Post by Kella on Jul 23, 2009 18:02:12 GMT -5
He was a treasure man. Each and every Tuesday morning found him in his big green tortoise-truck, rumbling along the black-tar roads.
Some Tuesdays, he would find a whole pirate-plunder of treasure. And some days, there simply wasn't any treasure to find.
He would look in each and every round black can, and pick up each bag in turn. Small bags, big bags, new bags, old bags, shiny silver ones, thin white ones, heavy black ones. The bags were like gems- each one unique.
One Tuesday, he found a holy-grail. A perfectly new bicycle, sitting forlorn on the curb, right between two round black cans. There was a gleam in the treasure-man's eye as he took the bicycle and set it up next to him, a guest of honor in the truck's wide cab.
Another Tuesday, he was a rescuer. A lonely Teddy lay tossed carelessly across the treasure. He set the Teddy up in a special place on his dash. The Teddy smiled.
The first day I saw the treasure-man, I was standing quiet on the front porch. I clutched Bub the bear close.
"Hey kid," He said. His grandfather-voice was soft and leathery.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I'm the treasure-man."
I stood in silence. Watching. The treasure-man finished loading the bags. Silver ones. And then he waved at me. I did not wave back. The treasure-man got back in his tortoise-truck and kept rumbling on, checking each round black can for treasure.
Each Tuesday afterward was the same.
"Hey Kid," He would say.
"Hello Treasure-man," was my sure reply.
I said no more. He said no less.
There were things that passed between us that words couldn't find. He would cheer me up. I would cheer him up. He knew when I was sad. I knew when he was tired. We were friends.
Forever and always, Tuesdays were treasure-man days. One day, I found a year had passed. Bub the bear no longer came with me.
Another Tuesday I almost missed the Treasure-man because the school-bus ran late on my first day.
Then, one Tuesday, when enough time had passed that so many other Tuesdays were just hazy mist-memories, the treasure-man came as I stood in front of my sparkling new car. Just like always.
"Hey Kid."
"Hello Treasure-man."
I wasn't a kid anymore. Except to the treasure-man. To him, I would always be Kid.
The first Tuesday I missed the treasure-man was my first day of college. I did not forget him. He did not forget me.
I stepped from my car one cold Christmas eve, stretching from the long drive. There was the treasure-man, in his frosty green-tortoise truck, finding the silvery bags of treasure.
"Hey Kid," he said.
"Hello treasure-man."
Every Tuesday I was home was a treasure-man Tuesday.
The last day I saw the treasure-man was a warm one in July.
A smile crinkled his whole face like ripples on a pond.
"Hey Kid." His grandfather-voice was soft and supple as leather.
"Hello treasure-man."
He picked up the silver bags as always, placing them gently in his tortoise-truck with the care one might give to a child. He waved at me. I did not wave back. I smiled. And then the truck moved on. Down the street it rumbled again, just like always. Just like always.
There was no goodbye. There was nothing different than the way it had always been. Than the way I thought it would always be.
But it wouldn't.
The next Tuesday, the treasure-man did not come. Another man came, his face scraggly like moss. His truck was a bull, plowing along the road. He looked at the treasure like it was worth nothing.
I waited for the treasure-man to come. He didn't. A year passed. I did not see the treasure-man.
One Tuesday morning, when the bull of a truck rumbled by, I was struck with a need. I needed to know. And so I went to the office. The City Office. And they told me where to find the treasure-man.
And I found him. I stood on the wide green lawn, grass swaying gently in the summer breeze. Stones sprouted from the ground at even intervals, like an orderly garden. There, in front of me, stood a stone of medium height. Its top curved like the rising sun. It was not like the other stones. The other Stones had epitaphs, long names, dates of birth, dates of death, pictures, engravings. There was just one thing on the stone in front of me. The script had no embellishment. I read it, and I cried.
The Treasure Man.
Some Tuesdays, he would find a whole pirate-plunder of treasure. And some days, there simply wasn't any treasure to find.
He would look in each and every round black can, and pick up each bag in turn. Small bags, big bags, new bags, old bags, shiny silver ones, thin white ones, heavy black ones. The bags were like gems- each one unique.
One Tuesday, he found a holy-grail. A perfectly new bicycle, sitting forlorn on the curb, right between two round black cans. There was a gleam in the treasure-man's eye as he took the bicycle and set it up next to him, a guest of honor in the truck's wide cab.
Another Tuesday, he was a rescuer. A lonely Teddy lay tossed carelessly across the treasure. He set the Teddy up in a special place on his dash. The Teddy smiled.
The first day I saw the treasure-man, I was standing quiet on the front porch. I clutched Bub the bear close.
"Hey kid," He said. His grandfather-voice was soft and leathery.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I'm the treasure-man."
I stood in silence. Watching. The treasure-man finished loading the bags. Silver ones. And then he waved at me. I did not wave back. The treasure-man got back in his tortoise-truck and kept rumbling on, checking each round black can for treasure.
Each Tuesday afterward was the same.
"Hey Kid," He would say.
"Hello Treasure-man," was my sure reply.
I said no more. He said no less.
There were things that passed between us that words couldn't find. He would cheer me up. I would cheer him up. He knew when I was sad. I knew when he was tired. We were friends.
Forever and always, Tuesdays were treasure-man days. One day, I found a year had passed. Bub the bear no longer came with me.
Another Tuesday I almost missed the Treasure-man because the school-bus ran late on my first day.
Then, one Tuesday, when enough time had passed that so many other Tuesdays were just hazy mist-memories, the treasure-man came as I stood in front of my sparkling new car. Just like always.
"Hey Kid."
"Hello Treasure-man."
I wasn't a kid anymore. Except to the treasure-man. To him, I would always be Kid.
The first Tuesday I missed the treasure-man was my first day of college. I did not forget him. He did not forget me.
I stepped from my car one cold Christmas eve, stretching from the long drive. There was the treasure-man, in his frosty green-tortoise truck, finding the silvery bags of treasure.
"Hey Kid," he said.
"Hello treasure-man."
Every Tuesday I was home was a treasure-man Tuesday.
The last day I saw the treasure-man was a warm one in July.
A smile crinkled his whole face like ripples on a pond.
"Hey Kid." His grandfather-voice was soft and supple as leather.
"Hello treasure-man."
He picked up the silver bags as always, placing them gently in his tortoise-truck with the care one might give to a child. He waved at me. I did not wave back. I smiled. And then the truck moved on. Down the street it rumbled again, just like always. Just like always.
There was no goodbye. There was nothing different than the way it had always been. Than the way I thought it would always be.
But it wouldn't.
The next Tuesday, the treasure-man did not come. Another man came, his face scraggly like moss. His truck was a bull, plowing along the road. He looked at the treasure like it was worth nothing.
I waited for the treasure-man to come. He didn't. A year passed. I did not see the treasure-man.
One Tuesday morning, when the bull of a truck rumbled by, I was struck with a need. I needed to know. And so I went to the office. The City Office. And they told me where to find the treasure-man.
And I found him. I stood on the wide green lawn, grass swaying gently in the summer breeze. Stones sprouted from the ground at even intervals, like an orderly garden. There, in front of me, stood a stone of medium height. Its top curved like the rising sun. It was not like the other stones. The other Stones had epitaphs, long names, dates of birth, dates of death, pictures, engravings. There was just one thing on the stone in front of me. The script had no embellishment. I read it, and I cried.
The Treasure Man.