Second-hand Emeralds

Second-hand Emeralds 

Michael Goodwin 

Ricardo Alvarez was late, and no amount of pedaling was going to change that. Despite knowing time travel was impossible, he nevertheless pushed onward. Being 17 and on a bike was the least of his problems in life, but currently it was the most pressing. The conglomeration of metal and disappointment that he called a “bike” darted through the small town of Rhodes, in a part of Illinois that time forgot (or maybe just kinda ignored.) He finally came to his destination, Serenity Hills Cemetery, conveniently located at the beginning of a forest of trees as dead as its inhabitants. Serenity Hills was a bleak and cold place, despite the balmy spring temperature. It was also Ricardo Alverez’s place of employment.  

Not bothering to chain up his bike (it was unlikely the dead had use for it, its utility to the living was actually quite questionable,) Ricardo jogged towards the door of the maintenance building, all the while smelling the telltale scent of burning tobacco. That could only mean one thing, Vince was there. He reluctantly opened the door, knowing full well that if Vince was there, so was Ted. 

“Ricky, Ricky, Ricky. Ain’t we a little old to be on a bicycle with the other little kiddies?” Ted teased.  

Ted Mason was a former soldier who spent the last ten years as a maintenance technician at Serenity Hills. He had come back from the war with a serious drinking problem and along with Vince had taken up to making Serenity Hills their own corner of paradise. A paradise of drinking, gambling and other low-level vices. 

“I know, I know,” Ricardo began, “I slipped a chain again. It won’t happen again Mr. Mason.” 

While Ted was technically not Ricardo’s boss, he was far more senior and more importantly, he was Vince’s friend. As Vince was the head ghoul of the graveyard, that made Ted higher on the totem pole. 

“Trust me Rick-o, I’ve seen dead lost causes. That thing you call a bike? I’d have put it out of its misery by now. What you’re doing is just cruelty.” Ted broke into a laughter that echoed down polished marble walls of the maintenance building until long after he stopped. 

“No shit.” Ricardo said quietly to nobody in particular. 

It was then that Ricardo realized the smell of tobacco was intensifying, almost to the point of making his eyes water. Then a voice that sounded like it belonged in a crypt slithered into his ears. 

“Come on kid, we’re running late waiting on you,” crept in the voice. Ricardo turned to see a smoldering cigar ember. Somewhere along the way, those embers were attached to a very large man with a slightly menacing grin. 

Vince Dyson had been combat medic in the army at the outbreak of the Iraq War. Before that, Vince had been something of a loser in the community of Rhodes. He had dropped out of school and obtained a GED to enter the military. Always a quiet kid, not much was known of what happened to him in the war, just rumors of a ghastly nature. All that was known for certain was that Vince and Ted had been honorably discharged and given their positions by the owner of Serenity Hills, Morgan Lancaster. 

“Sorry Mr Dyson, I had a problem with the chain on my bike,” Ricardo stammered, “I’ll leave early from now on in case it happens again.” 

“Don’t worry kiddo,” Vince let out a sigh, looking out the window at the sea of tombstones “I don’t think they’ll complain. We better get going. Got a lot of work to make up. You drive.” Vince handed Ricardo the keys, his hand eclipsing Ricardo’s.  

Meeting up with Ted, the three cemetery workers drove the oversized pickup truck around the perimeter of the grounds. Looking for any damage, vandalism or large obstructions, they found all things to be in order. This was how the day began. It was also very quiet as Ted and Vince were in the flatbed, leaving Ricardo to sit alone listening to the radio and contemplating his problem. A problem far more important than any mere bicycle chain. A giant hand clutching a cigar knocked slightly on the window, shaking Ricardo from his thoughts. 

“Alright Alvarez, we’re good here. Take us back and let’s get to work.” Vince said, his words somehow finding a way around the nub of cigar clenched in his teeth.  

“No problem,” Ricardo thought, now would begin the day of lawn mowing, dead flower removal, “dead birds, rats, squirrels and leaves from fountain removal” (a high point of any day.) To take his mind off of the unusually lethal decoration, Ricardo let his mind wander back to the inescapable. 

Ricardo’s problem revolved around a young woman (as most problems do at that age.) Marisol Cortez’s family was one of some importance in the region. Her father Estoban was a relatively rich man, having made a small fortune in real estate development. Added to that was the fact that her mother Marie was a former beauty queen and something of a cosmetics magnate. Together, the Cortez family was worth something north of a million dollars. Well north of it, in fact. Like Santa Claus levels of north. Normally this would be a fine, if not mundane story except that Ricardo had a problem. He loved Marisol. From her abnormally green eyes to her awkward smiles. This would in most circumstances be a wonderful thing except that Marisol, as lovely as she was, was rich. And Ricardo was a guy on a bike. 

