[HarryW]

A Handful

Once a month, I make a trip to the town at the edge of the desert. As I walk the narrow, sandy streets, a stranger approaches. The face changes each time, but the question remains the same: “What is it like to be rich?” The stranger can’t be bothered to ask a different question; I can’t be bothered to give a different answer.

“This grey hair used to be black. My body was young, strong. I wasn’t bent double by an afternoon breeze.”

“I grew up poor. My family had to keep the herd moving. My father knew every patch of grass and every oasis. ‘Like the back of my hand,’ he would say.”

“Townspeople were the origin of my ambition. They had a home, a foundation. Their lives didn’t change with the setting sun.”

“I pestered my father: ‘Why don’t we have a house? Why do we have to march through the desert with these damn goats every day? Why are we so poor?’”

“It was the last question, the accusation of poverty, that drove my father to violence. He struck me. His face was red, his eyes bright with tears. I was too proud to be struck by a poor goatherder. I gathered my things and left.”

“It was a moment where a man acts faster than he thinks. I wasn’t sure how far it was to town or how many days provisions I would need. My stride at the outset was purposeful, brash. As the days crawled by, my pace became more resigned, more a stumble than a stride. I was dying, proud and penniless.”

“A merchant appeared as I faltered. This wealthy man offered me a ride on one of his camels. I was proud, but not stupid; I accepted his salvation.”

“I arrived in town--not this town, but one like it. The merchant gave me a pittance, but it was squandered before I caught my breath.”

“I, like many young men, thought ambition would be a suitable replacement for skill, but my two skills, pride and hubris, were in short demand. I was reduced to the job a man is never too poor to perform: begging.”

“The first trials of the beggar are the worst. The shame sets a man’s body on fire, sets a man’s hands to shaking. A beggar learns quickly. Shame will cause a man to sleep with an empty stomach.”

“I learned to shiver when a well-dressed man approached me and I learned to avoid a confident man’s gaze. Rich men seek out poor men to exalt their stature. The exchange of wealth must involve both parties extending: the rich man reaching toward the ground, the poor man reaching toward the sky. Woe to the beggar who would beg as equal.”

“A rich man can be generous with money; a wise man can be generous with wisdom. I wanted to find a man wise in the ways of becoming rich. To every man who gave alms I would ask, ‘what must I do to become rich?’”

“It was an ill-conceived question, a young question. Each man could describe the road to his wealth, the twists, the turns, the gambles, the failures and, finally, the successes. I would listen, my eyes glinting with greed.”

“My optimism faded fast. These roads were closed. These opportunities were unique. A stroke of good fortune united these tales. Hard work was never enough; a man needed luck.”

“It was a dreadful hot day with a slight breeze--a day like today. A withered, three-pronged man hobbled up to me. I smiled at him, but made no move to beg. I knew the look of a man with empty pockets. He produced a coin from his tattered white robes and tossed it at my feet. This unexpected boon caused my pessimism to disappear. I asked the old man my question.”

“‘It’s the wrong question, boy, but I’ll answer it,’ the old man said. ‘What you seek is many days south. There lies a dune not made of sand, but of gold.’”

“The old man hadn’t finished talking, but I’d finished listening. I was already gathering provisions in my mind, making arrangements for my trip. I feigned interest in the old man’s speech until I couldn’t stand it. I excused myself with a word of thanks, turning my back on the old man. As I departed, I heard the faint tapping of the old man’s staff.”

“I traveled a week before I found it. A dune as high and wide as the horizon, glittering with promise. My stride turned to a sprint. I threw myself into the dune. The gold poured into my robes, becoming a second skin. I breathed deep, letting the metal taste fill my nose and mouth. I cried as laughter choked the breath out of me.”

The glaze vanishes from the stranger’s eyes. “You found the golden dune?”

“Yes. I lay on the dune for a day and a night, considering how I was going to transport the gold. I decided to haul out as much as I could. I emptied out what little provisions were left in my sack and cast aside my staff. I filled the sack to the point where the threads threatened to give with each step. Then I opened my hands, knelt reverently, and grabbed as much gold as I could hold. My hands were fit to burst.”

The stranger’s eyes move with the speed of a jackal stalking an injured goat. I lean heavily on my staff, my eyes shut tight. I hear footsteps circling me. The stranger always asks the same question: “Where’s the sack?”

“The sack is gone.”

The stranger sighs, like wind whistling through a desolate canyon. The ritual continues: “You aren’t rich.”

My left arm slithers out of my tattered white robes. The blackened, lifeless fingers of my left hand are curled tight, the flesh fused into a hard, dark ball. I raise my left hand above my head, displaying it--the setting sun catches a few falling flecks. I hear the stranger’s retreat; I tap my staff in time with the steps.