An excerpt from something, I don't know what yet...
Marty always lived the life I wanted and the life the put things into perspective for me. Twelve years my senior and full of sageness. Sage-osity? Sage-itude? He never called me young and he never underestimated me. Qualities that in other friends were sorely lacking. And he was the king of the quotes. Marty could say those things that stuck with me no matter what. Things like, “Of course he could break your heart, but would you really want to be with someone who didn’t have the potential to break your heart?” Or, “It isn’t enough to work anymore; too many people’s hearts are in the right place. At times you need luck. Other times you have to bite, kick, and scream.”
He had money for sure, but it had come at price. The loss of his father; one of the few things we shared in common.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he had told me, “I was born into money. I had a trust fund comfortably maturing by the time I was four. Even if I failed out of high school and turned to heroin, I would always have a place to live. But even the haves can find a way to be a have-not.
“After my dad died, my mother having passed years before that, my siblings and I were in a fit of panic as to what to do with his estate. Yet, my father, always the jokester, had something up his sleeve; even after death. We met with his executor a week after he had died to discuss his will and Lee, Beth and I were presented with probably the biggest choice we would ever have to make in our life.”
I stared at him like a toddler at story time. I could only imagine that this story, like all of his stories, would end in something wondrous.
“Before us lay three envelopes. They were unmarked and fairly nondescript. But we could feel them pulsing with possibility. The executor said to us, ‘Each of you gets one of these envelopes. I can tell you what is inside each of them, but I cannot tell which one you are choosing.’ We all sputtered and stared with wide-eyed disbelief. We had assumed that my father’s assets and his equity would be split in three equal chunks for us. But that would be too easy Martin Sr.
“The executor said, ‘In one of these envelopes lies the rights and ownership to you father’s company. All of the assets it has thus far accrued are yours. The building is yours. By opening that envelope you will become the President and CEO of Martindale Incorporated. Martin Charles Martindale has stated implicitly that, ‘The owner of my company my take the firm in any direction he or she chooses, but may only sell the company after tens years of ownership and management. No mergers may be made in this ten year stretch. If after ten years the owner still wishes not to be a part of the company they may do with it as they please.’ He continued without taking a breath.
“At this point our jaws were scraping the floor. ‘The second envelope contains the deeds to all of Mr. Martindale’s properties. Including all houses, vehicles, subsidiary properties, undeveloped properties, and any of the tangible items associated with them. Along with all of the property, the opener of this envelope will be willed all equity available in any of Mr. Martindale’s savings accounts, checking accounts, stocks, bonds, CDs, the remaining amount in his 401k and any remaining equity in the late Mrs. Martindale’s accounts. The owner of said equity may choose to spend this equity in any way he or she sees fit after and only after every remaining member of the Martindale immediate family is given one gift valuing no less than one million dollars and no more that five million. The remaining equity belongs to the opener of said envelope.
“Now my father’s company was a huge company worth way over fifty million dollars. My father’s residual money, which had recently tripled after his two major subsidiary companies were bought out, ranged in the area of forty million to eighty million dollars.”
“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” I said, “I can’t even imagine what was in the third envelope.”
“Ah…that was the kicker. The executor continued, ‘In the third envelop lies two items. The first item is Mr. Martindale’s most recent personal journal. The second item are two keys. One key goes to a safe deposit vault at the first national bank. The second key opens one of the items inside the deposit vault. The opener of the third envelope is entitled to anything in the vault, without stipulation, and may keep and or sell any of those items as they see fit. The only stipulation attached to this envelope is that the owner of the aforementioned journal may not allow anyone else to read it or share any of the information that the journal contains. Mr. Martindale left a person note with this saying, ‘As there is no way to ensure that these rules must be kept, I can only ask that my children respect this request as my final death wish.’ Now, it is also stated that you shall not choose an envelope today. You are given one week from now before the choosing will take place. We all left his office, stone-faced and silent. We went to dinner together, which ended in Beth and I getting into a screaming match with Lee, who felt that this was ridiculous and we could contest it, if we want. We weren’t angry with our youngest sibling. We had pity more than anything. Lee, who always had bouts of bad luck was sure that he was going to get ‘shafted’ as he called it. He didn’t see the third envelope as any great prize. But, to my thinking, it was the only envelope Beth and I wanted. Both of our trusts had kicked in long ago and both of us were running successful businesses of our own. Beth was married with one child and two dogs, I had Roger and one dog, but Lee, poor Lee’s trust hadn’t kicked in yet (Because you see, my father delayed his from opening because he felt Lee wouldn’t be ready for it like Beth and I were when we turned 24. Lee had to wait until he was twenty-eight; just two years shy.), he had failed out of college, his long-time girlfriend dumped after finding him in bed with a young man named Louis, and he no longer had a job. In truth, we wanted dad’s money to go to Louis. But neither Beth or I wanted the business. That was daddy’s game. And he got us. That night passed like no other I have ever lived in my life. My dreams full to the brim with pulsating envelopes and keys fitting into locks that wouldn’t open.”
