"Riddle Me This!"

Jeremy Smith was a sweet, gentle man, but he was never rich and never would be. In school, he loved a girl named Rebecca from afar. She was from a wealthy family and he knew she was forever out of his league, but still he befriended her. He graduated and went to work but never forgot about her. And then one day, the stock market crashed. Rebecca’s family lost all their money and most of their friends. Looking for a shoulder to cry on, she came to her old friend Jeremy. Soon, she fell in love with him too and they were married. He had a job at a jewelry store and earned enough to keep them both comfortable but nowhere near the lavish style she had grown up in. Still, she never complained.

Jeremy also had a hobby: he loved to paint. He mostly did scenery and buildings; he was terrible with faces. He once had to go to a fancy art supply store to get a special shade of blue for his skies. While he was waiting, he struck up a conversation with another customer. The bearded man was picking up a special palette. Jeremy asked if he was an artist and Andre admitted that he was. Jeremy asked if he could tell him a story while they waited and he agreed.

Jeremy’s wife Rebecca had 4 older sisters, each about 3 years apart from the others. When each of them reached their 25th birthday, their father commissioned an artist to paint their portrait. Rebecca was due to have hers painted on her 25th birthday – November 9, 1929. But only days before that was Black Tuesday, and her family’s investments were wiped out. Her appointment had to be cancelled, like so many other things. She will be celebrating her 30th birthday this year, and Jeremy knew that more than anything she wanted to have the portrait that her sisters all had but that she was denied. Mr. Smith could not afford to hire an artist, but if he could find one willing to paint his wife, he’d gladly pay him over a period of years if need be. Andre told him he couldn’t help. Alas, portraits were not his specialty. Jeremy understood and went back to waiting for his paint to be mixed.

Just as he was leaving, however, Andre approached him. “There is one way I might be able to help you. I have a friend who is a portrait artist, but he’s very eccentric. I could arrange for the two of you to meet, but his schedule is so oddball; I’m never sure where he’ll be from week to week. And though he’s wonderful at painting faces, he’s terrible at recognizing them. But there is one solution to that. I want you to go to an umbrella store, any old one, and buy an umbrella with a distinctive design. Then send me a telegram describing it and I’ll relay it to him. Also, telegram me about any appointments you may have in advance – you can send it collect if it gets to be too expensive for you. I’ll alert him to where you live and work and some of your general haunts. He’ll be on the lookout for that umbrella, so have it with you at all times or he might not be able to spot you. He might even risk stopping by your house under some other guise so keep it with you at all times, day and night. Understand?”

Jeremy agreed to this, and gave him a list of where he worked and places that he frequented. Then he bought the umbrella at a thrift store and proceeded to carry it around with him wherever he went. He had been told by Andre not to tell his wife under any circumstances, so poor Mr. Smith could only tell Rebecca that it was important and that he’d explain someday. So many times, he left the umbrella somewhere and almost lost it for good, but he always managed to recover it. His erratic behavior disturbed Rebecca more and more. Finally, she called the jewelry store’s company psychiatrist and begged him to have her husband’s head examined under the guise of “a routine company exam.” He agreed, and she was the one who took him there that day. After waiting for hours, she was finally able to take him home. The doctor gave her a glowing report that he was free of psychoses, neuroses, obsessions, or other psychological hang-ups. She was relieved, for a while.

Jeremy continued his umbrella obsession until just a few days before his wife’s birthday. He realized by now that there would be no time for anyone to sit with her even if the eccentric artist ever showed up. He and Rebecca had just finished a picnic lunch in the park and were preparing to leave when they saw a young couple arrive with a huge picnic basket and blanket. He also saw the young man surreptitiously check a small box in his pocket. He was preparing to propose! “Oh, dear,” said his girl friend. “We can’t stop and lunch here now. It looks like it might rain, and I just had my hair done yesterday. Oh, why didn’t I bring an umbrella with me?” “I brought many things with me,” the young man said, “but not that. Oh please, take a chance, it’s such a perfectly sunny day; I’m sure it won’t rain.” But she wouldn’t change her mind.

So Jeremy took his umbrella over to them. “Here,” he said. “You may have mine. It’s not very fancy, but it will keep your hair dry if you need it to.” “Oh, thank you so much,” the young lady gushed. “It is such a beautiful day for a picnic.” The Smiths walked off leaving the happy couple to enjoy their picnic and proposal. Rebecca smiled in relief, but then nervously asked, “Do you want to buy another umbrella?” “No,” he told her, “I’ll explain the whole story after dinner on your birthday. Then you can laugh at your foolish husband.” “Never,” she said sweetly, but with a mischievous smile added, “Maybe just a chuckle.”

