Letters From My Time-Traveling Uncle

by Roman Cardinal

  Once the usual pleasantries were exchanged it was clear that he was not making a social call. He quickly explained that his friend was in town from Prague and had been looking forward to meeting my father and purchasing several items at the shoppe. In fact, since he did not speak English he actually wandered off and was browsing, sometimes with his glasses on, sometimes with them off, as your father and I conversed with Mr. Vetrim. Periodically we would hear the strange man gasp from a dark corner, other times he would mumble at the rate of galloping horses. At least one time I saw his hands fly in the air as if he just called BINGO!

  Unaware of our grief and the subject of the conversation we were having with Mr. Vetrim, his friend was having the time of his life. After 15 minutes he returned to us and began to point to several items hanging on the wall, and one in a glass case, and another on a bookshelf, and finally a large brown case that was on the floor. Mr. Vetrim nodded knowingly and turned to us.

  “He is leaving town tomorrow. He would like to know if you would ship the items to his address in Prague,” Mr. Vetrim told us.

  Your father and I looked at each other. To fill the silence, Mr. Vetrim asked if we were going to run the store from then on. Once again my brother and I looked at each other. That idea had not even occurred to us. He said he understood what we were going through and he would take his friend and leave, since we were clearly busy. He apologized and said something to his friend and put his hand on his shoulder and motioned that they should go. At that instant Mr. Vetrim’s friend sunk his left hand deep into his pocket and retrieved a wad of cash the size of two fists. He quickly counted out thousand dollar bills and held out 7 of them for your dad or I to take.

  I looked up at Mr. Vetrim who seemed to be embarrassed. He said something to his friend and once again turned him to go. He apologized to us and said he was sorry to hear about out father, that he was a good friend, and that he would like to see us again, perhaps for coffee, away from the store, to share memories about our father.

  Mr. Vetrim’s friend then took my hand and put the $7,000 in it. He pulled his hand away quickly and handed me his business card. He then turned to Mr. Vetrim and spoke for a moment. Once done Mr. Vetrim turned to your dad and I and said that his friend would really like those items and he will send him a check for another $7,000 when the items arrive.

  $14,000. I turned and looked at the items he wanted. I just didn’t get it. I looked at your father who was already nodding to Mr. Vetrim. We told him that the items would be shipped in the morning.

  The man must have understood because he smiled wide and quickly glanced at the items he had purchased. He had joy written all over his face, but for a split second I saw something more. I can’t explain. There was something in his eyes. Something in the way he slightly moved his lips up, something in the way his cheeks moved when he let out a slight laugh, that told me he was lost in a memory. There was something about the items he bought. They were worth $14,000 for him. Perhaps even worth more. For that price he was able to travel back in time and relive a moment of pure happiness. That is what your grandfather saw. That is what I saw. That is why we opened the door in the morning and turned the lights on and waited for people to come in.

  Uncle Reese.

  Who Knows Where The Time Goes? Please read the next letter. It is hidden in this room. Here is another clue that I am sure you can easily solve. Sprinkle a little gold dust and we shall rendezvous somewhere sandy.

  * * *

  Val,

  After Mr. Vetrim and his friend left, your father and I went out to lunch.

  “There is money to be made in this business,” your father told me. He seemed sure of it. He was running the numbers through his head. He then told me that the store had ‘too much junk’ and that stuff had to go. He said we would just concentrate on the good stuff, the big stuff, the important stuff; the stuff people would whip out thousands of dollars for! Sure, we didn’t know too much about the business, but we had a foundation, we had a reputation, we had our wits and our interest, and even some connections! Yes! That is what we’d do! Your father had it all mapped out. He was excited. I never saw such excitement from him. Dollar signs beamed from his eyes.

  That’s when I chimed in. His suggestions were fine. Sounded jake. I was all for it. But as a separate entity. If he wanted to focus on the high-ticket items and deal with the people that he wanted to deal with, then it was fine with me to ignite the engines. But the Rockabye Shoppe mattered, too. Our father put a lot of time and effort (and yes, love!) into acquiring the inventory he did. He liked selling the $5 and $20 items. I suggested that we continue in the tradition that our father had started, but we could clean the place up and display the high-end items better, and appeal to collectors.

  Your father shook his head. He had no interest in the store. We did not argue about it. We grew up together. We understood each other. We made a deal. We’d keep the Rockabye Shoppe. I fit right in with the crowd who wanted to talk and look at vintage albums, books, items, and instruments. I fit in with the people with stories to share. I liked to hear people’s interesting stories. While growing up I always wished I had interesting stories to share.

  Your father then asked me for the $7,000 and said he would open a bank account for us to use to start building an inventory of quality, vintage items. He the got agitated and said we may have sold the items for too little.

  “A deal is a deal,” I said.

  “But maybe someone else would have paid $15,000. Maybe $20,000. Maybe $50,000!” Your father’s voice was rising in higher measures. Then he asked, “What were those items anyway? Did we get scammed? Was that guy going to go back to Prague and sell the items for $100,000 to some wealthy industrialist? Were we scammed?” Your father demanded to know. He was getting hot under the collar.