Marty took a long pause as if he was at a loss for words. But I knew that was not the case. It was never the case. He was a masterful story teller and he wanted his final image to linger just a second longer before he continued. I remained silent.
“You are probably wondering why Beth and I wanted the third envelope most of all, aren’t you?”
I could only nod.
“You see, our father was someone who we knew by name and by what jacket he was wearing on any given day. You seem confused, yes? You see if he left the house wearing a dark suit jacket then it was time for him to go off to Martindale Incorporated. If he was a light suit jacket it was time for him to rub elbows at some restaurant and make more contacts. If he wore something with a zipper, it was casual time; a boat trip, golfing, or a rock concert. Other than that we knew our Dad’s sense of humor. We knew he loved us, we knew he could be angry and we knew he had food allergies. That was all. Our mother, who slowly went crazy over the years (another thing you and I have in common), never let on that she knew anymore either. Yet she never seemed fazed by that fact. In some way, by being the owner to that key Beth and I felt that maybe just maybe we could finally know our father.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Well, a week passed and we opened our envelopes in front of the executor. Beth got the business, Lee got the money and property, and I got the key. Beth did well with the business and she ended up very happy. Twelve years have passed since then and she is still in charge. Lee finally got back up on his feet. Finished college, bought everyone a new car and house, and is now living happily with boyfriend Allen and girlfriend Telly (no dogs). And as for me…I can finally say I love my father.”
I wanted to ask him what was in the vault, because truly, it was the most exciting prospect.
“I can tell you this,” he said without waiting for me to ask, “Inside the vault there were about ten shelves all fully of spiral bound notebooks and journals. Painting my father had done himself and half-ass attempts at sculptures. There were old trophies he had won as a child and photo-albums starting from when he was a baby until a week before he died. There was some jewelry, which I had no use for, and got me a pretty penny at that. There were videos of us in school plays and of him on vacation. And there was a small vault-safe tucked away into the corner.”
“The other key!” I blurted out impatiently.
“Yes, the other key. Inside that vault was a fairly small box with a simple latch keeping it closed. On top of the box was a note, ‘Martin, keep these safe’ it said.”
“But…” I interjected.
“Inside the box,” Marty’s voice rose above mine, “were several teeth, a swirling of ashes, a small lock of hair and what looked to be a piece of human heart, dried and petrified and preserved. Etched inside the lid of the keepsake box were the words: My heart and Soul.”
There was a long pause and Marty wiped a single tear from off of his cheek. We sat in silence for what seemed like hours. I shook slightly, half in awe and half in disgust.
“When we were in that executor’s office,” Marty finally broke the silence, “We had to choose which envelope we wanted, sign a release form, and then the executor would open it. Pulling out the contents, notarizing them and copying them for file purposes. Then he would hand them to us. All part of my father’s plan. Or so his final journal told me. I was always to get the vault and Beth the business and Lee the money. It was the only way, to my father’s thinking, that we could all really find out who he was. Lee had to learn to finally take care of himself and others. After blowing a large portion of the money he was given he became bored. Went back to school, started a business, on a loan at that, and worked every day. He learned where my father got his determination and how he had gotten to be where he was before he died. Beth, by running the business, finally learned how my father could be so stern and coldhearted and times and so lenient and forgiving at others. She learned why mother always stood beside him, as she was now rarely home and leaving much to her husband. She also learned, for the first time, to ask for help and admit that she did not know all of the answers. And me, I got the rest. I got his hopes, his dreams, his vulnerabilities (his journals), and I got the part of my father that he rarely let anyone see- himself. That part he wished he would have shared before. His mistake, the same mistake he had felt I was making. I had spent a large portion of my life feeling like he was an android or something inhuman. Now I knew. And I loved him. After the first time I visited the vault, of which there were several trips and still many to go, that night I went home and crawled into bed with Roger and asked him simply, ‘Will you let me be weak, just for tonight?’”
I felt two tears falling down my cheek but made no attempt to stop them. “But…but I thought you weren’t supposed to tell anyone what was in the journal. I thought it was his wish?”
