Chapter 3

Passing barren acres of sage, sand and rock reminded Jared that life’s potential was dying without care and nourishment, much like his own existence till now.  For many, having a degree would be motivating.  For Jared, the opposite was true.  Four years of classroom boredom had taken its toll on his spirit, and even though he appreciated the hardship his adoptive mother endured with years of two, sometimes three jobs to make his college possible, he nonetheless felt the time wasted.  In turn, he had spent the past eight years further convincing himself that life was something other people had.  Nothing but dead-end jobs and taking up with a myriad of girlfriends hadn’t lessened his frustration.  Everything remained the same ol’.  Even women that recognized his intelligence were unsuccessful in lighting up any kind of ambition.  Whatever it was that kept him shackled to failure; nothing seems capable of breaking him away. 

As he gripped the wheel of his rental, Jared was sure of one thing, he had newfound mixed feelings for a father he never knew.  That alone was sufficient motivation to pursue whatever this apparent game of discovery was all about.  If money or diamonds or whatever in the safety deposit boxes was supposed to make it all better, he was ready to take it and run.  Hell, he thought, only a fool would ignore what appeared to be inheritance just waiting to be picked up.

Finally, the scenery began to change.  A truck stop, then a mini-mall, and then a church.  Things were looking up.  He had just passed the “Welcome to Salmon, Idaho” sign, proudly claiming a population of one thousand.  Things were really looking up.

Mr. Bland, the Mountain Summit bank officer, was a man with a calling.  Fully five-foot-tall and two and a half feet wide, clad in his ‘70’s style polyester suit—replete with white carnation and an aura of Old Spice—he strode toward the safety deposit corner of the bank.  He seemed about to show a used car that was capable of driving itself.  “You’re going to love our new deposit area, Mr. Kurzen.  Designed it myself, with a little help from the architect.  Imported the redwood trim around the doorway.  Like it?”

“Right.  Imported redwood makes a difference.”

“California, Mr. Kurzen.  Best redwood you can find.  Theee Best!  Now, let’s see…”

The little square of a man began counting down arriving at… “Two-eighty-five, right?”

“Right again, Mr. Bland.  You’re battin’ the big ‘one zero zero zero’ you are.”

“Well, now, happy to accommodate a good customer with a large box.  We’ll just put my key in, and…” he gestured for Jared to insert his key.  “There we have it.  I too prefer the larger box, even though I’ve not filled it up yet.  Hope to someday, though.  So…”  He tried to pull the box out, but it resisted.  “Well, now, then, there.”  He tried again before Jared stuck his fingers into the handle alongside Mr. Bland’s and out it came.  It took both of them to carry the box to one of the little rooms.  “My, my.  Happy to see we could accommodate your…valuables, Mr. Kurzen.”  Beads of perspiration popped from his forehead as he turned to leave.  “Just ring the buzzer when you’re ready to replace the box.  Do you like the buzzer?”

“Buzzer?”

Mr. Bland nodded toward the wall plate.

“Oh, that buzzer.  Trimmed in redwood also.”

“Only the best,” said Mr. Bland with a broad smile as he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, nodded and closed the door.

Jared sat down and pondered a minute.  His eyes rolled back and looked up as he too had a trickle of perspiration sliding over his eyebrow onto his cheek; it was not from exertion.  Jesus, Ali Baba’s cave, he thought.  He took a deep breath, opened the box and held his gaze on the contents.

Rocks.

Not being a geologist or rock hound, they looked like ordinary stones to him.  That makes no sense.  No one would store ordinary rocks in a safety deposit box.  Here, again, was another black envelope with the wax seal.  He opened it and read:  “Rewards often come unexpected.  Please call 433-4558.  His name is Benjamin Tarsus.  He will know who you are.  Take some time and visit him.  This is the first of what I owe you.  Enjoy, my son.”

***

“Rock.  What you have here young man, is rock.  Yes, sir.”  Before making the call to Benjamin Tarsus, Jared a short drive and was facing a gaunt little man of Asian descent who spit on the freshly cut face of the rock and rubbed it.  He held it up, the light trying to find its way through the storefront window with the gold lettering, Salmon Assaying.

“Pardon me,” said Jared, “I know it’s a rock, but how much is it worth?”

“Rock.  You have rock, rock.  Worth nothing.  Good for door stop,” answered the assay clerk.

Confused, Jared turned and looked out through the window.  “You’re sure?”

“Know dumb rock when see dumb rock.  This dumb rock.”

Jared turned back and picked up the two pieces.  “How much do I owe you?”

“One dolla.”

“One dolla?”

The little Asian looked up matter-of-fact.  “One dolla.”

“Hard to go broke in this town,” said Jared.

“Pardon?”

Jared shook his head.  “Private joke.  Here you go.”  He handed him two one-dollar bills. 

“No.  One dolla.”

Jared smiled.  “No, the other a tip.  Tip.  Okay.”

The little man looked at the two bills and smiled broadly.  “Oh.  Tip.  Okay.  Nice man.  Okay.  Thank you.  Come anytime.  I best cutter in Idaho.”

“I’ll bet you are.”

***

To Jared, the darkness in Salmon seemed really dark.  At a diner, he sipped coffee and stared into the night’s reflection mirrored off the pie case.  The counter-waitress stepped up with the coffee pot.  “Top that off fer ya?”

