by Gary Zenker
“It’s not whether it actually works or not,” my cousin Seymour explains enthusiastically, “but whether it has the possibility of working.” That was the basis for all of his success and for the failures of anyone whom he encountered. Possibility and faith. “I know it will work given the right conditions.”
I have to wonder whether those conditions involved events of biblical proportion like world flooding or the raining of leeches. He did teach me that the intersection of faith and desperation are an incredibly powerful motivator, especially when you have little of one and an overabundance of the other. It makes people grasp at the intangible and improbable. Like my Cousin Seymour. Heck, even his name worked to his favor.
Seymour is my cousin on my mother’s side, in his late thirties with a roundish body and full head of thick red hair. My mother had many unkind things to say about him and the money borrowed but never returned. But he has seen the world first-hand and brought back stories of the expansion of the Union Pacific Railroad, Indian attacks on wagon trains, the bank robbing James brothers, and saloons filled with exotic women. And this magical box of which he is so proud. When he passed through my home town, I just had to join him when he completed his visit and moved on. He promised to make me his assistant and show me all the sights a young man like myself could never see on his own while stuck in Wyoming. And he has.
His box, the box that makes all the travel possible, is one that turns lead into gold. It transforms base metals into one of the most valuable substances available to man. Or it would, if it really worked.
“I can’t control all of the conditions under which this might be used,” Seymour explains. “So I can’t guarantee the transformation in any particular instance. But I have seen it work. Oh yes, I have.” Then he launches into a description of his own introduction to the process, of the explanation he was given of radioactive particles energizing the particles within the lead and transformed into gold under the right conditions.
This demonstration box, however, is merely a magician’s trick. It is an example of what would happen IF it worked. But this box contains a trick spring-hatched door depositing real gold metal flakes while retracting the original base metal safely away within a secret pocket. He doesn’t tell anyone the truth. It even had me fooled the first couple of times.
“How many times have you actually seen the process work?” I asked while examining the box.
“Twice.”
“When?”
“When I was first introduced to the concept and implementation. When I myself first bought in. It was awe-inspiring.”
“And this box?”
“An example of how it will work, assisted by some slight of hand. I will get the real thing when I raise sufficient funds.” He paused. “The real technology is expensive,” he added
“Then why not keep it all to yourself?”
“That would be selfish. Why not share it? The joy and all of the gains are better when shared.” He paused. “And I’m out of cash,” he added. There’s nothing more convincing than someone who has the faith to invest your money in something he believes in.
Faith is hard to come by in 1866. The United States is anything but united and the president was recently assassinated. Many of our young men have died or come back from fighting grievous injury. Old money families that chose to back either side have lost more than they have gained; only those who backed the war itself through investments in munitions have won. It’s not especially faith-inspiring.
“This is the house,” Seymour points and it is obvious that they have been one of the losers in the battles, quite literally. A palatial building fallen into disrepair and a plantation devastated by the battle that intruded into their space.
“Looks to me like we should find some investors who have the wherewithal to better maintain their property.”
“Not at all,” Seymour counters. “We want people who are motivated. Having and then losing makes people eager to return to the position they once held. They make far more willing investors and will find the resources.” He turns from me and knocks on the door. A maid answers.
“This is a good sign,” Seymour whispers. “A refusal to let go of the old, even as financial situations suggest that they should.” Then he turns back to the maid and presents his card, asking to speak to the home’s master.
I follow him into the parlor and then scrutinize his presentation for what seems the hundredth time. Seymour has the uncanny ability to read people’s thoughts and respond with the perfect choice of words, transforming his audience just as his machine pretends to transform the metal. He has an answer for every question. I’ve studied it and learned his process.
The older homeowner quickly commits. A trip to the bank tomorrow and we’ll add his funds to the others we’ve collected and keep stashed safely in Seymour’s leather satchel. Collingswood has been a good choice for us, with twelve investors so far and cash collected from four of them already.
Seymour feels obligated to remind me after every success that, despite the box being a trick, the process is real.“We are just months away from being able to buy the real thing,” he believes.
It’s true that we live in a time where more is known about the elements than at any time in the past. Lothar Meyer’s table of the 28 elements listed by valency is key. Even if Seymour doesn’t understand all of the details himself, he has faith in the process that will evolve and in his sponsors, to whom he sends large portions of our cash after each sale. He expects that with a sufficient investment, they will eventually provide him with the fully-working machine. Once it is fully developed. My faith is placed differently, in the sale itself.
“A year, two years at most and we will usher in the greatest time of wealth for mankind that has ever existed,” my cousin expands.
“But,” I ask, “if anyone can turn base metals into gold, what real wealth will it create? Gold will be as common as lead itself.”
“My dear, dear Roger,” he places his hand on my shoulder, “we will be among the first. That will secure our place. To do it, they will have to buy from us. And that places us in the best position of all.” And of course, we will have our own units. At wholesale cost.” To me, his logic is as limited as his ability to create the transmutation itself. But we often eat well and sleep in real beds and take real baths, so it is hard to argue with that. And although I have never seen the James brothers in person, I have seen and spent time with the exotic women.
After two weeks in town and dozens of presentations, this afternoon we find ourselves hailed by the local constables. Second thoughts are the bane of our sales efforts. It turns out that some of our investors’ math became sharper during spontaneous group discussions with their neighbor investors. So much for our recommendation to keep their investment confidential.
“I believe it’s time we move on,” Seymour suggests, and we advance directly to the train station. To speed our exit, we decide to leave our luggage behind at the hotel. We duck through alleyways and lose our pursuers through a series of movements in and out of the front and back doors of various businesses and hotels. With no time to buy tickets and limited funds as we hadn’t yet collected on many of the commitments, our lack of baggage is an advantage.
“Just a small change of plans. We are at the dawn of a new era,” Seymour shouts over the sounds of the locomotive as we scramble after the train leaving the station. “Have a little faith.”
Being younger and much less round than my cousin, I reach up and pull myself into the moving freight car first, securing myself before reaching back down. “Don’t drop the transformer,” I yell over the engine noise. Seymour pushes it in my direction and nearly drops it twice before my grip is sturdy enough to pull the weight of the large box up and into the car. I drop it safely onto a pile of flour sacks and a cloud of white powder fills the air.
I turned back to the door to my running companion and reach down through the cloud. Instead of finding Seymour’s hand or arm, my hand hooks the strap of the leather shoulder bag which my mentor always insists on carrying himself. The other end of the well-worn band wraps around Seymour’s neck and nearly chokes him before it snaps from the strain. I fall backward into the freight car with the satchel hitting me square in the face and dumping its contents, our investors’ cash, onto the rail car floor. I quickly scramble to my feet once more and to the door, with Seymour huffing to keep up with the increasing speed of the train.
He reaches as far as he can as the train picks up speed. I bend down, nearly at face level with him, just close enough for a final attempt to grab his hand…but I don’t. “I have enough faith for both of us,” I shout and slid the freight car door shut as Seymour tumbles out of sight.
About the Author
By day, Gary Zenker is a marketer and senior copywriter telling stories that sell products and services for a variety of companies. By night, he turns his storytelling skills to flash fiction tales of people and situations that will both warm your heart and rip it out. His stories have appeared in numerous online and print anthologies, including Chicken Soup For the Soul: Humor. Gary founded two local writers groups and runs the periodic Noir At A Bar to shine a spotlight on local authors and has benefitted the Oxford PA Public Library for five years.