Eighty-eight had been a hard year for the family; their patriarch had died working in the junkyard he’d inherited from his father earlier in the century. And as the will was read, the younger of his two son’s announced he wanted nothing to do with the ‘family business,’ preferring to be bought out so he could used the cash to follow his dream.
“The junk business has never been for me,” he said.
Everyone knew Ryan’s dream to be living in New York and Greenwich Village where he could nurture his talent as a writer. On the other hand, and as the eldest brother, Emmrick put his plans to go to college on hold to help with the day-to-day operations of the failing junk business.
After finding the money to buy out Ryan’s share and seeing his more-talented brother off to the Big Apple, Emmrick set about making changes to his father’s business plan, incorporating a redesign of the yards layout and restructuring the cash-flow for greater profits.
In Greenwich, Ryan set about writing. He found immediate success with a small book of short stories and followed this up with two more, this time, filled with poetry.
Each time he published a new piece of work, Ryan mailed a copy home to his brother. With the book came a note that eventually came down to asking for a few extra dollars to help him make ends meet, ‘as New York is an expensive place to live.’
It was nearly five years before the pair would see one another again. It happened when Emmrick had the sad duty of telling his younger brother that their mother had passed away.
Ryan came back to town on the day of the funeral, but did not stay, saying he had left some important work undone and under deadline and had to get it finished or loose the commission. As he left, he took Emmrick aside and asked for the loan of 50-bucks so he could pay for gas to get home.
“Here’s a hundred dollars, you’ll need to get a meal or two along the way,” Emmrick said.
Soon another small package arrived containing a booklet written by Ryan. This was neither a book of stories, poems and not even a novel – but a small tome praising Socialism.
Emmrick read through it before placing it on shelf. Meanwhile, the old junkyard began turning a profit and soon a new hardware section was added to bring more ‘do-it-yourself’ types to the family business.
The family business continued to grow with more and more hardware and tools taking the place of junk. Eventually, the family business converted to a full service hardware store that included a lumberyard.
Life for Ryan continued to be a book a year, a myriad of pamphlets and booklets, all espousing the need for reformation to the values of Socialism and the like. Between, chain smoking and booze-filled nights, Ryan continued to send his older brother all the work he generated, along with the periodical request for ‘a touch of cash,’ till the next commission.
Emmrick silently chuckled at these little asides and after filing the note in a box he had labeled ‘Ryan,’ sent him a couple of hundred dollars to help tide his brother over. Emmrick had come to understand that the life of a writer was hard and that his brother often survived on whatever word-work he could find.
Unfortunately, Ryan had missed all of the family reunions, his elder bother’s wedding, their only child’s birth, the graduations of his only nephew from both high school and college, the wedding of that same child-turned-adult and the birth of Emmrick’s first and second grandchild. Emmrick forgave him in his heart, knowing that his younger brother struggled everyday to make a living.
“My life is based on one deadline after another,” Ryan claimed.
One day while Emmrick took a rare day off and was down by the creek fishing with his grandchildren, he suffered a massive heart attack. Emmrick’s wife called Ryan and left a message for him, telling him he needed to get there before it was too late.
He never came and then, it was too late. Ryan did return for the funeral and stayed long enough for the reading of the will.
Emmrick left the family business, estimated to be worth nearly a million bucks, to his wife and son, “and to Ryan, I bequeath my prize-possession, my entire book collection and a sum of one-hundred-thousand dollars.” Ryan left, angry at the ‘paltry sum,’ his bother had left him, but on the upside, the collection, filled with rare and valuable books obviously pick from the junk yard business must be worth a great deal more than what was left him.
“He promised to take always take care of me,” Ryan complained.
Under a blue-haze of roll-your-own cigarette smoke, sipping cheap red wine from a bottle, and dreaming of the fortune he’d soon find on his flat’s steps any day, a pounding came to his door. Slowly he rolled from his position and answered the heavy knocking.
“Yeah,” he barked, “Whadda ya want? Can’t ya see I’m busy?”
“Delivery down stairs for you.”
Ryan quickly threw on some pants, pulled an old shirt over his head and raced outside. There he found a delivery truck double parked, unloading five very large boxes.
“Up here, boys!” he demanded.
Ten minutes later, with all the boxes filling his small, stuffy apartment, he opened them, finding inside everything he’d ever written and sent to his late brother.
This flower is smaller than the eraser end of a No.2 pencil, proving that sometimes one has to get down on their hands and knees to find beauty in an otherwise barren landscape.
The Old Blog in the Desert 