaded into the surrounding pool. As we took a few paces away I looked at the four four-foot cherubs representing Temperance, Purity, Health, and Peace.
Mr. Vetrim and I then slowly walked south, along the lower terrace, and then kept on till we reached the Bandshell. Children ran around us. Men and women were walking together, but instead of holding hands, many were having private conversations on their cell phones, skateboarders, skaters, and pigeons. We sat down on a bench for a short while and then Mr. Vetrim stood up and reminded me that he had some calls to make. We walked along the 72nd street cross drive and then reached Central Park West.
While we waited for the light to change I said that I understood that he had some calls to make and that I would like to walk some more in Central Park and would it be all right with him if I came up in a short while. He turned to me and said he understood and would like very much to do just that but he had something he wanted to show me in his apartment that would make my stroll a good deal more interesting. I nodded and followed him into the Dakota.
Once inside his apartment he heated up some hot water and prepared two cups of tea in the kitchen. He then led me to the living room where we sat. I glanced out the window at the 5th Avenue buildings on the other side of Central Park.
He asked me why I decided to take on the responsibility of the Rockabye Shoppe. It seemed to him that I looked like the restless type, perhaps blessed (some might say “cursed” - but he said blessed) with a sense of wanderlust. He told me that my father told him about my trip to Europe. He said they had conversations about me. Apparently my father hoped that I would take over the store when he was gone but he thought that I might feel stifled there. They said that I was a dreamer, but that I was an active dreamer. I planned things. I followed through with things. Unlike my brother, I did not seem like the type who wanted to have a standard routine. I agreed that all this was true. My father and I spoke about this, too. I expressed interest in the store throughout my life. I worked there periodically. I learned a lot. But I was not sure what I wanted to do. There was nothing about the store that bothered me. I saw how happy it made my father. He looked forward to going there in the morning. He liked spending all day there. He came home with stories. That appealed to me. But when one is young and full of light and ideas and ambitions, a son doesn’t necessarily sit back and daydream about sitting in the chair behind his father’s desk.
I told him that there are many reasons why I took on the responsibility of running the store. Perhaps there were many that I did not even know about myself, and that only time, or some alcohol, or sleep deprivation, or dreams, or a pretty French girl could jar out of me.
I DID know that I did not want my brother to take an axe and flame
to the joint. Sure, it was a business filled with inventory, but the inventory was not boxes of rubber bands or chairs from China that my father ordered in bulk. He saw each item. They were all specifically chosen by him. He made trades to possess them. He touched all of them. Everything. From the vintage albums to the classic cars in the warehouse. These were items that any Pharaoh would list to accompany him in his pyramid chambers. They meant something to my father. I didn’t want them to be sold helter skelter, like nails in a barrel. I wanted to see who bought them. I wanted to know why they were being bought – if the people cared to tell me. If they even knew!
I told him, “When one donates blood or an organ they never know whom it benefits, but it sure would be nice to know. Well, running the Rockabye Shoppe lets me see who is getting the transfusion, and the mechanisms that make their blood pump fast, and makes them smile, and makes their eyes light up. It is a great gig. I don’t feel trapped there any more than a squirrel feels trapped in the forest. Sure, I can venture out whenever I wish, and watch the action all about, perhaps find some tasty morsel here and there, but everything that really sustains me is back there, where I was born to be. I guess my biggest regret is that - though I have learned to be a good listener, and I have learned to spot the levels of joy the memorabilia brings to people’s lives - I really wish I could be more of a talker, I wish I knew what they knew, I wish I could care as much about the items as they do. To me they are still paper, metal, boards, woods, plastic, wire. If the Rockabye Shoppe burned down any night I would feel like a brick hit me over the head but I would not feel like I got whacked in the stomach and feel that searing pain of emptiness when the wind goes out of someone. There is a big difference. Do you know what I mean?”
He nodded that he did. Mr. Vetrim then went on to explain that all of the items he has purchased have a special and personal significance to him. He has only ever bought things that have brought him back to the past, that drove fond memories to the surface, and that had a story. He explained that he feels most collectors of memorabilia are like him. Sure, there are investors who buy rare comic books, for example, and sell them for hefty profits, but the interest in comic books has usually been there long before the purchase is made. It’s not just about money. It’s about memories. It’s about buying stories to tell. Even when they sell the item, the story remains.
I nodded. I understood. I then said something that I did not know I was going to say until the words came out of my mouth.
I heard myself say, “I just realized something. I am not young. I am not old. I have a millions stories to tell that I have heard from other people, but I don’t have any of my own. Everything that has always surrounded me has belonged to someone else. The stories are theirs, not mine.” I leaned back. I looked out the window. I finished my tea.
Mr. Vetrim stood up. He looked at me for a short while but did not speak. He motioned for me to follow him. We went through the dark hallway that he led my brother and I through when we were there last month. First door. Opened. Closed. Cool air again! Chilled me to the bones. Second door. Opened. Closed. Darkness. Hair on my arms stood up. My head felt tingly. Static electricity. Why? Lights. Brightness.
I looked around at his collection of vintage albums, instruments, sheet music, posters, and toys. Truly impressive.