On her birthday, Jeremy took her out to a fancy dinner on one of his rare splurges. As they returned home, Mrs. Jones caught up to them and said a large package had arrived while they were out so she had them leave it with her. They took the large crate out of her house and into theirs. It looked like it contained a huge flat screen TV, but of course they hadn’t been invented yet. He got a crowbar and they opened the crate. And there inside, on a velvet cushion, was an elegant portrait of Rebecca looking like it had been painted by Da Vinci himself. Becca gasped and tears ran down her face as she saw it. She threw her arms around her husband. There were so many words she wanted to say to him, but all she could manage was the word, “How?” But oddly enough, that was the one thing he couldn’t answer.

The answer came in the mail the next afternoon addressed to Rebecca, and she was delighted to read it to Jeremy. “My name is Andre LeToth,” the letter began. “It was I who was commissioned to paint each of your sisters. I saw you four times as I painted your sisters, starting as a sweet young teen and blossoming into womanhood. I had looked forward to painting you as well – until the crash came. Indeed, a part of me wanted to do the portrait for free, but I too lost much in the stock market and was barely able to stay afloat by working for paying customers. God must have sent me to the supply store that day to meet your husband. I was so touched by his request that I was willing to wave my fee and paint you. But I paint women on their 25th birthday for a very special reason. There is something about that age that brings out features in their faces – a special sparkle in the eye, an intensity to their features. I knew it was too late for that now.

But just before he left the store, I remembered something that I had learned totally by accident. There is something that helps bring those same features out at any age. It is intense worry, deep concern, and it cannot be faked. I realized the only way to bring it out in you, Rebecca, was to make you concerned about your husband. So I invented the story of my eccentric friend as an excuse to make him carry that umbrella around constantly. I knew as the days passed and his behavior didn’t change that you would get more and more worried. When he sent the telegram saying he was going to see a doctor I recognized as a psychiatrist, I knew your concern must be intense. I know many of the doctors in this town; we do charity work together. So I contacted him and revealed the whole story, asking that he insist that you accompany him to the office and make sure you had to wait a long time. There I was hidden behind a one way mirror and was able to sketch you while you waited for your husband with those beautiful concerned features on your face. With the sketch and my near-photographic memory I was then able to paint the portrait you now have as if you had posed for it for hours. Since it was only days before your birthday by then, I decided to surprise both of you with this. I must say of all the portraits I painted of your family, this is the most beautiful one of all. It is my pleasure to gift it to you both, and may you both have a long and happy marriage.”

Jeremy hung the portrait on the wall that very day. Rebecca treasured it all the days of her life, but not half as much as she treasured her loving husband.

Leland Foster, Attorney at Law, knocked nervously on the door. Like in Alcoholics Anonymous, he was on his 12-step process and up to step 9 – making amends to those he had harmed. But Leland wasn’t an alcoholic, just a coward. Billy Weste opened the door to his apartment. He had known Leland was coming; the lawyer had contacted him by telephone first to arrange the meeting. Billy ushered him in and he began his story.

“I’ve worked for Barnaby Weste for years, along with several other clients. One of them, Rory, was close to being a gangster. He had a pretty girlfriend who used to flirt with me when he wasn’t around. One night, they had a big fight and she walked out on him and showed up at my place. Nothing serious happened. We talked, drank, made out a little and she passed out drunk on my couch. She went back to her house the next morning, where she found an expensive bracelet from Rory waiting for her. She made up with him and that was that – she wasn’t about to tell him where she spent the night. But unbeknownst to me, Barnaby had had a private eye on retainer following me around. He got photos of the two of us together. I knew if he ever sent them to Rory, the famously jealous man would kill both of us.

Barnaby had his hooks in me now, and that’s how he got me to go along with his cruel scheme. He always hated you, Billy. Never said why; obviously there’s no way to find out now. He knew he didn’t have long to live and he wanted to get you good one last time. He told me about his plan to trick you into taking a worthless envelope and signing away your rights to his fortune irrevocably. He had an associate who had the only copies of the photos of me and Rory’s doll. If I produced the document signed by you and officially notarized to him, he would mail the photos and negatives to me. Otherwise, he would mail them to Rory.

