Treasure Hunter

James was a modern archaeologist and he couldn’t be happier with his new line of work. He had felt things in the last few months that he had never known as an accountant; the excitement before a dig at a new site, the connection to a society through its once-prized belongings, the fulfillment of adding fresh treasures to his collection. He felt whole.

He sifted through the rubble furtively with his fingers, working only with his hands. There was an indescribable enjoyment he got from working with his hands. He was closer to God, nature, and society than he had ever been pounding mercilessly at his calculator behind his desk. He paused for a moment as a soft breeze blew across his face and he marveled at the potency of the odor it carried. It was a rotten stench, but that didn’t deter James from appreciating its beauty. There was beauty in every smell, every taste, every touch, every sound, every sight. There was life. Numbers had no smell, no taste, no touch, no sound, no sight. Numbers were dead.

James returned to his work and within moments he had made a new discovery; an old, wooden handle of a fishing rod. He removed the handkerchief from his pocket and meticulously polished the handle. He pocketed the handkerchief and gripped the wooden handle firmly with both hands. He squeezed it tightly, as its previous owner once had, as if he was battling against a marlin, as if his next meal depended on the firmness of his grasp. The handle was coarse and the splintering wood dug deep into his palms.

James wondered how many others had held the handle just as he did now. How many life lessons had this handle taught? How many victories had it seen? How many days had it spent in the blistering heat of the sun? How many secrets had it heard?

What life coursed through this foot-long piece of wood! Its previous owner must have either encountered a tremendous tragedy or simply been a fool to have let such a treasure leave his hands. James relaxed his grip and smiled as an overwhelming sense of fulfillment surged through his body. He was now the sentinel of the wooden handle; protector of its life-force, keeper of its memories.

James climbed out of the dumpster and delicately placed the handle amongst all his other wards in his shopping cart and began slowly pushing on his journey to the next site, and if he was lucky, his next treasure.