Tesoro

Stanley salivated as the metal grate flew swiftly upwards, giving a clear view of the treasure that awaited behind it. A collective sigh of disappointment spread through the crowd surveying the 2 dozen or more boxes, some labeled, others blank. To the naked eye, it didn’t appear to be the treasure trove they had hoped for. Some shook their heads and walked away. Others scanned the boxes with little interest. The true players remained transfixed, knowing that fortune sometimes lay where it was least expected to be.

Stanley’s trained eye scanned the locker’s mysterious contents, taking in the large wrapped box-like object on the left, the chest of drawers in front of it, and the numerous boxes that filled the rest of the unit from floor to ceiling. Generic labels such as “baking,” “garden,” and “art supplies” weren’t very interesting at first sight, but he knew better than to give up so easily. Making a mental note that just over half of the boxes were unlabeled, (I’ll take that 50/50 shot) his keen eyes caught sight of something shiny way back in the corner of the locker. Whatever it was, it was mostly obscured by the largest of the boxes, but that didn’t curb Stanley’s curiosity. He had a good feeling about this one.

He surveyed the crowd, picking out the newcomers. There were five other competitors at every auction, and he knew them well enough to understand their expertise and their faults, and to anticipate their next moves. Well aware that they knew him too, Stanley vowed to be more creative with his tactics. The hair tingling on his neck told him fortune was nearby, and he was going to get it.

Stanley retrieved his iPhone from his shirt pocket and pretended to check his mail. Leaning nonchalantly against a padlocked door across the aisle, he attempted to blend into the small crowd. It was always better for others to forget he was even there—it was one of his strengths. He listened carefully to his adversaries’ whispers. He had excellent hearing, but he often asked people to repeat their statements. It was a good tactic, and most thought he needed a hearing aid which came in handy when he was trying to gauge his opponents’ plays. In this business, it was wise to remain a few steps ahead, which wasn’t always easy with this particular group. They were good, but Stanley knew he was better than all these sharks, and he was not going home empty-handed today.

Stanley noted Ina’s murmur as she leaned on one hip, arms folded, shaking her head. “It’s too rich, Jack. It’s gonna be big, but we can’t compete. Let’s go for a smaller haul.”

One down. Stanley couldn’t suppress an impish grin. He turned to watch Grady mentally calculating his bid. Grady always amused Stanley: he’d come charging fiercely out of the gate, but he couldn’t sustain that charge. If the bid got high enough, Grady would have to back away.

Stanley never calculated ahead of time; he just followed whatever his gut told him to do. He’d been in this business long enough to know when to stop and when to keep pushing forward, knocking everybody’s bids off the table. He sang a few lines under his breath: “You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, Know when to fold ‘em, Know when to walk away and know when to run…” A few chuckled at the reference; the younger ones’ blank faces revealed they had been born too late to appreciate the song.

Yes, Stanley thought with satisfaction, if I want a locker badly enough, I can overbid. These idiots can’t afford me.

His instincts usually panned out, and as a result, he’d built himself quite a nest egg already. Although he technically could retire quite comfortably from his profits, he knew he never would because the thrill of this business was too much of a drug. Stanley loved every step: bidding at the auction, finding the hidden treasures of each haul, visiting appraisers, selling at five times the value. People will buy anything if you tell them it’s a rare antique. If he were truthful, he’d admit that the chase was much more satisfying than even watching his bank account grow. And grow it did.

As the bidding began, Stanley shot a quick side-glance at Harris, whose chest was puffed up three times more than it should have been. It must be nice having Daddy’s money to play with. He might have respected Harris just a bit if he’d at least earned his own millions.

Stanley continued to swipe away on his phone. His secret weapon today was to step in at the last moment and steal away the locker from the last bidder. It was a good strategy, and he silently patted himself on the back for the simplicity yet conniving nature of it. In fact, the others were so engrossed in beating each other that they appeared to have forgotten about old Stanley altogether—which was exactly what he wanted.

Stanley took note of Patricia the auctioneer, a blond 6-foot-tall amazon he’d had his eye on for a few months already. Today’s the day. A winning locker and a first date with the woman of my dreams. She can’t resist me.

Stanley was willing to go a few thousand over the highest bid, and he’d stake his reputation on this locker. His gut always told him the truth. Chuckling softly to himself, he watched as Harris shook his head signaling that he’d had enough. Awww, trust fund not big enough?

He waited patiently for Grady and Fiona to finish whatever it was they were doing.    