He squinted at her nametag.  “Yeah, sure, Betty.”

“How about a piece of that pie you’re staring at?”

Jared shook his head and smiled.  “No.  No thank you.  Just watchin’ the night.”

She looked out the window behind him.  “About all there is to do around here when the sun goes down,” said the waitress.  “How long you in Salmon?”

“Depends.  That obvious, huh?”

“Out-of-towner?  Sure.  I’m the best out-of-towner spotter around.  Doin’ some business, are ya?”

“You might call it that.”

“Well, good luck.  With just a thousand of us, and probably nine hundred on welfare, not exactly Wall Street, eh?”  She let out a boisterous laugh.  “Gotta remember that one.  So…you gotta be doin’ some minin’ business, right?”

“No.  Just meeting a man.”

“Well, good luck again.  The man-ratio went to seed while my mom was still alive.  Last stat said we outnumbered men four to one.  Now, you tell me, how in hell is a woman suppose to get along with those odds?”

“Seems kinda strange.  How come so few?”

“All up in the mountains either tryin’ to hustle tourists as fishin’ or huntin’ guides, or further in, prospectin’.  Damn fools.  Ain’t been anything come outta them mountains ‘cept dumb rock for fifty year.”

Jared smiled.  “Dumb Rock?”

“Got that right.  Just plain, dumb rock.  Hey, you catch on fast.”

“Yeah, so I hear.  Say, you wouldn’t happen to know Benjamin Tarsus, would you?”

She put her coffee pot down and started wiping the counter.  “Zorba?”

“Zorba?” repeated Jared.

“Benjamin’s known as Zorba, and just as nuts as the movie character.  Everybody in town calls him that behind his back, but nobody dares say it to his face.”

“Why not?  Zorba isn’t such a bad nickname.

“It is when you know he’s crackers.  Yeah, everybody knows Ben.”

“Nice guy?”

“Nice?  Not exactly the word used around here.”

“What is the word?”

“Like I said.  Crackers.  Crazy.”

“Oh.”

“You best see him in a public place, mister.  He’s a weirdo.”

Jared took a sip of coffee and thought a moment.  “What does ‘weirdo’ mean here… I mean for you folks?”

“Scary nuts.”

Jared nodded.  “Can’t get any plainer than that.  He does strange things, is that it?”

“Mister…you just meetin’ this guy?”

“For the first time.”

“Well, you’re in for a surprise.  He know you?”

“He’s heard of me, I understand.”

She chuckled.  “This should be good.  If you decide to take my advice and meet in a public place…I’ll make sure you have a nice quiet booth here, just in case he gets an inklin’ to act up.

Jared chuckled.  “Miss…I don’t have any idea what this guy is all about, but I got a feelin’ you do. Want to fill me in?”

“Gotta a few minutes?”

Jared looked at his watch.  “About twenty before I meet up with him.”

She opened the pie case and slid out a slice of banana cream.  “You’re gonna need all the energy you can muster.”  She passed him a fork as she said, “Old Ben came here, according to my mom, around ’78…’79….

***

A gunshot shattered the tranquil mood of Puccini arias.  The giant of a bearded man known as Zorba, dressed in paint and plaster-splattered jeans, and an equally messed up blue sweatshirt, popped the clip from his .45, and pocketed it.  Shoving the weapon in its holster, he walked to the other end of the barn-studio, lifted his bota from a support pillar, took a slow swallow and strung it over his shoulder.  Before examining the pieces of shattered antique mirror lying in a heap in front of his padded shooting area, he slipped on some worn leather gloves.  Fingering the pieces with a sense of satisfaction, he mumbled, “Yes,” and started whistling along with the opera music. 

Excited, he climbed atop the scaffolding and looked down at the floor where a portion of the thirty by twenty-foot plywood framed canvas had parts layered with pieces of mirror.  Like a schoolboy, he made faces that reflected strange distorted images on the carefully designed reflective surfaces.  He gave out with a Zorba-like laugh, lifted the bota and squeezed himself another mouthful of red wine.  Laughing some more, he sighed with exhaustive relief.  Surrounding the canvas were five-gallon cans of various colored plaster used to lay down an adhesive for the mirror pieces.  Surrounding the cans were the walls of the huge barn, all adorned with various canvases of colored plaster and mirror abstractions, rendering the enclosure more of a nightmare funhouse, than an art studio.

He turned as the shaking of a cowbell at the front door announced his visitor had arrived. He checked his watch.  “Right on time.  Onerous sign.”  He let out with a boisterous laugh and walked to the wall, pressed a switch and curtains of black duvetyn rolled down from the ceiling tracks to conceal the artwork along the three walls.  On his way to the door, he turned the music down a bit, and slid a dimmer switch, which splayed several beams of ceiling spotlights on the black curtains.  He turned to glance back at the cavernous barn now encased with black.  Satisfied, he swung the door open with a grand gesture.  “Mr. Kurzen.  Welcome to Benjamin’s Abyss.”, Greek accent and all.

Jared half smiled as he stepped into the concert hall-like surrounding with Pavarotti’s recording of Che gelida manina filling the air.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Ben bellowed, and then closed the door with more strident laughter.