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Book: The Left Behinds and the iPhone That Saved George Washington by David Potter
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Authors: David Potter
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Daniel and Elizabeth.
They’re intrigued. As far as Elizabeth is concerned, a one-dollar bill beats an iPhone.
“My word,” she says. “There he is. General Washington.”
“Yes,” I say, and show one to the old woman. Her eyes go wide.
“See this?” I say. “It’s the new currency. General Washington himself is on this bill. And guarantees its value one hundred percent.”
She reaches for it. She wants it more than she’s wanted anything in her life, but I pull it away. “First, I need to hear what you’ve been hearing. If it’s of value, the bill is yours.”
She steps forward. She’s a bit of a mangled old lady—her hair is white and stringy, she has spots on her face, and she smells almost as bad as the horses. Her eyes shift left,then right, then left again. “I hear,” she says in a whisper, “that Dr. Franklin never made his ship to France. That he was, shall we say, a bit indisposed at the time of departure. And not alone, if you understand my meaning. But so mortified is he about missing the departure that he’s lying low, awaiting the next ship.”
“Lying low? Lying low where?”
She smiles her toothless smile. “For that, I would need special consideration.”
I wave two dollar bills before her. “They’re yours,” I say. “Two. But only for the truth.”
“Near the end of Market,” she says. “One of the buildings he owns. No tenants, so there he stays, till he finds a ship that sails. And prays no one discovers him!”
She grabs the ones and is off. And so are we, to near the very end of Market Street.
TWENTY-THREE
A FEW MINUTES LATER WE come to a small, tidy building. There’s no one in the street, thankfully. It’s gotten colder, by the way, and the wind has picked up. Our poor horse, Juniper, has probably done as much as she is able, and needs to rest. We tie her up, and get out. There’s no number on the door, and no marking. I lift my hand and rap, two sharps and one flat.
Nothing.
I try again, louder, more insistent.
Rap, rap. Rap, rap. Rap
.
Something stirs.
Rap rap rap rap rap
.
Someone sighs.
Rap rap rap
.
“Shush!” someone says. The voice is a man’s voice, a man of a certain age: not so young. Not at all young. He shouts a single shush, nothing more.
We wait.
We wait some more.
The temperature drops, the wind increases, and poor Juniper snorts like she’s saying,
What about me?
I rap again. Three hard ones.
Rap. Rap. Rap
.
No sound, but a slight lifting of a lace curtain covering a side window. And, peering through, a man in spectacles.
Bald up top, long gray hair behind.
An unmistakable man. Dr. Benjamin Franklin himself.
He’s positively
glowering
at us. I can think of only one thing that might take the steam off—I take out my iPhone and wave it in front of the window. The eyes widen at once, and we hear a shuffling to the door. Then we hear keys, latches, locks. Something is undone, or unlocked, and the door opens a crack.
A hand extends. A single hand, a left one. No rings. But crusty-ish, the hand of an older man, with yellowed nails and spots. The hand makes a gesture, a gesture recognizable today, or in 1776, or probably as long as humans have had hands. The gesture is an impatient double flick of the fingers. It means one thing, in any language: gimme.
Fork it over.
I fork it over. I lay the iPhone on the open palm of Dr. Ben Franklin. His hand encircles it, fondles it almost, then immediately slithers back inside the door.
The door shuts.
“Hey!” I shout. “That’s mine! Give it back!”
Silence. Then another peek from behind the curtain.
“Give it back!” I say again.
“I quite like this,” he says, from behind the door. “It does intrigue me. I would like to know its function, but first, may I have it?”
“You may not,” I say, and raise my hand to the window, and give him the same gesture he had given me: fork it back.
He opens the door, and into my outstretched palm he places something round and
They’re intrigued. As far as Elizabeth is concerned, a one-dollar bill beats an iPhone.
“My word,” she says. “There he is. General Washington.”
“Yes,” I say, and show one to the old woman. Her eyes go wide.
“See this?” I say. “It’s the new currency. General Washington himself is on this bill. And guarantees its value one hundred percent.”
She reaches for it. She wants it more than she’s wanted anything in her life, but I pull it away. “First, I need to hear what you’ve been hearing. If it’s of value, the bill is yours.”
She steps forward. She’s a bit of a mangled old lady—her hair is white and stringy, she has spots on her face, and she smells almost as bad as the horses. Her eyes shift left,then right, then left again. “I hear,” she says in a whisper, “that Dr. Franklin never made his ship to France. That he was, shall we say, a bit indisposed at the time of departure. And not alone, if you understand my meaning. But so mortified is he about missing the departure that he’s lying low, awaiting the next ship.”
“Lying low? Lying low where?”
She smiles her toothless smile. “For that, I would need special consideration.”
I wave two dollar bills before her. “They’re yours,” I say. “Two. But only for the truth.”
“Near the end of Market,” she says. “One of the buildings he owns. No tenants, so there he stays, till he finds a ship that sails. And prays no one discovers him!”
She grabs the ones and is off. And so are we, to near the very end of Market Street.
TWENTY-THREE
A FEW MINUTES LATER WE come to a small, tidy building. There’s no one in the street, thankfully. It’s gotten colder, by the way, and the wind has picked up. Our poor horse, Juniper, has probably done as much as she is able, and needs to rest. We tie her up, and get out. There’s no number on the door, and no marking. I lift my hand and rap, two sharps and one flat.
Nothing.
I try again, louder, more insistent.
Rap, rap. Rap, rap. Rap
.
Something stirs.
Rap rap rap rap rap
.
Someone sighs.
Rap rap rap
.
“Shush!” someone says. The voice is a man’s voice, a man of a certain age: not so young. Not at all young. He shouts a single shush, nothing more.
We wait.
We wait some more.
The temperature drops, the wind increases, and poor Juniper snorts like she’s saying,
What about me?
I rap again. Three hard ones.
Rap. Rap. Rap
.
No sound, but a slight lifting of a lace curtain covering a side window. And, peering through, a man in spectacles.
Bald up top, long gray hair behind.
An unmistakable man. Dr. Benjamin Franklin himself.
He’s positively
glowering
at us. I can think of only one thing that might take the steam off—I take out my iPhone and wave it in front of the window. The eyes widen at once, and we hear a shuffling to the door. Then we hear keys, latches, locks. Something is undone, or unlocked, and the door opens a crack.
A hand extends. A single hand, a left one. No rings. But crusty-ish, the hand of an older man, with yellowed nails and spots. The hand makes a gesture, a gesture recognizable today, or in 1776, or probably as long as humans have had hands. The gesture is an impatient double flick of the fingers. It means one thing, in any language: gimme.
Fork it over.
I fork it over. I lay the iPhone on the open palm of Dr. Ben Franklin. His hand encircles it, fondles it almost, then immediately slithers back inside the door.
The door shuts.
“Hey!” I shout. “That’s mine! Give it back!”
Silence. Then another peek from behind the curtain.
“Give it back!” I say again.
“I quite like this,” he says, from behind the door. “It does intrigue me. I would like to know its function, but first, may I have it?”
“You may not,” I say, and raise my hand to the window, and give him the same gesture he had given me: fork it back.
He opens the door, and into my outstretched palm he places something round and
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