by Ron Hevener
The streets hadn’t been unkind to Willie. He didn’t always roam aimless and haunted. Inside the shadows and alleys of his heart there were peaks of satisfaction and valleys of comfort about what he had done. He knew he couldn’t turn back the clock to 1929. He couldn’t stand again in front of the bank safe in Steitzburg and simply close it…he wouldn’t want to. If he had—if he had been a good man and hadn’t touched the money—the people of Steitzburg would have lost more than dollars.
They would have lost hope.
He had lost, too. He had thrown away his life. No longer a proud and forceful bank president with the best job in town, he had found a way to save the others, and paid the cost himself. He had disappeared. Except for the insatiable need to finish what he had started, he had just vanished.
At first, it was only Wembly who knew and protected him. Willie, the friendly Irish doorman. Willie the night watchman. Willie fetching pizza and running errands. As Willie hailed a cab for one of the businessmen after a particularly late meeting at DeCroy’s one night, Wembly asked, “Have you two met?”
“Well, hello, Ezra,” Willie said in perfectly eloquent Pennsylvania Dutch, as he stood there in his torn and dirty overcoat. “How’s that new assistant bookkeeper of ours working out?”
Ezra’s face went whiter than a living white man should be allowed. “What?” Memories came rushing back to him, through him, all over him. “…Mr….Fenstamacher?”
Love has many shades and dimensions. Love of the flesh, the mind, the heart and soul—these things are honest and pure and true. “All this time, I’ve been coming here for the meetings,” Ezra said. “And I never knew you.”
“You didn’t see me,” Willie corrected him. “I was an invisible, homeless beggar.”
“You’re no beggar!” Ezra said—pulling him close, taking off his own London Fog trench coat and covering Willie against all that had happened. “You’re the president of a bank!”
“President of my soul,” Willie corrected him. “Beggars,” he explained, “see misfortune and say, ‘Thank God that isn’t me.’”
That was then, and this was now. Now, he would set the record straight.
It wasn’t hard to find an office of the Internal Revenue Service. He knew their dumpster and what they threw out. The shredded paper made a great mattress on cold nights and sometimes there was a half-eaten sandwich or two.
With each step, he became stronger inside and more determined. He could do this. He could do this important thing and never live in fear again. What could anybody do to him now, he reasoned? He was…how old? Hard to believe he had made it, he thought. Hard to believe anybody makes it that long.
A few people stared at him, wondering what tax return a homeless man like him could possibly be filing. Or maybe wondering what brutality the IRS had used to beat him down so far.
“Next!” somebody called out, as if leading him down the cattle chute to slaughter. Working himself through a few aches and pains, Willie made his way to the desk. “May I sit down?” he asked and got no look or answer. So he seated himself as the agent waited with her pen ready.
“What can I help you with…” she hesitated before deciding to add, “sir?”
“I need to report a robbery,” Willie said.
“I’m sorry,” she said, asking herself what anybody like this could possibly have of any value to be stolen. “You need to go to the police station for that.”
“But,” he tried explaining, “it was a lot of money!”
“Well, no matter how much money it was, you can always claim a loss carry-forward,” she said.
“Loss carry-forward?” Willie asked, puzzled.
“Well, other than that, unless you want the forms for a return, there’s not much I can do for you.”
“I want to talk with a supervisor,” he said.
“Sir…”
“It was a lot of money and you don’t understand. I’m the one who took it.”
“Oh! Well, in that case, I’m sure I don’t have the right form for that,” she said. “Do you,” she didn’t know exactly what else to say, “want to tell me about it?”
“I didn’t do it for me. I did it to save the town.”
“Well, that was nice of you,” she said. “Did they give you a medal?”
Not hearing her sarcasm, Willie went on. “And I got other banks to do the same thing.”
“Money laundering,” she said. “I get it now.”
“Shouldn’t you be calling the Treasury Department?” Willie asked. “Or the World Monetary Fund? Don’t you want to know what we did with the money?” he asked, as a stern-faced supervisor came in.
“OK,” the supervisor said, arms crossed and tapping her toe. “Tell us what you did with the money.”
“We saved the world!” Willie said, proudly.
“Reeeeelly!” the woman said, facing the surprised agent and making up her mind. “He saw this on TV! He saw it on the Diane Wallace show.”
“No!” Willie protested as a security guard suddenly appeared and escorted him out. “It’s true! I did it! I really did!”
Shaking her head sadly, the agent looked at her supervisor. “That makes,” she said, counting her fingers, “how many this week?” before sipping a soda and hollering, “NEXT!”
The walk back to DeCroy’s for Willie was like reliving a videotape of his life. He had finally faced his fears, finally confessed and nobody believed him. Nodding to friends and acquaintances he had made along the way—Clarisse with her shopping cart of treasures, Albert with his braided beard and Tiffany who found and traded cleaning supplies, he wondered what it was about these people that fascinated and inspired him so. Were they living in fancy condos on Park Avenue? Were they applauding Broadway shows? No. But it didn’t mean, like him, they hadn’t ever. And it didn’t mean they wouldn’t. At least, he realized, they were trying. They had lived. They had plans for something—anything. The indisputable fact that they had made it through political earthquakes, economic tsunamis and legal floods made them more fortunate than many.