Mr. Vetrim approached me. “Your father told me you played guitar and where in a band when you were in high school.”
I laughed and nodded. “We were pretty good, too.”
He put on a pair of rubber gloves and opened a safe and showed me a sheet of music. It was for “The Fat Man” from Fats Domino.
“1950,” Mr. Vetrim said.
My head nodded.
“Want to hold it?” he asked.
I looked at his gloves and then up at him.
“It’s okay, Reese. Take it. Hold on to it. Feel it’s magic.”
A slight hesitation kept me from doing anything but then I felt my hand reach for it. The hair on my arms went up as my fingers extended. I touched the paper and I felt a slight shocks. I felt momentarily dizzy and I lost my bearings for a split second. Did the lights go out? It was dark. Maybe. I am not sure. I felt the hair on my head fly up and then come down. I did not want to touch it with two hands in fear that the natural oils in my hands would affect it. I leaned it back on my left arm. I read the lyrics and looked at the musical notes.”
“History,” Mr. Vetrim said. You are holding a piece of history. That belongs to Fats Domino.”
Belongs? I was not sure what he meant by that.
Mr. Vetrim then took the sheet music from me and placed it in a plastic sleeve and then in a thick folder.
“Would you like to deliver this to him?” Mr. Vetrim asked.
I let out a slight laugh but did not say anything.
“Are you ready for that walk now?” Mr. Vetrim asked me. I nodded that I was.
He led me out of the room. I walked ahead of him as he turned on the alarms and closed each door behind me. When we got put of the dark hallway I looked around. It was nice to feel the carpet beneath my feet again. Ah! Back in good old 1885! I thought to myself and laughed.
Mr. Vetrim walked me to the front door and handed me a set of car keys. He said he had one of his cars brought around and it was waiting in the courtyard for me. I told him that I only wanted to go for a walk. He said that he hopes that I enjoy my walk. He told me not to be startled by anything I see and hear, to accept it, enjoy it, immerse myself in it, and allow the sights and the sounds and the scents to seep into my pours. He said that was what I needed to do in order to let stories simmer within me, so I can share them with others someday.
I glanced around and realized that I never saw a telephone in his apartment. I knew he had a cell phone, but considering his age, I was surprised that he did not have a house phone, too. When my brother and I first arrived the security guard called him. Did he call his cell phone? I suppose so. I asked Mr. Vetrim if he wanted to go for a walk with me. He replied that it was not a good idea. He handed the folder with the “Fat Man” sheet music in it and told me to put it in the passenger seat of the car and to lock it on my way out. Mr. Vetrim then handed me a large envelope and told me not to open it until I got to a quiet place in Central Park where I could read without distractions. He walked me out into the hallway but would not pass the threshold. He reminded me again to not be concerned about anything that went on beyond the walls of the Dakota, to take my time, enjoy myself, and not to take the elevator down, but that I could take it up when I returned. He motioned for me to take the stairs. He then shut the door and left me alone. I walked toward the staircase and descended. I felt warm and was looking forward to a nice walk in the park.
At the bottom of the stairs I caught a glance of someone entering the elevator as the doors shut. Was the elevator broken going down, but not up? I was not sure.
I walked out the doors and out into the courtyard. There was no one around but there was a beautiful 1949 Chevrolet Coupe Classic in immaculate condition. Mr. Vetrim never mentioned that he collected vintage cars. He was getting more and more interesting by the minute. I walked around it slowly. It practically glistened. I looked around and once again saw that no one was around. I put the key in the door lock and slowly pulled the handle. I was stunned by how heavy the door was. Ah! The days when cars weren’t made of fiberglass! I was tempted to sit inside but it looked so big and comfortable that I actually thought I would climb inside and fall asleep! So I simply did what I was instructed. I placed the folder on the passenger seat, locked and closed the door, and walked away.
Uncle Reese
p.s. You’ll never find your gold on a sandy beach. You'll never drill for oil on a city street. I know you're looking for a ruby in a mountain of rocks. But there ain't no Coup de Ville hiding at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.
* * *
From: Val
Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 7:22 PM
Subject: It’s me. Val.
To: Roman
R,
Thank you for the call. I agree with everything. You're right about using the phone. I won’t call again. Let’s meet.
D1
2081
980P11
07M
V
Junior Specialist, Private Sales
Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.
SENT FROM MY PHONE
* * *
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: leonard.julius@ RockabyeBox.com
Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 8:10 PM
Subject: Message for your Uncle
To: ValTermeti
Ms. Termeti.
Please tell your Uncle to meet me at the corner of 42nd and Broadway. I'll be wearing a blue and red striped scarf and carrying a brown case. 11:11 a.m. 1956.
Regards,
Julius Arthur Leonard
TMB
* * *
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: leonard.julius@ RockabyeBox.com
Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 8:10 PM
Subject: Message for your Uncle
To: ValTermeti
Ms. Termeti.
Please tell your Uncle to meet me at the corner of 42nd and Broadway. I'll be wearing a blue and red striped scarf and carrying a brown case. 11:11 a.m. 1956.
Regards,
Julius Arthur Leonard