“$7500,” shouted Fiona as Patricia took off with the number, pulling it up to $8700 in seconds. Stanley was temporarily stunned by her, but then reminded himself to focus.

Grady nodded confidently, but Stanley saw the beads of sweat on his forehead. They could only mean that Grady was nearing the end of his money. Now things were getting interesting.

Fiona grinned triumphantly as her last bid of $9500 appeared to have secured her the day’s biggest treasure trove. Although the auctioneer invited other bids, no one stepped up. Stanley respected her drive, but he remembered that she was the enemy; he wouldn’t feel any remorse stealing this locker from her.

“$9500, who can give me $9600…do I hear $9600?

Silence.

“$9500 Ms. O’Connor…$9500…

Fiona half-stepped forward in anticipation—

“$11,000,” Stanley’s voice boomed across the crowd. He distinctly heard Jack’s chuckling cackle but his focus was on Fiona whose eyes threw evil daggers at him.

“I’ve got $11,000…who can give me 11 and a quarter?

Fiona shook her head defeatedly.

“Sold! Mr. Page! $11,000.”

Stanley gloated silently; there was no point in showing off. He knew he was the best, and that’s all that mattered—and the crowd knew it too. He watched as the locker was closed and padlocked again; he’d be able to get into it once he paid and signed the contracts. He didn’t care much for all the legal nonsense, but it was part of the gig. He sniffed the air—he loved the smell of money.

For now, it was time to move on to another locker. Stanley figured there was no harm in taking a look since he still had a few thousand to play with for the day.

Yes, things were looking good for old Stan—

“Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

Stanley awoke with a snort, reached out and slammed on the snooze button. Opening one eye, he checked the time, then closed the eye again. He considered his schedule for the day. The auction was in 2 hours. His little antique junk store wasn’t going to yield any big sales if he didn’t get himself moving to the auction. He had to dream at least. He wished he could be the cool suave Stanley of his dream. But he was pretty sure he’d be more like Ina.

Opening both eyes, he sat up and switched off the alarm. There was no point in trying to get back to sleep; he had to mentally prepare anyway. Swinging his legs off the bed, Stanley sat looking at the barren room he’d called home for the better part of 5 years. After the divorce, he’d had nowhere to go, so this little basement apartment was to be his temporary lodging until he could make one big killing and get a nice place.

He’d had it all planned out: he’d find that one locker which yielded the biggest payout, buy a huge house, and knock on Dina’s door with an expensive bottle of champagne and roses. He’d take her out in his Benz to that swanky place on the waterfront that she’d always dreamed about, and after dinner he’d propose. They’d remarry and have a couple of kids, and never have to worry about money again. It was all going to work out.

Except it didn’t. Last year Dina had married that pretentious cardiologist she’d been dating; still Stanley hadn’t completely given up until last month’s reality check when he’d run into a 6-months-pregnant Dina at the bank. Stanley couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled so radiantly. She had a nice smile; it showed off her perfect lips and tiny dimples. All he’d wanted to do was grab Dina’s hand, pull her to him, and confess that he still loved her; he’d promise to change, sell the store and get a more stable job; he’d do anything if she’d just come back to him. Instead, he’d congratulated her and left hastily, without even making his withdrawal.

Now, as he prepared for his day, he couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for himself. Here he was, a 41-year-old man living in his friends’ basement, waiting to strike it rich, but feeling more and more like a loser with each passing day. Roger and Maurice had invited him to stay 5 years ago, but Stanley was reasonably sure they hadn’t meant for him to stay that long. He paid them a modest fee for rent and helped out with household repairs to supplement, but he was getting the feeling lately that he’d overstayed. He couldn’t keep taking advantage of their generosity. No, he had to make it big and go out on his own.

Maybe today would be the day. He tried to muster up some confidence but fell short of the coolness he’d displayed in his dream. He’d watched shows like “Storage Wars” in the hopes of picking up a few ideas, but the reality of this business was nothing like the world of TV. He knew in truth that he couldn’t count on one locker making him a millionaire. He prayed for a string of good luck to get him started.

As he drove through the gate and flashed his ID to the guard, Stanley hoped fervently that Harris wouldn’t be there; he’d have a better shot without him to drive the prices up. He approached the thin crowd and greeted his fellow bidders. Today, Stanley noted, there were no newcomers.

“Scared the green ones away, huh!” he laughed nervously.