As sad as this was, this was not the problem. The problem was that Ricardo, in a rare flash of bravado (and suicidal levels of mania) asked Marisol to the Spring Social. In the town of Rhodes, this was akin to the prom, your wedding day and your first born saying your name all in one. In small towns, the Spring Social was known far and wide as beginning or the end of all high school hopes at romance. As if to further complicate matters for young Mr Alvarez, Marisol said yes. While this could be seen my most normal people as a wonderful turn of events, Ricardo realized it for what it was; his one and only shot at earthly happiness in this world or the next (he was nothing if not a tad overdramatic.) 

A pinky ring tapped on the window, releasing Ricardo from his anxiety attack. 

“Alvarez, Ted and I will do the Northwest mowing today,” Vince began, “you’re on building interior. Make ‘em shine son, please.” 

“When the good lord blows his trumpet and raises the dead, let ‘em be able to see how butt ugly they are now.” Ted snickered, drawing a grimace from Vince as they both left the truck. Ted slapped the back of the truck two times to let Ricardo know they were clear.  

Building interior was perfect. The Serenity Hills had been built back when Rhodes was a boom town, an actual city really, and had massive mausoleums. Most never used. Cleaning them would require barely a push broom and an hour. That would give him all the time he needed for his plan. 

For all his efforts and planning, Ricardo had secured a suit, a car, some cologne that didn’t quite resemble gasoline and enough money for a decent dinner for two (well, one and a half.) Only one thing was missing, which led to a serendipity that only exists in a graveyard. 

Julius and Sarah Berman had lived a long life together. They had their share of good years and bad, with the former outnumbering the latter. They had married young, escaped the horrors of Europe in 1939, started a family in the new world and never looked back to the old. Upon landing on the shores of salvation (their words, not mine,) Julius had seen a single green rose laying on the street. Since that day, that was their flower. Present at the wedding, at every major holiday and inevitably at the funeral, it was the unofficial emblem of the Berman family in America. To this day, their daughter brought a pair of them to the grave on the first of every month. Two dark green roses, the very color of Marisol Cortez’s eyes. 

Ricardo had known the Bermans in professional manner. For the past year, he tended to their grave, sometimes talking to them (kinda weird, but he’s a harmless kid, I assure you.) He found their story captivating, how they literally fled for their life only to create paradise on uncertain lands. It was during one of these “visits” that he met their daughter Margaret. She thanked him for the attention he paid to their resting place. To be truthful, she was simply happy that someone else spared time to think of them, if only for a moment on a random afternoon. It was Margaret that told him of the flowers and their significance, and significant they were, the only green roses available in the not so bustling “metropolis” that was Rhodes Illinois.  

For Rhodes had only one flower shop, and it was not exactly known for variety. It was known as the only flower shop in town. While every other young man with hopes of conquest would no doubt be buying the usual red roses or carnations, Ricardo knew such things would not do, he needed something magical, and nothing said “magical” quite like grave robbing. 

Ricardo watched as Margaret drove off, right on schedule. Two green roses in her wake and an unknowing wave. Ricardo glanced at his watch, he had only a few minutes to act before he had to pick up Vince and Ted at the northwest gate. He grabbed the two flowers, placing them carefully in a shoebox, packed in tissues. He nervously looked around before shaking his head, the dead had other things to worry about than flower heists. 

Driving to the northwest gate, shoebox under the seat, Ricardo saw the hulking form of Vince standing by the mower with Ted slouching against a tree. Smoke billowing from a grinning face showed no suspicion or trace of accusation. The plan had worked thus far. 

“Alright kid, tell you what, Ted and I will finish up, you get home and get yourself presentable.” Vince said, his grin now making sense. He knew. 

“Maybe getting a girlfriend will motivate him to ditch that Franken-bike he’s rockin’.” Ted chuckled. 

“Hell, I’ll just be happy if she helps release all that tension he’s carrying before he gets a rifle and takes it out on us decent folk.” Vince retorted.  

It was going to be a long ride back to the main building. And it was. 

Ricardo met up with Marisol sometime around seven. His mom’s car wasn’t exactly a chariot of the gods, but it was damn sure better than his scavenged bike. His suit was good, a double-breasted blue number with a somewhat new shirt and tie. Shoes polished enough to impress a marine (and make a normal person kinda worry.) 

Marisol was radiant. Under the watchful eyes of her parents, he opened the door for her. Glancing up at the judgmental eyes of the parents Cortez, Ricardo smiled. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, one problem at a time.” he thought. 

“Ricky, you clean up pretty good. Who’d you steal the suit from?” Marisol taunted, not knowing just how accurate her joke was about to become. 

“I got it off a guy at work, only had a few worms.” Ricardo fought back. 

“Gross!” She squealed. He was off to a good start (the ladies love corpse jokes, apparently.) 

The banter continued as they drove to that cathedral of all things wonderful and mundane, James Rhodes High School (what they lack in imagination, they make up for with consistency when naming things in Rhodes, Illinois.) Ricardo parked, looking over at his date, her green eyes flashing over him. The realization that they weren’t friends tonight. This wasn’t just another day at school. For whatever reasons exist in this world, a high school at night has an entirely different feeling. Almost nostalgic even though only hours have passed, not quite the years required to feel that way. 

