Locker {2}

Jack Cooper was among the group of amateurs. Jack did not possess either a hope or a dream so much as a divorce settlement that had left him in dire financial straits. His ex-wife had their three kids and, as his friend, Jack, had so artfully pointed out recently, his “balls in a handbag.”

He was there to observe. He’d told himself that several times on the drive over. He’d never been to a live auction before but had watched one on television. He thought that equipped him with enough of a foundation to at least dip a toe in and see what the experience was like.

The first locker was bid so quickly, Jack had missed the entire thing until he recognized one word, “Sold,” and then realized it was over. He saw a couple exchange smiles and a fist-bump, so assumed they were the victors. He focused his mind on the next one and, this time, didn’t take his eyes off the auctioneer.

“And now we come to Locker 235. Let’s begin the bidding at 10 again. Do I hear . . .”

Jack stared at the ticket in his hand. It had 235 printed on it, the number of the locker he had, apparently, bid on and won, though he had no idea how. What he was aware of, though, was the realization he was on the hook for who-knew-what. When a young lady handed him the ticket and told him where he could go to pay for what was now his property in Locker 235, he’d been too embarrassed to make a scene. He could kick himself.

Deciding he’d over-spent his time at the auction, Jack slipped away from the crowd. 

When he got to the cashier’s window, he passed his ticket to the man behind the glass.

“That’ll be 850.”

“Dollars?” Jack prayed he’d misheard.

“No, Skippy, seashells. Yes, dollars.”

“Oh, well . . .”

He began to sweat and consider his mo options. He wanted to run but, instead, slid the man his credit card with a hand that noticeably shook. He was going to hear it from both his ex-wife and his lawyer.

Locker 235 was his. Please, let there be gold in there. 

“Charlotte, sweetheart, are you comfortable? Is there anything I can get for you? Why don’t you get some rest and I’ll be back shortly. No, no, I won’t be long. I’ll pick up some of those cherries at the market you like so much.”

Benjamin made his way to the front and, just as he was about to reach for the handle, it sprang open before his eyes.  He squinted as the light hit him and he stepped back.

“Who the hell are you?” Jack also took a step back.   

“I might ask you the same question.”

“I asked you first.” Jack held up his key. “I own this locker.”

“Well, you can’t,” Benjamin countered. “This locker’s mine. I live here.”

Jack stared at the old man. “What do you mean, you live here?”

“Do you have trouble with the word ‘live’ or ‘here’?”

“No, I . . .”

“All right, then. May I have my key?”

“Your key? I just paid $850 for this.”

“And just why would you do a stupid thing like that?”

“This locker was just sold. I bought it.  Were you renting it?”

“I’m the owner, I told you.”

“And did you fall behind on the payments?”

Benjamin hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Why . . . how . . . well, okay.  Well, what’s your name?”

“Benjamin Carter. And you are?”

“Jack, Jack Cooper. Looks like we got us a situation -- can I call you Mr. Ben.?”

“Be my guest. And indeed we do, Mr.Cooper. Before we go further, though, I’d like to check on my wife. I’m sure she’s heard our entire exchange and I don’t want her upset. I’ll be right back.”

At that, the old man disappeared behind a wall of boxes stacked almost to the ceiling. Jack snuck a look and watched the man maneuver his way around more stuff than Jack imagined could fit in such limited space.

Jack saw the man duck behind a partition draped with a musty old tablecloth. He could hear him speaking to someone.  Jack took a step inside the unit and looked around. 

There were more boxes, but there was also a kitchen table set with magazines for place mats, plastic cups and utensils for two. Most surfaces were covered with dust and Jack saw cobwebs overhead leading from a bare lightbulb that hung from the ceiling.

“Jack, my wife would like to meet you.”

The young man startled, but then carefully made his way to where Benjamin stood.

“Charlotte, this is the young man I was telling you about. This is Jack . . . what was it again?”

Jack looked into a narrow space lined with stacks of books, piles of clothing and a single lawn chair in the center. On the chair laid a mannequin dressed in blue satin pajamas. It wore a turban adorned with a butterfly pin, staring straight ahead with its painted face.

“Forgive me, Jack. My memory . . .”

“C - C -Cooper .”

“Darling, this is Mr.Cooper. This is Charlotte, my wife of 48 years. No, don’t get up, my dear. Just a quick introduction. We’ll be discussing some business matters, but I’ll be back in time for dinner. No, I promise.  Cherries, of course.”

Benjamin delicately lifted and then kissed a resin hand.

“Mr. Ben., I’ll meet you outside.” Jack then hesitated, and nodded toward the chair. “Ma’am.”

“What have I gotten myself into?”

Jack paced and wondered to himself how anyone so obviously delusional could behave so, well, charming and lucid.  He was still pacing when Benjamin rejoined him.

“Where should we conduct our business, then?”

Jack shook his head. “Not sure. Let’s lock up and walk over to my truck. It’s that one over there.”

As Jack rolled the accordion door to the ground, he asked, “How did you manage to get in and out of here?  They change the locks, don’t they?”

Maurice, with a sly grin, replied, “I’m a locksmith by trade.”

“Uh huh.” Jack stared at Maurice, then knelt to secure the lock. 

“I know a diner near here. I could use a cup of coffee. You?”

“Delighted. But then I must shop for dinner and get back to my wife.”

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