  I tried to reassure him when I said, “I am sure everything was on the up and up.” Mr. Vetrim would not let someone take advantage of us.”

  Your father’s eyes lit up. “Maybe Mr. Vetrim helped dupe us. Maybe he was part of the con job. They work that way, don’t you know. They work that way. Mr. Vetrim was there to gain our confidence. We knew him. We trusted him.”

  “I am sure it is fine,” I said, slightly exasperated.

  Your father shook his head back and forth. “Don’t you think it is rather suspicious that Mr. Vetrim showed up when he did? After all, if he and dad were such good friends, how come he didn’t know about his death? It was one month ago! What kind of friendship did they have if he didn’t even know?”

  Your father’s eyes were burning. He looked directly at me and said, “I bet those guys are going to sell those items in Prague and split the profits! They are laughing at us right now!”

  I leaned back. I did not believe a word of it. Your father was going off the deep end. You know how he can be sometimes. I told him to relax. I reminded him of the ledger behind the counter that our father kept. It listed the inventory, along with how much he paid for the items, and how much to sell items for.

  We did not finish our lunch. Your father was in too much of a huff. He marched back to the store. He went straight to the ledger. It took a few moments to find the items. We added up the amounts. Your father had the ability to add it up in his head. I used a pencil and paper and them double-checked with a calculator. The deal was sealed. The man knew what he was buying. He knew what it was all worth. He paid the fair market price, along with an extra $500 to cover shipping and handling. It was on the level.

  Your father smacked his hand down on the ledger after he closed it and said, “That Mr. Vetrim is a good guys. He’ll really help get us some high bidders. It’s great that we know him.”

  And that is how the Rockabye Auctions began. Your father runs it. I run the store – the Rockabye Shoppe. Business has been great.

  Please find the next letter. You are such an Angel. I know that you have that magic touch.

  - Uncle Reese

  * * *

  -
--------- Forwarded message ----------


  From: Val 


  Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 5:25 PM


  Subject: Val


  To: Roman

  Please call me when you get a chance.

  V

  Junior Specialist, Private Sales

  Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.

  SENT FROM MY PHONE

  * * *

  Val,

  Five years ago Mr. Vetrim invited your father and me to dinner in New York City. He asked us to come alone. No girlfriends. No wives. No kids. No one.

  Considering how much he helped us, we were happy to meet with him at the time and place of his choosing. We flew to New York and checked into our hotel. We took showers, got dressed up, and walked to the restaurant where he told us to meet him at. Once we were ready to go in a man appeared from the shadows and called out our names. He said Mr. Vetrim has changed venues. The man said he would take us there. He motioned to a limousine and opened the door. We got in and were driven through Central Park and then the limousine stopped in front of the Dakota on the Upper West Side. We tried our best to not look astounded. We walked past a security guard and through the vestibule. There was a gate ahead of us. We looked to the right and we saw some steps leading up to a lit room. It was a lobby and check-in point for guests. We entered and told him who we were and that we were there to see Mr. Vetrim. The security guard picked up the phone and made a brief call and then he gave us directions to the apartment. He said to go back down the steps, and to go through the gate, turn right, and enter the chamber where the elevator was.

  We followed his directions.

  Once we were out of the elevator we looked at the doors and one suddenly opened. There stood Mr. Vetrim. He was happy to see us. He extended his hand and shook vigorously. He motioned for us to enter. We did. I have been in my share of large apartments and homes, but there really is nothing quite like the Dakota apartments. No wonder it was chosen to be the residence of such luminaries as the Steinways, the Burnsteins, Boris Karloff, Gilda Radner, Lauren Bacall, Albert Maysles, Judy Holiday, Judy Garland, Ruth Ford, Zero Mostel, and so many other “interesting” people. Clearly Mr. Vetrim was as wealthy as we thought he was. I looked for signs of his family, such as children’s toys, photographs, a hairbrush, anything, but found none in my initial glances. What did catch me was the incredible décor. I knew quite a bit about the Dakota since I published two books on the subject.

  Mr. Vetrim explained that he had his entire apartment renovated back to the way it looked in 1885. With the exception of some of the modern electrical amenities in the kitchen and bathroom, and so on. It was truly astounding to be there. With the exception of the clothes we wore, it truly felt as if we had travelled back through time.

  The rooms were large. The apartment was enormous. The ceilings were high enough to fly a kit. Beautiful brass door handles. Original hard wood floors and crown molding. Large windows. It was too dark to take in a view of Central Park but I could see lights in the apartment buildings on 5th Avenue. It was really breathtaking.