“I’m not,” he responded.
“So why are you telling me?”
“Don’t you see, my father was completely himself, even till death. Never sharing anything about himself that would make people see him as vulnerable. In truth he dared me not to tell anyone, because he knew I would. Beth and Lee don’t need to know, they have made their peace. And now I have made mine.”
He had money for sure, but it had come at price. The loss of his father; one of the few things we shared in common.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he had told me, “I was born into money. I had a trust fund comfortably maturing by the time I was four. Even if I failed out of high school and turned to heroin, I would always have a place to live. But even the haves can find a way to be a have-not.
“After my dad died, my mother having passed years before that, my siblings and I were in a fit of panic as to what to do with his estate. Yet, my father, always the jokester, had something up his sleeve; even after death. We met with his executor a week after he had died to discuss his will and Lee, Beth and I were presented with probably the biggest choice we would ever have to make in our life.”
I stared at him like a toddler at story time. I could only imagine that this story, like all of his stories, would end in something wondrous.
“Before us lay three envelopes. They were unmarked and fairly nondescript. But we could feel them pulsing with possibility. The executor said to us, ‘Each of you gets one of these envelopes. I can tell you what is inside each of them, but I cannot tell which one you are choosing.’ We all sputtered and stared with wide-eyed disbelief. We had assumed that my father’s assets and his equity would be split in three equal chunks for us. But that would be too easy Martin Sr.
“The executor said, ‘In one of these envelopes lies the rights and ownership to you father’s company. All of the assets it has thus far accrued are yours. The building is yours. By opening that envelope you will become the President and CEO of Martindale Incorporated. Martin Charles Martindale has stated implicitly that, ‘The owner of my company my take the firm in any direction he or she chooses, but may only sell the company after tens years of ownership and management. No mergers may be made in this ten year stretch. If after ten years the owner still wishes not to be a part of the company they may do with it as they please.’ He continued without taking a breath.
“At this point our jaws were scraping the floor. ‘The second envelope contains the deeds to all of Mr. Martindale’s properties. Including all houses, vehicles, subsidiary properties, undeveloped properties, and any of the tangible items associated with them. Along with all of the property, the opener of this envelope will be willed all equity available in any of Mr. Martindale’s savings accounts, checking accounts, stocks, bonds, CDs, the remaining amount in his 401k and any remaining equity in the late Mrs. Martindale’s accounts. The owner of said equity may choose to spend this equity in any way he or she sees fit after and only after every remaining member of the Martindale immediate family is given one gift valuing no less than one million dollars and no more that five million. The remaining equity belongs to the opener of said envelope.
“Now my father’s company was a huge company worth way over fifty million dollars. My father’s residual money, which had recently tripled after his two major subsidiary companies were bought out, ranged in the area of forty million to eighty million dollars.”
“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” I said, “I can’t even imagine what was in the third envelope.”
“Ah…that was the kicker. The executor continued, ‘In the third envelop lies two items. The first item is Mr. Martindale’s most recent personal journal. The second item are two keys. One key goes to a safe deposit vault at the first national bank. The second key opens one of the items inside the deposit vault. The opener of the third envelope is entitled to anything in the vault, without stipulation, and may keep and or sell any of those items as they see fit. The only stipulation attached to this envelope is that the owner of the aforementioned journal may not allow anyone else to read it or share any of the information that the journal contains. Mr. Martindale left a person note with this saying, ‘As there is no way to ensure that these rules must be kept, I can only ask that my children respect this request as my final death wish.’ Now, it is also stated that you shall not choose an envelope today. You are given one week from now before the choosing will take place. We all left his office, stone-faced and silent. We went to dinner together, which ended in Beth and I getting into a screaming match with Lee, who felt that this was ridiculous and we could contest it, if we want. We weren’t angry with our youngest sibling. We had pity more than anything. Lee, who always had bouts of bad luck was sure that he was going to get ‘shafted’ as he called it. He didn’t see the third envelope as any great prize. But, to my thinking, it was the only envelope Beth and I wanted. Both of our trusts had kicked in long ago and both of us were running successful businesses of our own. Beth was married with one child and two dogs, I had Roger and one dog, but Lee, poor Lee’s trust hadn’t kicked in yet (Because you see, my father delayed his from opening because he felt Lee wouldn’t be ready for it like Beth and I were when we turned 24. Lee had to wait until he was twenty-eight; just two years shy.), he had failed out of college, his long-time girlfriend dumped after finding him in bed with a young man named Louis, and he no longer had a job. In truth, we wanted dad’s money to go to Louis. But neither Beth or I wanted the business. That was daddy’s game. And he got us. That night passed like no other I have ever lived in my life. My dreams full to the brim with pulsating envelopes and keys fitting into locks that wouldn’t open.”
