PART THREE

What’s happened so far: Alan-a-Nels and the other guy are on a quest for hidden treasure in Last Chance, Colorado. Alan found a map that supposedly leads to a stolen pearl necklace, worn by Marilyn Monroe. The pair have been travelling the country, searching for the treasure, for three weeks — actually, Alan has been searching for the treasure, the other guy was hoping to find a McDonald’s.

 

“That’s it! I think I know where the treasure is,” yelled Alan-a-Nels in near (and quite unnecessary) hysteria.

“What treasure?” grumbled the other guy (in previous episodes, the “other guy” was referred to as the ‘colleague’ and the ‘Aide-de-Camp’, but he didn’t seem to appreciate either of those monikers – he is a bit of a whiner). “I am not a whiner,” whined the other guy. “I have a name — it’s Harri Van Dahl. When are we going to get breakfast?”

“Who are you talking to?” questioned Alan, wishing he had a Snickers bar to offer his travelling companion. “You get a little weird when you’re hungry.” On the back of the map, in a near illegible scrawl, Al had deciphered the words ‘Last chance. Get it right.’ Now, they were at the crossroads of US-36 and highway 71, in what was left of Last Chance, Colorado. “It’s got to be here, hidden someplace in this ghost town. I just have to figure out what, ‘get it right,’ means.”

“Why not ask that guy?” offered Harri, happy that he was finally being referred to by his proper name. “Maybe he knows something.”

Alan and Harri had been sitting at the intersection, headed west on US-36, in Al’s over-heated 1998 Chevy Cavalier. The two had been on this fantasy quest, based on a fad created when the reprobate prince, Rand of the Fire, sold a bunch of maps, supposedly leading to lost treasures stolen from former and fallen Hollywood stars.

Rand made a second fortune (his first fortune having been frittered away on several really bad choices) as high school and college kids bought maps, abandoned their summer jobs, and drove all over the country in search of dubious treasures.

The crossroads were empty for miles in all directions, allowing the intrepid travelers plenty of time to discuss the map’s cryptic message (and the location of the nearest McDonald’s). To the north, under a lone cottonwood tree that had survived the prairie fire of 2012 and the draught at the beginning of the Millennium (yes, both things did happen — Nature has not been kind to Last Chance), sat a tall, thin man with thick black hair, a tired smile, and a plastic Walmart bag. “It’s about time you got here,” he said. A tone of relief echoed as he spoke. “Yours was the last map. I’ve been waiting for you to show up so I can give you the treasure and get out of here. You sure took your sweet time getting here.” With that announcement the gentleman stood up, extended his left hand holding the Walmart bag, and offered his business card with his right.

“Who are you?” asked the very confused Alan-a-Nels.

“Read the card. Everyone asks. No one is ever happy they found the treasure – they gotta’ ask, ‘Who are you?’ and ‘What’s this all about, then?’ That’s why I had the cards printed up,” sighed the exasperated man as he held out both hands. “I’m Rand of the Fire. I’m the guy that made the maps, sold the maps, made a bunch of money selling the maps — and you are the last one to find the treasure.” Rand smiled his tired smile one more time and shoved the plastic bag and wrinkled business card in Al’s general direction.

Alan took the bag and read the card. “Rand of the Fire — reprobate prince” was printed across the front. “You found the treasure — it ain’t much, but it’s all yours” was printed on the back. Inside the bag was a string of plastic pearls valued at $1.97, based on Walmart’s fall-back pricing.

Sensing that Alan might be just a little peeved by the end results of his three week fantasy quest, Rand offered a parting tidbit of advice.

“Next time, try that Pokémon Go thing. It will cost you less money, you still won’t win anything of value, but you can do it while hanging out at McDonald’s.”

“McDonald’s!” shouted what’s-his-name. “Now you’re talking. Where is it?”

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.