Faux Wood

The inside of his car smelled like cigarettes and old bananas. Cigarettes because this was the only place John’s wife would let him smoke. Bananas because the kids always snacked in his car and left their trash on the back floorboard.

John sighed. If bad bananas were his biggest worry, life would be great. Still, he did think that a 1989 Acura Legend deserved more respectful treatment than being an 18 mpg dumpster. John resolved to have a talk with the kids the minute he got home. First, though, he had a stop to make.

Turning right onto Jones Way, John glanced at the scrap of paper on the passenger seat. He was looking for 324 Jones Way, although in many ways he didn’t really care to find it.

John Stotten had been told by his editor at the paper to track down a man named Franklin Thomas. No, the editor did not know Mr. Thomas. He had only heard of him. So what made him so important to interview for the paper?

John was surprised at the reply. Mr. Thomas has the area’s largest collection of artifacts from great disasters.

“Really? How do you know that?”

“I met a neighbor of his at a party last night,” Editor Doddy replied.

“So you’re sending me out to track down a guy whom you heard about from some drunk person at a party? I have to go waste my day because of what one drunk whispered to another the night before?”

“If earning a paycheck that I sign is a wasted day, then I guess it is,” answered Doddy with one of those annoying looks of parental disapproval that John had learned to hate.

Tracking down this Thomas guy proved to be pretty easy. It helped that there had been an article done on him a few years earlier by the other paper in town. Still, even that fact was not enough to dissuade Doddy from demanding an interview.

As John pulled into the driveway, he took a final drag on his cigarette. He savored the last puff for a few seconds, hoping that it would be enough to make it through the next hour of aimless and useless talking.

Mr. Thomas surprised John with his easy manner and kind smile.

“Please come in,” he beckoned. “Call me Frankie. Everyone else does. My dad was also named Franklin, so all I’ve ever been called is Frankie.”

The living room John walked into was light and airy. The windows were open and a pleasant breeze crossed the room. There was a slight scent of some strange fragrance that reminded John of craft fair loving women of a certain age who melted wax pellets in some form of potpourri heater. He looked around for the homemade candles and counted cross-stitch on the walls.

John was surprised instead to see several shelves lined with various pieces of twisted metal and other strange items.

“You see my father’s collection,” commented Frankie.

“Your father’s?”

“Yes. He’s the one who gathered all of these items.”

“So the story I heard about you is true.”

“It sure is,” Frankie answered. “My father collected small artifacts from almost all of the major disasters in recent history and from a large number of smaller tragedies.”

Frankie pointed to one of the shelves. There, neatly dusted, sat a small ashtray. A small card beside was labeled in neat printing, “Hindenberg, 1937.” Beside the ashtray was a twisted piece of metal identified as “Pearl Harbor, 1941.”

John continued to browse the shelves. There was row upon row of small souvenirs, some damaged and others in remarkably good condition. Frankie kept a patient silence as he watched the reporter take it all in.

John paused in front of a small emblem labeled “Charleston Elevator Co.”

“That’s from an elevator accident here in town in the late 60’s,” Frankie volunteered.

“What happened?”

“It was in the old Maddox Building. The elevator reached the ninth floor and then came crashing down into the basement. I think three people were killed in the crash.”

John looked further at the items on exhibit. Some were twisted and damaged while others appeared to be completely intact. The dates on the items seemed to range from the 1930’s all the way to 2008.

After a while, Frankie offered John a drink and the two men sat down in overstuffed chairs with slip covers on each arm.

“Tell me about this collection.”

Frankie smiled. “There’s not much to say. My father was a collector and he gathered together all of the items you see here.”

“It must have taken a long time.”

“Yes, it did. I remember him gathering things on every family trip we ever went on. He’d even send letters to places asking for souveniers.”

“Didn’t that strike you as odd?”

Frankie shrugged. “I suppose to many people it is, but when you grow up with it, it seems very natural.” 

“What kind of disasters did your dad collect things from?”

“Everything, really. Some items came from very large, national events and others from something as small as a car accident.”

John had been taking notes as they talked. By now, he felt that he had enough material to put together a useless article about the strange man’s collection that Doddy would like and the readers would devour. Readers had such banally stupid interests sometimes.

The reporter began to form some final remarks in his head. He hoped to graciously step out and head home. Maybe John could get a few hours of free time before going in to finish the story.

But then it happened. John grimaced.