He looked at the store now. He could go to the left and weave his way among the shiny cars in the parking lot. He could go to the right and disappear among the shrubbery. This time, he went straight ahead, into the showroom.
“Well, well, well!” the floor manager said. “Finally decided to come inside?”
“I’d like a suit,” Willie said.
“Well, step right this way, Baby! What took you so long?”
Touching a pair of Italian shoes, Willie thought how good they would feel for Albert. Clarisse could wear this tweed jacket even in the coldest winter and look classy. Tiffany would make necklaces and bracelets of these silk ties and handkerchiefs. And it would feel nice to wear a clean shirt again.
“You look like you belong in that suit,” the manager said with a tone of respect as Willie stood in front of the mirrors a while later.
Pleased, Willie asked, “Is young Mr. Hoover upstairs? I have an idea for him.”
The manager smiled and gestured across the floor. “Up the elevator, to the door marked Private and into the land of dreams.”
It would take a great photographer, Willie said.
“I know one named Black Melvin,” Ben smiled.
They would need interesting models.
“I’ve got some good ones,” Willie said, picturing Clarisse, Albert and Tiffany.
They would need a fresh concept for the marketing campaign.
“A new America,” Willie said. “Tough-minded entrepreneurs, no matter what.”
And, they would need the right name.
At that, Ben put on his gold-rimmed Armani shades, and smiled. “Lucky Ones,” he said, remembering Ezra. “You know? I think it’ll work.”
* * *
New York City. Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts
Fashion week in New York is an event never to be missed. Reporters, photographers, models, buyers and designers all scrambling to show their latest creatio
ns to a jaded audience filled with satin, silk, and sad, bored young men and women tripping over their own feet on a runway that never ends. It’s quite a show.
For many years a buyer, DeCroy’s was making a statement of its own now. The house went dark and music played. It was 1940s big band swing.
A spotlight hit center stage and an old car entered its glow. It was a 1929 Ford.
Film screens dropped from the ceiling with black-and-white images of stars from a bygone era and the models began to appear.
Clarisse—smiling and beautiful in high-waisted, flowing white pants with a sporty white shirt, her sleeves rolled up and a silver-grey scarf in her hand.
Albert—dapper and clean-cut in a sporty jacket, pleated pants and black suspenders over a sparkling white shirt with classy black shoes reflecting a lifetime of hope.
Tiffany—laughing and almost skipping as she drifted down and back the runway in a gown of silver with a silky white turban wrapped around her head.
And Willie—distinguished and important in his black tuxedo with tails and shoes of perfection for weathered and weary feet that had traveled more than their share, but could still go that extra mile.
On all screens at once, a replay of Diane Wallace facing Ben appeared.
Once again, the journalist was searching her notes, but this time she seemed to change her mind about something and skipped a few pages. Putting aside her famous yellow writing pad not unlike a soldier laying down a dagger, she faced Ben and said, “If you could say anything you want to the press right now, what would it be?”
The camera moves in for a close-up.
“I’d say, you taught me a big lesson,” he answers honestly. “You taught me the public I once believed in is weaker and more fickle than I ever knew. But you haven’t killed my faith. Somewhere—out there among us right now…maybe in children not even born yet—there’s a spark of courage that can carry us through no matter how great the depression is that any one of us faces. If you’re lucky enough to find that spark—nourish it! Keep it alive and healthy from anything that puts a label on natural happiness telling us something’s wrong with the creative spirit of a Picasso or the natural enthusiasm of a Bette Midler. The expressiveness of a Jim Carrey, craziness of a Jerry Lewis, silliness of a Martha Raye, the one-and-only Lucille Ball, the originality of a Phyllis Diller, Moms Mabley or Bob Hope. People like that are gifts! What would our world be like without them? Without people like J.K. Rowling and Harry Potter? Sherlock Holms or Agatha Christie? Think how desolate life would be without music to shake our souls, or, without daring scientific discovery lifting us to the stars and making us almost immortal!”
The camera turns to the interviewer. In a final, sobering moment, Diane Wallace says politely, “Well viewers, we promised you a fascinating hour and it certainly has been that.” She touches the rose bud in her lapel and asks her trademark question: “So, Ben. Where to from here?” She does not know how many times Ben has pondered that question, or how many times he might ask it again. She does not admit how many times, rebuilding lives of the fallen, she has secretly asked herself the very same thing.
As if waiting for this moment, he slowly takes off his microphone. Reaching for the nearest gossip magazine between them, he stares at her and rips it in half. The loving dog at his feet snaps to attention.
Crumbling the glossy pages in his hands like a sculptor squeezing the life out of a fist full of clay, Ben gives a look that says, “I dare you!” and with a half-smile, offers his chosen journalist the stack of printed internet trash. At first, her eyes question his and she hesitates. Then, squirming as if testing the cold waters of a distant lake, she gently crushes a newspaper story and delicately stuffs it in her “coffee” mug.
Holding her gaze, he silently tears apart slanderous threats and rumors—scattering them like wild goose feathers on a winter’s breath. Sure of himself, he takes another magazine and strips off the cover.
