It’s strange how your life can change in a matter of a week.
I foresaw a comfortable future with Samantha Ellis—she’s a successful photographer specializing in Depression Era photography and silhouette portraits, and I’m a university History professor. It seemed a match made in heaven.
But it turned out that even though Sam made a ton of money off the past, she didn’t really care about the Depression Era—and since I did, I knew she ultimately didn’t care about me.
I was floating higher than a zeppelin though when Abe Rosen asked me to consult on the 1930’s cold case, but then, Sam shot me down, and I crashed and burned like the Hindenburg.
But after pouting for a week, I went and saw Harry Greenspan, my contact, who lived during the Thirties and he assured me he knew the area where the murder weapon was concealed.
My hopes revived and I couldn’t wait to get home and phone Abe with the news.
I phoned him as soon as I got in the door—his happy voice at the other end of the line lifted my spirits.
“Hey, Scott—how goes it—is the old boy, Harry, still with us?”
“He’s great, Abe—a helluva lot more lively than me.”
He picks up on the undercurrent in my voice. “Rough week?” he asks softly.
“Yeah—busted up with my girlfriend.”
“Jeez—and I thought the wife yelling at me was bad—springtime too. That sucks.”
“Well, I’ve got something that might cheer you up. I managed to get tickets to Saturday’s Leafs game—Golds, no less—provided, you’re feeling up to it.”
I couldn’t believe it. My first Toronto Maple Leafs’ game and Abe lands the best seats in the house.
“Up to it?” I chirp, “of course, I’m up to it. How much were they?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that Pal—I called in a favor from somebody who owes me big time. I’ll drop by your place around six on Saturday—we can grab something to eat downtown.”
“Sounds great—thanks Abe.”
“Don’t mention it. Now, how about Harry—can he help us?”
“He’s still sharp as a tack and pretty spry for a guy in his nineties—yeah, he says he remembers the press box and can point it out to us—says he’s available anytime.”
“How about tomorrow after your lectures—say, I pick you up around five?”
“Five is good—sounds like a plan.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Oh, and Abe—thanks for getting the tickets.”
“Ha ha—no problem Pal—you’re buying dinner.”
When I hang up, I’m feeling better about things. Oh sure, I’m still sad about Sam, and at sixes and sevens regarding the future, but hearing Abe’s voice gives me hope that somehow everything will be fine.
I sit back and sigh—an eighty-year old cold case and a window back to the Thirties—as Sam said, it was right up my alley. Maybe it’s not all teary-eyed nostalgia.
Maybe Fitzgerald was right—the past isn’t dead; maybe it’s not even past.
© 2017 – 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.