Erasmus Jones

Jonesy paused outside Sinclair’s Antiques shop and double-checked the address on the business card. It was an elegantly embossed business card that only bore the name Sinclair’s and the street address; apparently the owner didn’t bother with anything as modern as a phone number or website. 

The young man hoped he was not on a wild goose chase. Taking a Sunday off work was a luxury he rarely indulged in – but since he had found the business card lodged under the windscreen wiper of his work truck, he’d been consumed with curiosity.

Jonesy hoped to find answers beyond the stained glass door.

Sinclair's Antiques was a treasure trove of beautiful works of art, and furniture which had been made in an age when people took pride in their work. Such a contrast to the sad, modern, disposable mindset of the world. Jonesy had been taught to always take pride in his work, whether it was in the rush of modern home-building or his side-hustle of bespoke carpentry. He walked slowly through the displays, taking time to appreciate the skills of the long-dead craftsmen, until he arrived at the back corner of the store, and a set of shelves which held smaller items.

A box caught his eye. It was of a simple design, but nevertheless beautifully made by a talented carpenter.  The dovetail joints were perfect, as was the fit of the lid. 

   In fact the craftsmanship showed a level of skill that the man dreamed of someday mastering. Someday, when his daily focus was on more than just trying to pay the rent and put food on the table.

   As he turned the box around in his hands, he noticed the burgandy tone of the varnished wood, and smelled the faint tang of lemon and beeswax polish. And yet, the closer he looked, the more he was convinced that the box was newly made, despite the old-school techniques.

   Front and centre of the box was a keyhole, which was positioned directly below a small, plain brass plate engraved with the name: Erasmus Jones.

   It was his name. 

   A few days earlier, when he had shown his best mate the Sinclair's business card, Erasmus "Jonesy" Jones had assumed it was an elaborate joke. His mate was infamous for his practical jokes - but this one was at a whole new level. 

   And yet, what other explanation could there be? 

Why on earth would there be a faux-antique wooden box with his name on it? It had to be an elaborate, and obviously expensive, joke.

   Jonesy was still deep in thought when the proprietor of the store materialised beside him.    

   The gentleman obviously relished his role, dressed as he was in a perfectly tailored suit that created the impression the wearer belonged in an earlier century.

   "The box is exquisite in its simplicity - don't you agree?"

   "It certainly is," the younger man replied. 

   "May I see some form of photographic identification please?"    

   Jonesy was surprised by the request, even though he knew his clothes clearly announced his financial status to the gentleman. Still, he was determined to leave with his dignity intact. As he gently placed the box back on the shelf and turned to leave, the proprietor touched his arm.

    "I apologise if I offended you. The box was entrusted to me - on a consignment of sorts - by a very important client. If you are - as I suspect - Mr Erasmus Jones, then the box is for you."

   Jonesy had already seen a couple of very discreet, handwritten price tags on what he guessed were the least expensive antiques in the store. So he knew he wouldn't be able to afford the key to the box, never mind the box itself.

   "May I see your driver's license? Please?"

   Deciding to play along with what was obviously an elaborate joke planned by his mate, Jonesy produced his licence.

   The proprietor carefully checked the identification, and then broke into a genuine smile. "Excellent." 

   He carried the box over to a large table, which was beautifully decorated with inlaid wood; Jonesy guessed that if the table was for sale, the asking price would be more than he had paid for his truck. The shopkeeper unrolled a length of black velvet fabric and put the box upon it. He then wrapped the box in tissue paper, before sliding it into a cloth bag which had the store name elegantly embossed upon it.   

   "Ah ... how much do I owe you?" Jonesy asked.

   "Nothing, Mr Jones," the shopkeeper replied, sounding slightly taken aback by the question. "As I said, the box was a special consignment. It was entrusted to me to keep for you," the man said as if that explained everything. "And many happy returns for your thirtieth birthday next week."

   Jonsey reached over and picked up the fancy carry bag.  

   The proprietor had vanished.