The evening went as awkwardly as one could imagine. At every turn there were mistakes. He stepped on her toes; she kicked his shin. He spilled a drink and she broke a heel. His necktie dunked neatly in the refilled drink as she broke a strap on her dress. He knew only one thing could salvage this night, he asked her to join him in the moonlight.  

In the parking lot, he took her hand to lead her to the car. Under the seat he reached to produce the roses. He looked sheepishly at her, and presented them. Her jaw dropped, they were a dark emerald color, the color of her eyes. He had noticed. 

“They’re beautiful Ricky, I mean, Ricardo Alvarez. They are amazing.” The moon danced in her eyes.  

“I see that beauty every time I look in your eyes Marisol. Ever since we were kids, I’ve seen them. Just didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know if I should say it... And now I have.” 

She stared back at him, unblinking. Close enough to feel her breath yet too distant to know what to do. It was then that he decided to go all in. He leaned forward to kiss her, all the moments of his life led to this moment. Unfortunately for Ricardo, she had the exact same thought. They collided as both went for the first kiss.  

A fat lip rewarded their bravery and her giggle broke the tension. 

“Let’s try that again Ricky, and maybe this time you lead.” she purred.  

He was more than happy to oblige. 

Everything fell into place after that (well, as much as realistically could be expected.) The dance continued with one rose tied in her broken dress strap and the other in his lapel. That night, Ricardo Alvarez was no longer a loser on a bike and Marisol Cortez was more than just an unobtainable dream. They were two kids living the imperfect perfection of teenage love.  

As the night drew to a close, they sat on the hood of his car, talking until long after a sane person would have given up. His jacket slung over her shoulders and her shoes sitting next to her, the two knew the evening could not last. The drive home was one of the silence of satisfaction. Simply nothing more need be said.  

“Good night, Miss Cortez” Ricardo chuckled as he opened her door. 

“See you tomorrow, Mr Alvarez” she beamed. 

He waited until she was inside before he drove off. 

“And every tomorrow after that.” She said quietly to herself, the smile not leaving her face. 

Ricardo had but one thing left to do. Return the flowers to their rightful owners. The drive to the graveyard that night was a quiet one (and far less disturbing than that sentence sounds.) Unfortunately, his luck didn’t hold. Vince’s car was still there, as was Ted’s.  

When Ricardo opened the door, Vince was just finishing a phone call and looked up, his eyes betraying nothing of his emotion. 

“Evenin’ Ricardo. Just talkin’ with our old pal Morgan Lancaster. Remember him? Fella that owns the place. Seems we got a guy stealin’ flowers from graves.” Vince said, not exactly accusing but certainly implying. 

“How?” Ricardo slumped, defeated. No point in lying.  

“The Berman lady,” Vince said quietly, “she lost an earring, came back to look for it. Apparently the flowers are important to her.” 

“Christ Ricky, grave robbing? And for flowers?” Ted chimed in, “Shit, next time are we gonna catch you with pliers going after gold teeth?” 

“Next time? Aren’t you going to call the cops?” Ricardo said, tears beginning to form. 

“Why? You brought them back didn’t you? It ain’t like you knocked off Tut’s pyramid here. Hell, it really isn’t even grave robbing, more like grave borrowing.” Vince held a scuffed lighter to the cigar. “I’ll tell the boss man the wind took them, we found them out by the gate. Put a rock on them when you put them back so the story sticks.” 

“Oh sure Vince, reward his deviant behavior, make us a part of his criminal empire too. I’m keepin’ my eye on you Ricky, not gonna leave anything around here that tempts you back into a life of sin.” Ted chuckled as he went into the back room where he and Vince had been playing cards with a few other of the town’s reprobates.  

“Hey kid, from now on if you need something like that, just ask for an advance. Can’t have you looting corpses every time some girl smiles at you.” Vince took a long pull on the cigar, the smoke encasing his face.  

“It wasn’t the money.” Ricardo said, almost to himself as he wiped the tears before they matured. 

Vince leaned forward, almost as if he were about to say some long-lost secret between the two of them. 

“They matched her eyes, didn’t' they kid.” 

“How did you...” 

“Hell kid, I was human once too. Go put them back and go home. See you tomorrow.” With that, the big man clapped Ricardo’s shoulder and retreated back to where Ted and the others were engaging in a new round of insults and debauchery.  

With that, Ricardo walked the darkened graveyard. Stopping at the scene of the crime, he carefully replaced the flowers, now weighted down with a rock. 

“Good evening Mr and Mrs Berman.” Ricardo began, “you were right, these flowers are magical. Let me tell you a story...” 

With that Ricardo sat, back against the tombstone and regaled the Bermans with his own tale of love and hope, an evening saved by the unlikeliest hero, the flowers from a grave.