The Unexpected Bargain

The corner of C and Taylor Streets was no stranger to the bustling footfalls of men with empty pockets but grand ideas. Here, beneath the gilded lamp that barely lit the nighttime street that Sam Jenkins paced, hands deep in his overcoat, the weight of failure a heavier burden than the crisp autumn chill.

Sam was not a poor man—at least, not by birthright. He had inherited the Jenkins Emporium, a sprawling store of fine goods and even finer debts, from his father, one who believed in the power of credit over cash.

Sam, a believer in quite the opposite, now stood teetering on the precipice of bankruptcy. That night, with bankruptcy papers folded neatly in his inner coat pocket, his luck—or misfortune—took a curious turn.

“I have a proposition for you,” came a voice, smooth as molasses, from the shadows.

Sam turned to find a man of middling height with eyes that twinkled like they knew the punchline to a joke Sam had not yet heard. The stranger was impeccably dressed, save for a pair of worn-out shoes that clashed with his otherwise sharp attire.

“A proposition?” Sam echoed, uncertain whether to step back or forward.

“Yes, indeed,” the man said. “You see, I am a collector of opportunities,” producing a card from the inside of his jacket with a flourish. The card read: Mr. Barrow—Broker of Fortunes.

Sam glanced from the card to the man, then back again.

“I am afraid my fortune has been brokered to the last penny,” he said.

“Precisely why I am here,” said Barrow, smiling. “You need a bargain, and I need a gentleman with just the right disposition.”

Sam’s curiosity, though cautious, outweighed his sense of dread, “Go on.”

“I offer you a trade,” Barrow said, leaning in conspiratorially. “I will erase your debts, every last one of them. In return, you must agree to give me whatever you find in your pocket tomorrow at noon.”

Sam blinked, “That’s it?”

“That is it,” Barrow confirmed, “A simple transaction. Surely, the contents of a pocket are worth less than a mountain of debt?”

Sam felt a rush of hope so unfamiliar that he almost stumbled over it. After all, what harm could come from such a trivial exchange?

“I accept,” Sam said, shaking Barrow’s hand with a firmness he had not had in months.

Come morning, Sam awoke with a lightness he had not known since the emporium had begun its slow descent into ruin. He patted his pocket instinctively—nothing there but the familiar feel of his handkerchief.

He laughed at himself for worrying. Noon was still hours away, and it seemed his troubles had melted with the sunrise.

At precisely eleven o’clock, Sam decided to stroll to the bank to confirm the state of his accounts. To his astonishment, the debts had vanished like smoke on a windy day, and the emporium was his again, free and clear.

He was a man, reborn, and with only one hour left until the fateful transaction, he walked with the confidence of a man who had bested fortune itself.

At the stroke of noon, Barrow appeared, his worn shoes tapping lightly on the pavement.

“Well, Sam Jenkins,” he said, tipping his hat. “Shall we see what is in your pocket?”

Sam chuckled as he reached into his coat, fingers brushing only the smooth fabric of his empty pocket. But then, his heart stuttered as his hand found something unfamiliar.

Slowly, he drew it out—a slip of paper–folded once and yellowed with age.

Barrow grinned a Cheshire Cat smile, “Ah, yes. What have we here?”

Sam unfolded the paper, his blood running cold as he recognized the scrawl of his father’s handwriting. It was a contract declaring that, in the event of the Jenkins family’s financial ruin, the eldest son would inherit the emporium and its most secret debt–one owed not to banks but to the collector of opportunities.

Barrow’s eyes twinkled with amusement, “You see, Sam, I collect what is owed. And your father, bless his soul, agreed to quite the bargain long ago.”

Sam’s throat tightened, “But what does it mean?”

“It means, dear Sam, that I now collect what was promised–your brightest opportunity.”

Barrow tipped his hat once more, turned on his heel, and vanished into the crowd, leaving Sam standing alone, the weight of his inheritance suddenly far heavier than before. So, Sam Jenkins found that the most valuable thing in his pocket was not gold nor silver but something far more elusive—the promise of hope, now traded away for a fleeting relief.

As O. Henry might have said, “There are no greater debts than the one you do not see coming.”