   Jonsey glanced around the shop, but the older man was nowhere to be seen, so he shrugged the strange encounter off and hurried home.

   Jonesy put the bag containing the mysterious box down on the two person dining table. With one step he was standing in the tiny excuse for a kitchen, and made himself a coffee.

   Mug in hand, he sat down and reached into the bag.  Although there was no receipt, his fingers found a small velvet bag. 

   Inside was a key.

   Amused - if slightly confused - by the elaborate joke, Jonsey unlocked the box and raised the lid.

   He half expected to see a plastic turd from a joke shop, but instead, the thing on top of what appeared to be a pile of papers, was a photo of himself leaning over a birthday cake adorned with four candles. 

   There were three more birthday photos, recording his seventh, tenth, and twelfth birthdays. 

   Each one evoked warm memories.

   His parents and grandparents smiling and proud. 

   The simple birthday cakes his mother made. 

   The small gifts his loving family saved all year to buy for him. 

   Beneath the photos there was a mix of documents: a few school reports; his first driver's license; and the passport he applied for when he was eighteen years old, when he still had hopes of overseas travel. But the pages he had dreamed would be filled with visas had remained stubbornly empty.

   Abruptly, Jonesy's intrigue and amusement over the box gave way to bitterness and annoyance. 

   He cooked and ate dinner, even though every bite tasted of regret.

   After he washed the dishes, curiosity forced him back to the box. 

   He uncovered a few bank statements and tax returns which only served to remind him that he'd been working two jobs for half his life but still had nothing to show for it. However, his income had never been wasted, but rather used to support his family.

Even though his parents were hard-working, salt of the earth type people, they had never bothered with insurance. Like most people, they had never considered the possibility of a life-changing car accident...

The young man rubbed his temples.

   Although Jonesy had never regretted his choice to help his family financially, as he occasionally joked to his best friend, he wouldn't have minded being born into a wealthy - or even middle-class - family. 

   At that moment a lotto ticket slipped from the papers he was holding, and landed on the table.

   The paper was rather crisp to touch, and the date on the lotto ticket around was six weeks into the future. Jonesy had never wasted money gambling, so he had no experience to draw on, still, he assumed that the advance ticket could only have been purchased sometime in recent weeks.

   And even more bizarrely, one line had all the numbers circled, as if someone had already checked off the winning numbers...

   Jonesy was ready to put the strange box in the cupboard and forget it, at least until he could get his best friend to confess to the complex, if annoying, practical joke. Then he noticed a large envelope which had been folded in half and wedged into the bottom of the box.

   He pried the envelope loose and opened it.

   There was a folded sheet of paper taped to a second, sealed envelope...

   He unfolded the letter.    

   Greetings Erasmus,

   Congratulations on finding the box. I'm very pleased.

   I know you have countless questions; unfortunately you will have to wait for the answers. Simply put, if I told you what you so desperately want to know, it would change your future, and I cannot risk that. 

   However, there is one warning I need you to believe without question. 

   Keep the lottery ticket safe, as if your very future depends upon it. 

   Warmest regards,

   A friend.

   He tossed the letter on the table.

   The only people in the world who called him Erasmus were his parents; everyone else knew him as Jonesy. Although the box was beautiful and definitely worth keeping, the contents were a massive invasion of his privacy. 

   To say he was angry was an understatement.

   He reached for his phone with one hand as he turned over the sealed envelope with the other hand.

   The command: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL AFTER THE LOTTO DRAW which was handwritten across the large envelope, was the last straw.

   Jonesy dropped his phone and tore open the envelope. 

   He pulled out a bundle of A4 pages. 

   The first page bore the words:

   How to Build a Time Machine.

   Copyright ©2057 Erasmus Jones  

   Jonesy rubbed his eyes, then picked up all the photographs and documents and the crazy 'time machine' blueprints, put them back in the box and turned the key.

   The lotto ticket, however, he tucked into his wallet, as he murmured, "Just in case..."

Six weeks later, he became am instant multimillionaire.