The Story of Gabriel

His name was Gabriel McKean. Named by his devout immigrant Irish Catholic father after the death of his mother in child birth, it was truly a miracle he had survived being brought into the world. The misdiagnosed (as things often were in the tender, young year of 1894) Placenta Accreta caused him to be thrust into the world himself at the tender age of 32 weeks. His mother hemorrhaged and died in child birth. Such is life. Truly a miracle, his father would repeat, Gabe held so dearly to life that he must have been sent with a purpose, for why would God force their family to undergo such trials, unless there was a purpose?

And yet here he was, walking up the road, his fingers wrapped around the dusty old case that had brought his life to this place. He drummed melodically on the case, squinting his hazel eyes and gazing off into the sunset. As the last honeyed rays settled on the scattered tree tops of that stretch between Clarksberg and Morgantown, Gabe took the time to reflect, 32 years later.

There were ups and downs, to be certain, but to be a man in your prime in 1926, the roaring twenties, well, it was intoxicating. Everyone was going to be the next Carnegie, or John Pierpont, and Gabriel was no different. Upon reflection, Gabriel found himself to surmise his life in moments of great elation and grief. Graduating from Harvard Business School, that was a great moment. His father didn't understand why he wanted to go to college--the steel mill always needed new employees. He didn't like that his son wanted to escape, and would spend the rest of his life doing so.

Then, of course, more fresh in his mind stung the memory of his wife's death in childbirth. Gabe's son, it turned out, was not such a fighter as he. Flashes of images, all cut at him, little pricks and tears somehow containable inside. His face contorted, certain that out here, no one would be able to look upon him. He clenched the black case, tipping his hat back.

He stopped walking.

To be responsible for the death of three people. He couldn't look that doctor in the eye. He, the murderer, left a bitter sweet taste in everything he did. In his truth, he was a serial killer. In ours, much less so, yet he, like so many, without the ability to see through another's lens.

He started walking again.

A serial killer on the run, again. And, like last time, demons would be the only thing that chased him. He continued drumming on the case-- he had nicked it off a traveling salesman. It seemed so trivial, just an empty shell, and yet he filled it at that hospital. Or had it been full already?

When he arrived, he would take the new rail to New York City. Fortune favored the brave, and he would stamp out the old with the new, dust displaced and everything would be fine then.

Another snapshot-- this time, the moment he realized that it wasn't the end of the journey he was smiling at. It was the road, here, and the bright tomorrow, despite the sordid past. Behind him dark and sinister waters washed slowly muffling shores.

To fortune. To vindication. But always he would have in his box what he filled it with at the hospital. He would always have that one thing.

Just one thing.

It wasn't until October 29th, 1932 that Gabriel looked into his box. Look how far I've come, Mary-Ann, his voice would echo in his head. How far I've come, and still I'm back here. A half-consumed bottle of whiskey with a rag soaked through was the only light that twisted through his tent in Central Park. Like the rest he managed to find himself sucked in to positions of extreme power. So much opportunity, Gabe like the other star-struck men in their prime drawn to the Art Deco world of New York City. He was given the title of Investment Manager at a Private Equity Fund. They had a lot of nice titles back then. He wondered whether it was worth drinking from the bottle of whiskey to make him think he was warm, or just let it burn away like the rest of his money?

Things were worse a year before. He had thought, How am I gonna pay back these bills? But then the banks started closing, and the debt collectors stopped coming. Not that there was any money left to take, but it was a relief. President Hoover was on the outs, and a new era dawned. The little licks of flame spurted up, filling the tent with the faint smell of burnt grain. It seemed to Gabriel that God was interested in doling out a lot of punishment to just a single man, but whenever Gabriel had that box in his hands, his world seemed to melt away.

One man can take a lot of punishment, Gabriel thought. The box meant that it was time to move on. To live on. And so Gabriel got up in such a rise that it seemed like thunder itself was there to back him. The whiskey bottle shattered as he exited the tent, but not before he drew the box close. There would be work to be had back home-- maybe his father wasn't wrong afterall. There was always plenty of work at the steel mill, or so his father said. It was enough for Gabriel, another pivotal moment in his life defined by that crucial moment he and the box first crossed paths. New York would leave him much the way he came, penniless and with only the clothes on his back. But for the tremendous high (like the reefer addicts in the cities get, his father always said), New York was just like purgatory-- it's promises so sweet, it's realities the smell of Central Park on those long, sweltering 1932 summer days.

It wasn't until August, 1987 that Peter McKean stumbled upon a box while cleaning up his father's attic that smelled like an old shoe. Cobwebs covered thousands of fingerprints that lay as evidence of it's passage through time. He had gone into the attic begrudgingly, having just had a thousand dollar manicure and his hair trimmed perfectly. He was Vice President of Mergers and Acquisitions for Citibank. He loved his title.

And life had treated him well--as far as he knew, he had just put his savings into oil.

Dad, said he, mesmerized. Grandpa left...

Would but the box be able to change the world. But a box is just a box. Life is far more peculiar, and much harder to define.

Except, perhaps, in a snapshot.