  Dinner was served almost immediately. Mr. Vetrim was clearly conscious that I was vegan and my brother was vegetarian and he had taken that into account when dinner was prepared. He then surprised us when he said that he himself would never eat anything that caused the harm to any animal. He had too much respect for life and freedom. During dinner we spoke about your grandfather. Mr. Vetrim had many wonderful stories that made us laugh. He and your grandfather were clearly better friends than my brother and I thought they were. It was surprising that we had not seen him more often when we were growing up. The mood was rather chipper until your father mentioned how upset he was that our father’s body was never found, and the constant efforts that were made to find him, and the unreasonable amount of work we had to go through in order to declare him deceased. He did not mean to bring the mood down. It was a natural part of the conversation, and it was not dwelled upon, as the conversation moved on.

  Following dinner, Mr. Vetrim led us into another room where we were served hot tea. He began to inquire about how the Shoppe and Auctions were doing. I started to tell him about some of the stories I had heard recently from customers. One had recently regaled me with her tale of being in the audience at the Ed Sullivan Theater when The Beatles first appeared. She told me she screamed so loud that she was hoarse for days after. I then told him about the man who kept coming in to look at the old rhythm and blues albums I stocked, and the poor fellow never seemed to have the money to buy any. He was there at closing one night and he told me that he used to play in honky-tonks in the 1940’s. He pulled out a harmonica from his shirt pocket and began to play. It could bring tears to anyone’s eyes. He said he never made the money he had hoped he would make, but he sure did have priceless memories. The next day he came in with a friend who asked if he could see one of the guitars. I took it down and handed it to him and he started to strum it. Then his friend’s harmonica came out. The two men began to play. Some people passed by and came in and watched and listened near the front door. When the men stopped playing the people at the door applauded and smiled. I looked at the two men. For a split second I could see something in their eyes. They remembered when they were younger. The felt like they were younger. Honestly, for that brief period of time, they looked like they were 25 years old again.

  Wow.

  Then your father spoke about the recent Auctions. He started running off so many numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers, that I thought he was reading phone number digits from a phone book. Mr. Vetrim looked at him with a blank expression. Where were the stories? Where was the joy? Where was the interest? Sure, the money was coming in. There was no denying that. Sometimes we were astounded what people paid for what we sold. But where was the pleasure in your father’s eyes? There was none. He could have sold refrigerators or cucumbers or a 75-year-old custom-designed instrument. It did not matter as long as the check cleared.

  Mr. Vetrim stood up and left the room. We heard him say goodnight to the man and woman who had served us dinner. We heard a door shut. Mr. Vetrim returned but remained standing. He motioned for us to follow him. He led us down a dark corridor. He took out a small laser light and opened a box. He pressed some buttons and the door unlocked. We went through and Mr. Vetrim shut the door firmly behind us. We walked further down the corridor. I must have stepped over a vent because I felt a quick gust of cold air rush up my legs and up through my hair. It was a quick chill. Once again he took out his light, opened a box, pressed some numbers, and opened another door. We went through. The room was pitch black and cold. I was sure we entered a refrigerated room. Perhaps a place to store wine, I thought to myself. I felt the hair on my arm stand up, and the hair on my head tingled. It felt like a charge of static electricity ran through me.

  A moment later the lights went on above us. It was blinding. The room was large. There was a door on the other side. Beside it was a box. Clearly there was a keyboard in there to open the door since there was no knob. I turned and looked at the door from which we entered. No knob. It seemed to me that Mr. Vetrim may have purchased the apartment next door and converted it for uses that were not part of his daily living spaces. This was a secure location. There were no windows.

  Honestly, I did not feel as if I was in the Dakota anymore. Where we even in New York anymore? The ceiling, the floor, the walls, everything was white except the glass shelves on the wall and the cases around us. We were surrounded by Mr. Vetrim’s rare collection of antiques memorabilia, most of which was associated with music. I recognized some of the guitars and other instruments we had sold him. Everything looked immaculate.

  Speechless. I was speechless.

  Mr. Vetrim walked across the room from us, admiring a particular guitar. Your father approached me and motioned to a clarinet. He said, “I remember what he bought that for. It’s been awhile. I know someone who
will pay four times that. Do you think Mr. Vetrim would sell it?” I gave your father a hard stare. I shook my head and said, “Please don’t bring that up now.”

  I walked up beside Mr. Vetrim and I thought I saw him wipe a tear from his cheek. Without turning to me he said, “I did not buy this from you. I did not buy this from your father.”

  Your father approached and said, “It is beautiful. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

  Mr. Vetrim shook his head in agreement. He was lost in his reveries.

  “That is really something,” I said.

  Silence pervaded the air for a long time. Mr. Vetrim then reached out his hand to touch it but then stopped his fingers when they were about ¼ of an inch a way and he said, “It is mine. It has always been mine.”

  I felt my hair stand up again. More static electricity. A chill ran through my body, like ice

  water was running through my veins.

  Mr. Vetrim quickly collected himself and looked at your father and I and asked, “If you could go back and time, to when that guitar was new. Right now. If you could go back and hear it played in person, would you do it?”

  My eyes lit up. I could feel the blood quicken its pace as it rushed to my heart. I smiled slightly. I would have smiled but I tried to contain myself because he looked serious. Dead serious. He looked right at me to gauge my response.