HEIRLOOM 1496 words rewrite

The empty pop can rattled noisily down the sidewalk and as Jimmy readied to kick it again, the bell in the tower near City Hall rang its daily reminder that it was noon once again; lunchtime for the students and workers, but was just another sound for those who had nothing better to do. Jimmy crunched the can with a heavy stomp and noticed how empty the post office was. Usually, the noon-hour traffic for those checking their mail boxes was rushed. But today, blissful emptiness thought Jimmy as he pulled out his key from his pants pocket and opened the box.

“Hmnnn, what’s this?” His forehead and nose both wrinkled.

A letter, in a fancy violet-coloured envelope with a thick, black stamped postmarked sent from Ohio, seemed odd, and strange at the same time. Ohio, that’s where gramps and granny moved to after they retired shortly after the tire factory closed its doors for good. His stomach grumbled just as he was about to open the envelope. He eye’d the street and made his way to Johnny’s, the local greasy spoon. He slid the letter into his inside jacket pocket and couldn’t help but notice how light his feet felt; he was anxious to open the letter.

Bantersville was a popular town back in its heyday. One of the upper-management managers of a major tire company had relatives who resided there and convinced shareholders that it would thrive and prosper if they built a tire factory on the outskirts of town. And, as hoped, the tire factory indeed flourished until a scandal screeched production to a halt. The manager, the one with the relatives in town, developed a case of sticky fingers, skimming money from the business, was caught and later imprisoned for theft. After everyone was laid off, the factory and much of the town succumbed to complacency, but with the hope that one day investors would awaken the town back into prosperity — that was highly unlikely though.

The screen door shuddered and groaned whenever customers entered the cafe. Locals of all ages and backgrounds nestled into the booths or slopped onto the chipped and cracked red plastic covered stools near the countertop where Bessie and her small staff served the typical breakfast fare, and of course the hamburgers and fries for the teens and hot hamburgers for the older crowd. Jimmy found a stool at the end of the counter and ordered fries with gravy and a coca-cola. He played with the envelope before pulling it out. Bessie, or Nostrils, as the kids called her because she was so nosy you could actually see her nose hairs up close, noticed the envelope.

“New girlfriend Jimmy?” She inquired, hoping for a response as she scanned the fancy envelope.

“Naw,” muttered Jimmy in as nonchalant a voice he could muster. “It’s just a fancy coloured paper is all. Nuthin’ to write home about.”

“Well it must be important. No one actually uses that kind of fancy paper around here unless it’s important,” she retorted.

Just as she was about to question him again, a customer ordered a refill. He watched as she splashed hot coffee into several cups before she became preoccupied with taking the orders from a couple and their two children who filled a once empty booth. Jimmy quickly ate his fries, left 95 cents near his empty plate, and bolted out the door before Bessie tried to stick her big nose in his pocket.

Dear James Flatstone, began the letter, it is with sadness that we, Superior Insurance Co., regret to inform you of the passing of your grandparents William and Clara Flatstone. Both, at the time of their untimely passing, were lodged at the Silver Sunset Retirement Home in Dayton, Ohio. The deceased’s assets were divided among their surviving children. In his Will, your grandfather Willian bequeathed to you his cherished Flyer bicycle which he kept in storage for the past few years. The bicycle was sent to you via registered mail and should be at your disposal within a few days receipt of this letter. Please accept our condolences, yours truly, Superior Insurance Co.

Jimmy was well aware of the deaths of his grandparents, but the contents of the letter intrigued him. He was grateful his grandpa thought of him, and wondered why he was chosen to receive the bike. Grandpa was always too busy trying to earn a living and they never really communicated after they moved, so why him?

Jimmy tried to avoid the cafe, but of course, Nostrils began to gossip about Jimmy’s fancy coloured letter and the rumours began. Was Jimmy’s new girlfriend rich? Jimmy received a boatload of cash from his grandparents’ Will; Jimmy was moving away into the house his grandparents left him. Each rumour more elaborate than the last one. This went on until a package arrived for Jimmy. The post office buzzed and was filled with even those who didn’t have their own mailbox. And there it sat, a carefully wrapped box encased in a wooden frame pre-paid by the insurance company. Jimmy had to produce his identification card even though the postmaster knew him, and signed the release form before he was given the package.

“Open it,” whispered Nostrils who was standing in the crowd. “Oh please open it love?” Suddenly, the crowd began a feverous chant: “Open it Jimmy, open it.”

Jimmy stared at the package, oblivious to the chanting. The memory of his grandfather riding his bike down the streets of Bantersville made his eyes moist. The postmaster, realizing how large the crowd had become, ushered them out until only he and Jimmy stood there, their eyes fixed on the carefully packaged wood crate.

“Well whaddaya want to do there, young feller,” questioned the postmaster.

“Let’s open it,” jimmy said as the man left, and returned with a crowbar and a hammer. Together, they struggled carefully until there it stood, on its kickstand, looking as if it was just purchased at the hardware store. The red and white stripes with the whitewall tires made it stand out in the dingy and musky smelling post office.

“You can take it out the back door if you want,” said the white-haired postmaster.

As time passed, Jimmy, who only dared ride the bicycle from the post office to his house, kept it carefully wrapped in cellophane and stored it in the basement where his room was. He had survived the gossip without letting anyone know exactly what was in the wooden package that day. However, before he retired, the postmaster shared a cup of coffee with Nostrils and out it slipped when questioned what Jimmy got that day.

“Aawww, it was just some old bike his grandfather gave him.” Nostrils stared at the man and sighed. “All that gossip just for an old bike? Humph, some heirloom. And to think I wasted all those free fries on him, hoping he would tell me what he got?” A man in a cheap green suit sitting beside them ordered a coffee. She tossed her cleaning rag aside and yelled to her staff she was going home.

“Hold on a minute, I’ll be right with you,” yelled Jimmy. The knocking was annoyingly persistent. “Do I know you,” he said, looking at a short, red-faced man who was sweating profusely.

“I don’t believe you know me. Yesterday, when I was passing through town I overheard a white-haired gentleman and an elderly waitress at the local cafe talking about you owning an antique bike?”

“What if I do and what if I don’t,” Jimmy said rather protectively. “What would that bike possibly mean to you?”

“I work for a pawnshop in the next county. It would be a tremendous waste of my time for me knowing that I missed out on an opportunity to at least look at what you have. So, please, can I see the bike?”

Jimmy had a change of heart when he saw the sincerity in his eyes.

The man’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor when he saw the pristine looking beauty.

“It’s definitely a Flyer, one of the earlier bikes made. You got a classic, an original. Would you ever consider selling it?”

“Not a chance. Say mister, where did you say you were from?”

“Listen son, I gotta run, but I’ll keep in touch now that I know where ya live arright?”

Jimmy watched the man struggle to get into his van and drive off down the street. He suddenly felt angry that someone else knew about his bike. He had kept it quiet until now. He put on his jacket and marched down to Johnny’s.

“Where is she?,” demanded Jimmy, looking at the staff sitting around a table.

“Who,” questioned one of the waitresses.

“Nostrils.”

“She died in her sleep last night.”

When Jimmy got home, the back door was kicked in and the bike was gone.

He didn’t care.