for some but not for all

There once was a man who had a business of selling. A memory here, a memory there; each sold for a penny, a dollar, all were cheap.

In a town nestled deep in the America heart, a boy herding cattle back from the feeding grounds saw the man. He watched him hang his posters, offering a life away from the farms. The boy didn't speak to the man. He only watched him at first. But intrigued by his gifts, this boy bought one of his tickets.

And the man took him away, took him to Japan, Hungry, Sweden. He took him to Russia for an exhibition at the Kremlin. There the man showed him a beast, a creature tall and wide, a brute thicker and stronger than any other to have ever been alive. Snarling his untamed teeth, the beast roared for the thirteen years he had fought on the ropes, pleasing the people with his wildness.

The man crouched to the boy putting his lips to his ear. “You see the beast? Challenge him. Fight him. And I will give you wealth untold.” But the lie in the man’s words, the lie the boy was too young to recognize was that the wealth, the glory, the fame would come at a price: a memory for a shilling, two for a dollar, three for a ruble, five for a pound. But not knowing the lie, the boy walked to the beast, put his finger to his chest and called him to the mat.

Crowds of women, men, and boys gathered. The scuffle was grand. And the beast, he was fierce. But the boy he was not afraid of him. He wrapped his forearms around his neck. He held him tight, squeezing with all the strength he had as the beast kicked his legs into the air. Dust flew. The mat of their ring tour, bits of it falling into the stands where the people watched. But in the end when all things settled and the world became calm once again, the boy stood and the beast lay shriveled on the ground. Then the crowds cheered him, calling his name, slapping their hands against his as he walked to the man to collect his prize.

And yes, the man paid in full. He took the boy to dignitaries, presidents, kings. He lifted him to roof tops. He had songs written, and he let the people sing them, and cheer the boy for conquering the beast. But the man also extracted his fare. He took the memories, starting with the little ones first, the ones that often went unnoticed. They sold for a good price, for the people loved the boy. But the more the memories sold the more the people hungered for them. And they no longer were satisfied with the memories that spoke of smiles given in passing or the glimpses of the sun breaking through the American trees; they wanted more. So the man sold the people the memories of a lover’s first kiss. He sold them as the boy sat in the limelight, basking in the glory of his being. And without the boy even knowing it, away went his past, his present, the hope of his future not seen.

When the man was finished, and the last of the crowed sundered away clutching the memories of the boy’s childhood, the man walked to the boy. For his service he offered him one last gift. A gift that shinned. A gift that came without a price. A gift small, humble, and kind.

In the end the boy smiled.