The Trading Post

Sam hated everything. He hated his four ex-wives, his eight stepchildren, and everyone he met, but he mostly hated everything to do with aging. Sam was alone, retired, and living on a tropical island paradise. He was wealthy beyond most mortal’s wildest dreams and lived in a mansion with a five-car garage. He had a cruise ship of a boat at a fancy marina and enough horsepower in his automobile collection to rival any movie star in Beverly Hills. 

Even though Sam had enough money to buy everything all over again, and enough muscle with his army of lawyers to destroy anyone or anything, he was completely miserable. When he woke and made coffee, it tasted bitter. When cocktail hour came, he drank alone and scowled at the multimillion-dollar view that made the cover of the most exclusive real-estate magazine in Florida. 

With every day that passed, Sam became evermore possessed with his age and he changed doctors as fast as he could find a new one. When he happened to venture out in one of his extravagant carsthat would turn heads wherever he went, he would often engage in a fantasy whenever he saw younger people. 

For a handsome man in retirement, Sam would imagine that he would give five million dollars - five million just to go backward in time and do the last few years over again. For a man in his sixties, he would give five times that amount, but for a young man of fifty, Sam would trade it all. 

One day when he was determined to find something that was not depressing and envious, he drove one of his luxury cars down to a weekly gathering at a waterfront bar and parked the gleaming sedan next to a Chevy and a stand of motorcycles. 

On the stage and in front of a bustling crowd, a band was playing and the locals were dancing and having a disgustingly good time. Everyone was cheerful. There were no scowling faces. As he pushed and elbowed his way deeper into the crowd, he saw a couple he had not seen for many years. The man and the woman from twenty years earlier appeared unchanged by the decades. The couple was laughing and joyful, but Sam was wretched. 

As the band played on, the familiar couple began to dance. The man and the woman had to be of an elderly age, but they were smiling and youthful. They were obviously carefree. 

Just as Sam began to rage and a wicked jealousy started to smolder, a black-clad motorcycle rider appeared at his elbow. The youthful man was wearing black leather even in the heat of the tropical afternoon, but he was not sweating, nor did he appear to be out of place or uncomfortable. 

When Sam turned to examine the black-clad rider, the man with the goatee and hair like a rock star spoke above the music from the stage. “They look wonderful, do they not?” the motorcycle rider spoke with an odd accent. “The couple dancing? You know them, I think?” 

Sam acknowledged the question with a nod, but he could not take his eyes off the couple, who were obviously not aging.  

Sam was a global traveler and had traveled the world many times, but he could not place the strange yet familiar accent that somehow seemed to vary when the motorcycle man spoke again. “Those people,” the man in leather almost whispered. “Those two have been down to The Trading Post.” The man with the perfect goatee paused to look Sam in the eyes. “The Trading Post is deep in the Everglades,” he nodded. “The old swamp station burned down years ago, but the wooden post that is the crossroads for the loop road and the Miami highway is still standing. The dancing couple have been down to that crossroads. That is why they look and feel the way they do. The Trading Post is not far from the highway, but you must walk as a humble man before you can touch it and find what you seek.” 

Briefly, Sam looked atthe dancers, but when he turned again, the slim figure with the goatee and black leather was moving away in the crowd. 

When Sam arrived at the old swamp station, where the Everglades forest rangers once kept watch for the fires that would spring up during the dry season, the sunset in the rearview mirror was only a glow. When he slammed the door and started the walk to the burned-out ruins, he began to feel foolish. He was completely alone on a fool’s errand with no other traffic on the old highway, but oddly, after a few steps, a chill shook his body, and he felt gooseflesh pimple his skin. 

Just as he was ready to turn back to the shining car, his mansion, and his island paradise with the miserable but safe stability, he noticed a wooden post standing high in the twilight. The desolate pillar was at the center of the burned-out buildings, but a clear and well-trod path was obvious in the rubble.  

Without realizing he was moving, Sam closed the last few steps and reached for the charred post. Before he could touch it, the biker in the black leather with the rock star hair and perfect goatee was once again at his elbow and speaking with the accent that would soon be familiar in any language.  

“When you touch the trading post, you trade. You trade all your secrets and all that you hope for against all that might ever be. Touch it. Touch it and see.” 

When Sam awoke, he was drenched in sweat. He was in bed and wearing his clothes from the day and the evening before. When he sprang to his feet, there was no stiffness nor aches and pains. When he rushed to the nearest mirror, his face was that of a much younger man. When he ran out of the bedroom and looked at the water, the morning was beautiful, but when he saw the black-clad rider rise from the couch and smile with his sharp teeth and his groomed goatee, he knew the devil would never leave. Sam also suddenly knew that when the new, improved, and youthful Sam began to dance around town, a few more customers would be looking for a deal down at The Trading Post. 

Happy Halloween Marco, Goodland, and Isles of Capri!