Timothy Dane stretched and yawned, his lean, slender body feeling the last vestiges of sleep as he shook the cobwebs from his head and tried to wake up. The ringing of the old alarm clock on the dresser encouraged him to move and after several attempts to bury his ears under his pillow, he got up to shut it off. The room was cool and the light coming in from around the tattered window shade was dim enough that he could tell it was still early. Probably before seven in the morning.
He checked the alarm clock as he shut it off. 6:45am. He sighed. He hated being right.
At 23 years old, Timothy felt cheated that he could no longer stay up late like he did when he was a teenager; playing video games or watching rented movies. Then again, there was a lot more that had changed about him than just that. If someone had told him just a year ago, that he'd be the sole owner (and denizen) of Pete's Salvage, he'd have not believed it. In fact, his impoverished surroundings in the small, ramshackle house on the inside corner of the salvage yard still seemed incongruous with his surroundings growing up in the suburbs of Chicago.
He'd almost finished his bachelor's degree in Metaphysical studies, but his money and support had dried up rather dramatically when his conservative father had discovered his homosexuality. Granted, he didn't know how his dad could have missed the fact that his son was a slightly effeminate, boytoy-ish fellow who spent most of his evenings down at "Rainbow's Tavern", but when he'd walked in on him and the big, buff Jerry from the collegiate basketball team, well, that had been it.
The series of misadventures that led to him being the owner of the salvage yard was too bizarre to believe, but after only a month of working there -out of desperation for a job- Timothy found himself the sole proprietor. It wasn't terribly difficult work, but at least three days out of the week, it required a real work out to sort and classify the junk people dropped off from homes, stores, apartments, construction sites and other salvage centers. Today, the remains of a renovated mansion from across town were arriving and -as Timothy stepped out into the crisp, Spring air- he saw the dump trucks arriving already.
Waving them in, the slight man soon signed for the rubbish, and got to work sorting it. Around Noon, Saul would be in along with the rest of the afternoon crew. He'd have a pretty good idea how to tackle the large pile by then and could direct everyone pretty quickly. Saul was a cute, slender, wiry fellow, much like Timothy himself, and they'd even fooled around now and then. But, still, dating a co-worker just seemed wrong to Timothy, somehow.
Pushing his brown hair out of his eyes, the young man started sorting through the piles of old garbage that had come his way. Over seventy percent of it would have to go to a landfill, but you never knew what you'd come across in these mass purchases.
A glint of light caught Timothy's eye as he explored the huge piles.
There, half-buried beneath an aluminum bed frame, was a beaten, weathered old box carved to look like a miniature treasure chest. It was only about a foot and a half long by about a foot deep and tall. It was painted black and held fast by a tiny chain and lock. As he picked it up, he could feel small items shift about inside. Along the front, near the top, were inset five fake (at least they *should* be fake) red gemstones set into the lid. Each was about an inch tall and nearly that dimension wide. They were cut octagonally and felt smooth to the touch. These were what were glinting in the morning sun.
Taking the chest back into his small home, Timothy examined it. Taped to the bottom were five keys; each was made of brass and was -like the chest itself- quite weathered. When he looked carefully, Timothy noticed etchings on the flat surface of each gemstone. They looked like symbols ... the first showed an arrow pointing down, the second an arrow pointing up, the third was the symbol for a man, the fourth were two arrows pointing to the sides and the fifth was a circle with eight arrows all pointing outwards from the center.
His curiosity piqued, he picked up one of the keys and inserted it into the small lock.
It wouldn't turn.
He tried harder and twisted the key as much as he dared, but still the lock wouldn't turn. Perplexed and frustrated, Timothy figured he could always take it to a locksmith and have it opened that way, but his sense of self-accomplishment seemed to tell him that he should get this thing open by himself. As he moved to put the chest down, he brushed against the first gemstone. He heard a click.
Picking up the chest again, he pressed his finger against the stone. It pushed inwards. With a smile, Timothy realized he could now turn the key. Each key must correspond to a different gemstone button on the front of the chest!
He blinked to himself. But why?
Still, that answer might be found by actually opening the chest.