Amidst the polite chuckles of the crowd, Stanley caught sight of Ina’s eyes rolling. I hate it when she does that! So, you think I’m a loser? Well, not today. He’d recently picked a couple of winners and had come away with small profits; he had to be able to do it again. The store is barely surviving. If it weren’t for Uber, I’d have no cash at all, but I can’t keep driving at night and working auctions or the store all day. I have to win big. Stanley said a silent prayer to pick a winning locker as the auctioneer arrived to start the day. Stanley was glad it was Patricia today; he had a momentary hope that his dream would bring him luck.

Six hours later, he had lost 2 lockers, passed on another overpriced one, and was thinking of taking the $50 in his pocket to the little bar across the street. He’d wasted another day, which meant he’d need to drive extra hours to make a few more dollars. He ran his hands through his thinning hair, cursing the fates that always seemed to go against him. Just one break, that’s all I ask. Is that really too much to ask?

There were only 2 lockers left and Stanley wasn’t feeling very hopeful as the next grate rose with a long squawk. The crowd murmured in disappointment.

“Nothing exceptional here,” said Ina.

“A few gardening tools, some books, junk,” observed Grady.

“Yeah, no potential,” noted Harris.

Stanley nodded his head in agreement, intending to bow out of the bidding, when suddenly it caught his eye.

There it was, way back in the right-hand corner. He rubbed his eyes, unsure if he’d seen correctly. Had anyone else seen it? Am I imagining it? How could they miss it?

He glanced at his opponents but they all seemed engrossed in their little conversations, seemingly uninterested. Stanley couldn’t tell if this was a ploy or if they really were uninterested. How he wished he had that super hearing like the Stanley in his dreams.

Should I bid? Am I wasting my time?  The contents of the locker might be worthwhile and he could make a tidy little sum. But if he was right about what he’d seen in the back, his dreams might come true. On the other hand, if he was wrong…

Stanley adjusted his cap and tried to look bored; there was no sense in giving anything away. He decided to play it cool, like dream Stanley. Maybe he could actually learn a thing or two from him…

The bidding began at $50; apparently no one was too eager for this locker. That was a good sign.

Stanley found it surprising that Patricia couldn’t get a high price. He couldn’t believe that no one was fighting for the locker. What if I’m wrong? But what if I’m right? Maybe I should just leave it alone…

“Ok, $150 Ina, can I see $175, $175, let’s get $175 folks…”

“$300!”

Who said that?  Stanley looked around, startled to realize it was his own voice that had called out.

“$300 Stanley, wanna go $325, $325 anyone, $325 nice little locker…”

Ina shook her head. “Nope, a few flower pots and a bunch-a books ain’t worth that much to me”.

Why doesn’t anyone bid? How do they not see it?

“$300 once, $300 twice, sold to Mr. Page!”

Stanley wasn’t sure if he should feel good or not, but he definitely felt a wave of nausea as the locker was padlocked again.

He made his way to the cashier to start the paperwork; it would be a couple of days before he’d be able to survey the contents he’d purchased. He prayed repeatedly as he signed his name on each paper: he couldn’t shake the feeling he was signing his life away.

But yet…Mulling it over as he continued signing documents, Stanley was reasonably sure he remembered his Italian, which he’d rarely used since studying it in college. It was just a hunch, which is what this business was built on.

Several days later, Maurice and Roger joined Stanley to comb through his winning locker. Navigating around the other boxes, Stanley headed directly for the back right corner box.

“What’s so special about that one, Stan?” asked Maurice as he picked through a box of clothing.

“Check out the marking,” Stanley told him.

“I only see a brand name, Tesoro Books, on the box,” said Roger.

“If I’m right, this box will be the jackpot.”

“I don’t get it man,” Roger said.

“Tesoro means ‘treasure’ in Italian,” explained Stanley. “It’s not a brand name; it’s been hand-written neatly to look like a brand. But see, look closely, it’s not perfectly written. The ‘e’ and the ‘s’ slightly curve downward, and the o is written slightly above the other letters. This was hand-written. I think whoever wrote it was trying to make this look like an old box of books. I have a feeling there’s more than books in here.”

“It’s a long-shot you know,” warned Maurice.

“I know, but my gut tells me…”

Stanley was too engrossed in reaching the box to notice the alarmed look that Roger shot to his partner. Maurice just shook his head and crossed his fingers.

Patiently opening the sealed box with a box cutter and peeling back the folds, Stanley peered inside, took out several books, and caught his breath. He turned, grinning at his friends. “Come look…”

Inside the box were numerous other boxes. Stanley handed a large heavy one to Maurice, who was shocked to find it teeming with old coins. Stanley held up the top box containing a pearl necklace and a certificate of authentication.

“Jackpot. Tesoro.”