The road to Broomfield is a haphazard affair. The river stays hidden. Lost houses are reclaimed by nature. Sad trees part revealing the docks.
The yellow and green boat left with the flotsam and jetsom. It shares a backwater with tires, plastic bottles and enough paper to build a tree. The precious cargo stares out the window. A fifty dollar boat with a half million dollar statue.
“At least, the wooden man is sea worthy.” I talk to Noone. I’m here for the wooden man.
The door fails to open with the key. It’s locks tumblers haven’t budged in years. The wooden man laughs at me from inside. Actually, a note lays next to him. “I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much honey.”
I marvel at the why. I slam the door hard enough to hurt my shoulder. The boat groans. But eases the door loose from its rusty trim.
“My friend, we are going to auction. You have a world awaiting your presence.” I stare at him like an adversary.
A loud creak sounds from behind me. The door closes itself. It rattles me a bit. But my prize is at hand. I wrap the wooden guy in a drop cloth. Can’t damage the goods.
The boat groans again. This time the boat lists to the right. The windows angle down toward the water.
My phone buzzes. I shake the sinking boat for a second.
“Is it real? Do you have possession?” The text reads.
“Yes, it’s prefect. Worth half a million. I’ll certify it now.” I text back.
The water creeps into the bottom of the door. I pull on the door. It refuses to budge. I grab the wooden guy and run upstairs to find a window to break out. Us land lubbers fail to realize what capsized means until to late.
The bee is stuck in a web of gold.
I flail in water stuffed in a boat.
“Insurance money beats an auction.” I should have known.