Marty took a long pause as if he was at a loss for words. But I knew that was not the case. It was never the case. He was a masterful story teller and he wanted his final image to linger just a second longer before he continued. I remained silent.
“You are probably wondering why Beth and I wanted the third envelope most of all, aren’t you?”
I could only nod.
“You see, our father was someone who we knew by name and by what jacket he was wearing on any given day. You seem confused, yes? You see if he left the house wearing a dark suit jacket then it was time for him to go off to Martindale Incorporated. If he was a light suit jacket it was time for him to rub elbows at some restaurant and make more contacts. If he wore something with a zipper, it was casual time; a boat trip, golfing, or a rock concert. Other than that we knew our Dad’s sense of humor. We knew he loved us, we knew he could be angry and we knew he had food allergies. That was all. Our mother, who slowly went crazy over the years (another thing you and I have in common), never let on that she knew anymore either. Yet she never seemed fazed by that fact. In some way, by being the owner to that key Beth and I felt that maybe just maybe we could finally know our father.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Well, a week passed and we opened our envelopes in front of the executor. Beth got the business, Lee got the money and property, and I got the key. Beth did well with the business and she ended up very happy. Twelve years have passed since then and she is still in charge. Lee finally got back up on his feet. Finished college, bought everyone a new car and house, and is now living happily with boyfriend Allen and girlfriend Telly (no dogs). And as for me…I can finally say I love my father.”
I wanted to ask him what was in the vault, because truly, it was the most exciting prospect.
“I can tell you this,” he said without waiting for me to ask, “Inside the vault there were about ten shelves all fully of spiral bound notebooks and journals. Painting my father had done himself and half-ass attempts at sculptures. There were old trophies he had won as a child and photo-albums starting from when he was a baby until a week before he died. There was some jewelry, which I had no use for, and got me a pretty penny at that. There were videos of us in school plays and of him on vacation. And there was a small vault-safe tucked away into the corner.”
“The other key!” I blurted out impatiently.
“Yes, the other key. Inside that vault was a fairly small box with a simple latch keeping it closed. On top of the box was a note, ‘Martin, keep these safe’ it said.”
“But…” I interjected.
“Inside the box,” Marty’s voice rose above mine, “were several teeth, a swirling of ashes, a small lock of hair and what looked to be a piece of human heart, dried and petrified and preserved. Etched inside the lid of the keepsake box were the words: My heart and Soul.”
There was a long pause and Marty wiped a single tear from off of his cheek. We sat in silence for what seemed like hours. I shook slightly, half in awe and half in disgust.
“When we were in that executor’s office,” Marty finally broke the silence, “We had to choose which envelope we wanted, sign a release form, and then the executor would open it. Pulling out the contents, notarizing them and copying them for file purposes. Then he would hand them to us. All part of my father’s plan. Or so his final journal told me. I was always to get the vault and Beth the business and Lee the money. It was the only way, to my father’s thinking, that we could all really find out who he was. Lee had to learn to finally take care of himself and others. After blowing a large portion of the money he was given he became bored. Went back to school, started a business, on a loan at that, and worked every day. He learned where my father got his determination and how he had gotten to be where he was before he died. Beth, by running the business, finally learned how my father could be so stern and coldhearted and times and so lenient and forgiving at others. She learned why mother always stood beside him, as she was now rarely home and leaving much to her husband. She also learned, for the first time, to ask for help and admit that she did not know all of the answers. And me, I got the rest. I got his hopes, his dreams, his vulnerabilities (his journals), and I got the part of my father that he rarely let anyone see- himself. That part he wished he would have shared before. His mistake, the same mistake he had felt I was making. I had spent a large portion of my life feeling like he was an android or something inhuman. Now I knew. And I loved him. After the first time I visited the vault, of which there were several trips and still many to go, that night I went home and crawled into bed with Roger and asked him simply, ‘Will you let me be weak, just for tonight?’”
I felt two tears falling down my cheek but made no attempt to stop them. “But…but I thought you weren’t supposed to tell anyone what was in the journal. I thought it was his wish?”
“I’m not,” he responded.
“So why are you telling me?”
“Don’t you see, my father was completely himself, even till death. Never sharing anything about himself that would make people see him as vulnerable. In truth he dared me not to tell anyone, because he knew I would. Beth and Lee don’t need to know, they have made their peace. And now I have made mine.”
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