The thing that made John a good reporter was his ability to sniff out an inconsistency and explore it. Now, when he really just wanted to get another cigarette and go home, something was troubling him.

“Mr. Thomas,” he addressed his host. “I am curious about something.”

Frankie’s eyebrows rose slightly and a thin smile showed on his face. “What is it?”

“I am curious. Why is it that some of these items that your father collected appear to be undamaged? Take the elevator logo, for instance. I would think after crashing down nine stories, even a metal plate like that would show some damage.”

John watched as Frankie stared back at him. He could see the other man considering something and watched Frankie’s shoulders drop just slightly when he had made his decision.

“I’ve not told anyone from the press this before,” he answered, “but you get to be the first. My father not only collected items after a tragedy occurred, but he also collected them beforehand.”

John looked at Frankie in confusion.

“Do you see that miner’s lamp over there? That’s from the Farmington Mine Disaster in 1968. Now, nothing in the mine could have survived the explosion and fire in such good condition, but my dad picked up the lamp from the mine three years before the disaster.”

John looked skeptically at Frankie. Frankie’s face, on the other hand, held a simple sincerity that could never have been faked.

“You mean that your dad knew where a disaster would happen and would collect items from places in advance? How did he get the miner’s lamp?”

“He bought it from one of the miners when we drove through West Virginia on a family vacation.”

“How did he know that a disaster would happen?”

“I don’t know. He never told us kids and we were too afraid to ask.”

“Did this happen a lot? Frankie nodded yes.

“Why haven’t you told people about this sooner?”

Frankie shifted in his seat. “There is really not much more to say,” he commented.

By now, John’s bloodhound instincts were on high alert. When a story started to break open, there was always more to be explored.

“One more question,” he said. “I notice that one of these pieces is dated 2008. Didn’t your dad pass away in 1990?”

Frankie again shifted in his seat. “That’s correct.”

“So are you the one who has been collecting items since then?”

Frankie smiled. “Oh, no. Those were all things collected by my dad.” 

“Even the bolt from the bridge over I-35 that collapsed in 2007?”

“Uh, huh. The bridge was built in the mid 60’s and my dad picked up a bolt from the construction site.”

“So you’re saying that your dad used to collect items from disasters before they happened and sometimes those disasters didn’t even occur until after he had died?”

Frankie nodded.

John could feel the energy of a huge story forming inside him. His better instincts told him that such a story would be canned by Doddy out of disbelief. Be that as it may, John felt compelled to continue.

“How long did this go one after he died?”

“It’s still going on today.”

“What do you mean?”

Frankie paused and then spoke carefully, “My father left behind a couple of boxes of items that he had collected. Each one is identified with a label and a date.”

“And?”

“And when that date arrives, a disaster or accident occurs involving the item and I put it on display with all the others.”

John sank back in his seat for a moment wishing that he could have another cigarette.

“So,” he asked slowly. “When is the next accident or disaster?”

Frankie looked off into the distance out the window. John could see that he wasn’t willing to answer that question. John ventured another question with similar results.

After two strikes, John knew that it was time to bow out. Rising from his seat, he began to thank Frankie for the very enlightening visit. Frankie smiled thinly, shook John’s hand and escorted him to the door. John quickly stepped outside and walked briskly to his car.

Before he could start the car, though, he was pursued by Frankie. The man looked troubled.

“Mr. Stotten,” Frankie said.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t answer your questions. That was rude of me.”

“That’s alright.”

“Well,” Frankie looked down to the ground, “I do have an item that my father collected that I’d like to give to you.”

John looked at Frankie in surprise and bewilderment. Frankie reached into the car and handed John a small package. He then quickly turned and left. John looked at the box. It was simple cardboard, probably reused from something else. In pencil on the top right corner was a date – today’s date! John surmised that the date must have been put on the box by Frankie’s dad.

The reporter sat in the driveway for several moments. Finally, he decided to open the box. Quickly snapping the scotch tape, John lifted the lid to find a piece of faux wood made of plastic. It was u-shaped and looked like nothing very remarkable. He looked at it puzzled for a moment. A nice item, but not much of a lead, he thought.

John tossed the piece onto the passenger seat and started the car. Once he was a few blocks away, John lit another cigarette and tried to make sense of his meeting. No good answers came to mind to explain all that had just happened. Absentmindedly, John reached for the ashtray to put out his cigarette. It was then that he noticed the u-shaped spot on his dashboard that had always been missing its faux wood covering.

(c) 2013 Kevin H. Grenier