Chills on her arms, her face, her hair, she looks at her note pad—and gives it a fierce, nervous toss!
Driven—pulsing with life—they break into laughter in a spin of confetti. Careless and free, they stand facing each other; facing the wrath of weapons they know can make or destroy them both. Not even the dog at their feet is spared from the glare of a powerful force called “Media” that has seen too much, accused too many and gone too far.
Bars of steel are waiting to be smashed and they know it. Handcuffs, humiliation and shackles are waiting to be cast off. Shameful atrocities are hoping for better understanding; even those that cannot be forgotten. Rusty gates only protecting mediocrity are screaming for keys to open them for creative accomplishment to be praised again in every household. We are not alone, and they feel it. Somewhere, over a rainbow, Judy, Michael, Marilyn and Walt are smiling. If we’re strong enough—if we’re good and righteous and true—we can get there. They know we want to. They know…
Among an orchard of the rarest tree,
There is a path for those who see,
Who risk it all on pitch and toss,
And find a way when all is lost.
Glittering waters and magic fountains,
A Golden World beyond the mountains,
For all who sing and dance within,
Let the Work…at last
Begin!
A Note from the Author
Many a secret lies beneath a beautiful surface if you scratch for it, or so they say. I found mine on a hot, summer night when I had awakened to the cries of my newborn daughter. Walking into her room, I cursed the loud trucks rattling the windows of our old country house and held her in my arms.
Hoping to be the best Daddy she could ever have, I tried singing, rocking and burping her to no avail. The trucks are winning again, I thought. If this isn’t a scene from a movie where the hero and his kid are surrounded by searchlights and machine guns, it’s close.
Wait a minute, I finally thought. Cut! Cut! Cut!
Aside from those foolish and notorious examples of government waste we all know about, why was anybody sending truckloads of dirt away from a major construction site when all they had to do was dump it anywhere on five thousand acres?
Truth or fiction about what I discovered, you must decide. I only remember the drowning voices of farmers on the radio, letters to the editor from people trying to save their land, and rumors of mysterious “shadow governments” at work. It was the first time I ever heard the term “shadow government,” but not the last. And I remember private investigators claiming stories surrounding the Phantom Lake Wildlife and Recreation Park were right.
Perhaps the real mystery isn’t what happened at Phantom Lake, but how a novel started so long ago proves to be just as relevant today as it was then. The reason is simple: Love—for something, someone, anything—endures everything.
Oh, Ezra! What a story we’d have—if only you hadn’t run out of time.
—RH
About the Author
Rumor has it that Ron Hevener was raised in the Pennsylvania Dutch Country where he told stories and made souvenirs for tourists at the local farmers markets.
Innuendo implies that he did whatever it took to make his hand-made figurines collectible, put his paintings onto household designs of everything from pillows to coffee mugs and turn his stories into novels.
Truth is far more daring than any of that and far more unknown. Ron Hevener was raised by a team of international business consultants who made people like Murdoch, Bezos and Zuckerberg look like amateurs. His father held degrees in law, psychology, accounting, philosophy, electrical engineering and metaphysics. His mother was a certified grapho-analyst and interior designer who challenged her children to be independent thinkers. His sister graduated in the first co-ed class of the prestigious Franklin and Marshall College to become the owner of a respected accounting business, and his brother became a successful builder and Masonic leader.
Hevener’s upbringing was unusual. From the time he could walk, Ron Hevener
was surrounded by politicians, business leaders, religious thinkers, scientists, writers, and artists.
By age nine, the young writer was reading such works as Cosmic Conscious, The Master Key, Autobiography of a Yogi, the works of motivational author Napoleon Hill and Donald C. Laird’s “Technique of Getting Things Done.” By the age of sixteen, he was already a published author.
Because of his father’s business connections, Hevener grew up knowing influential people such as members of the royal families of Saudi Arabia, Iran and Europe. His lifelong interest in ancient Egyptian history is natural for one who is very comfortable with political intrigue, cultural mystery and artistic accomplishment.
In college, he began studying at a museum of natural history on the campus. “In the regular classes, we shared our teachers with twenty or thirty other students,” he says. “But, after they retired, a lot of the professors volunteered at the museum. This completely reversed the learning dynamics. I could ask these wonderful minds anything I wanted to know about astronomy, biology, literature, anatomy—everything I had ever dreamed of. I could be in the same room with these fascinating thinkers and you could feel the intelligence sparkling through the air! All those professors and only one student, soaking up everything they said and loving it. The possibilities were electric and the conversations were spellbinding. I was completely, totally in love with every one of them.”
He had another teacher as well: One of India’s highest-ranking religious leaders, who was instrumental in developing biofeedback for medical diagnosis and treatment with the Mayo Clinic, was his swami. One day, sensing the similarity between meditation while seated in the lotus position and how one feels while working on almost any kind of creative endeavor, Hevener asked if there was such a thing as meditation “in motion.” With his swami’s blessing, Hevener realized that contorting the body into uncomfortable positions wasn’t the only road to enlightenment, and he set himself free to become one of only a few artists to see their name become a collectible brand during their lifetime.