With that threat hanging over my head, I co-operated in the scheme by “letting” you find out about a supposed secret gold mine that he had worth at least a cool million. We also arranged for you to “accidentally” overhear a discussion between me and him that the coordinates of the mine were on a plain blank envelope – the only envelope he owned without some company watermark on it. A little heat on the area marked with two pinpricks would make the message readable. He made the bogus claim that he wanted you to give up the envelope so that later on its secret would be revealed, and you’d realize you passed it up.

I wasn’t sure you had bought any of that until the day I made you the offer and you examined the envelope carefully, obviously looking for the pin pricks and the lack of a watermark. I’m ashamed to say how relieved I was when you signed the paper forfeiting your claim on the family fortune. Barnaby was a weasel, but at least he kept his word and his man sent me the photos to burn at my leisure. I’m really sorry, Billy. What I did was beneath contempt.”

“It’s all right,” said Billy with a smile. “It turned out okay. When I realized there was no secret coordinates on the envelope, I was crushed. But looking back on it, I’d have probably placed it on some more “sure things” and lost it all. Instead I swore off gambling that day. I had to take some dangerous jobs, like driving a truck full of explosives, to earn enough money to keep the bookies at bay. Finally, I started getting ahead, and then someone at Gamblers Anonymous loaned me enough to pay off the bookies. I’m paying him back at a reasonable rate of interest. I’ll be free and clear of my debt within a year; I’m feeling good. Don’t feel bad; Barnaby did a number on all of us.”

“How do you put up with all the anger you must have against him?” Leland asked. “Easy,” chirped Billy, “I just put it in writing. I’m writing up all his nasty exploits and describing what a lowlife he is as I write.”
“Can I see what you’ve written? Maybe I’ll start doing that.”
“Sure, I’ll let you borrow it.”
Leland took the writings home with him. They were indeed witty and clever. He called the young man back. “I have a client who’s a publisher. Would you object to me letting him read this?”
“Be my guest,” laughed Billy. “But I’ll lay you 10 to 1 he’ll think it’s juvenile junk.” Well, Billy would have lost that bet, because the publisher loved it. Before long, he had a deal to write a book about “Mean Willoughby Banes” and his wicked schemes. It was eventually a successful book, movie and TV series. With his success, he wrote another book - an exaggerated version of all the dangerous jobs he took to earn money after losing it on a bad gamble. Later, he wrote a story on how he successfully settled the legal issue over who inherited Barnaby’s estate by interviewing each claimant and finding the one thing they most wanted from the estate. Then he split the estate into equal portions but making sure each claimant got the one thing he or she had wanted most. It worked, everybody signed on, and the estate was finally peacefully distributed. In his book, he exaggerated the individuals’ characters and they were all delighted to give him suggestions to help him make their characters look more comical and ridiculous.

The book “Mean Willoughby Banes” had ended with Willoughby going to Hell, where he was put in a pillory with his head propped up and forced to watch a widescreen version of his family succeeding without him. But for the TV series, they had softened the character over the years so that he became more sympathetic and heroic. Indeed, the big finale had him becoming a good guy and a huge success. Billy just chuckled at that – sometimes art didn’t imitate life.

I never could think of a reason why Barnaby would single out Billy, so I just kind of ducked and ran past that. If anyone else has an idea they're welcome to suggest it. But I'm happy to lay the Barnaby Weste story to rest with the above.

Is May his wife's name?

Error 1: “Their” should have been “They’re”
Error 2: “errers” should have been “errors.”
Error 3: The statement itself, which says there were three errors, when in fact there were only two.

The gas station attendant told them to stop stalling and get it over with. If they just poke around trying to be the slowest, the race will never end and neither one will inherit anything. Or…..

He told them to make a deal that no matter who wins, they will split the money. Now just roar out there quick and get started. Or....

The gas station informed them that “slowest” actually meant “fastest” so they both raced off to win the race. How he came up with that, I have no idea because I tried dictionary.com with about 20 definitions of slow and they meant…well…slow.

Best solution: It is in fact December 15th and the man’s birthday. Sadly, he has early onset Altzheimer’s and is confused, thinking it is a day in May. But the riddle says he woke up “in the middle of May.” That’s right, because he lives in May, Colorado – in the center of town. (I just made that name up, but I’m sure there must be some city in the US called May.)

Other solutions:
He is dreaming.

Everyone is playing a practical joke on him. (Oh….yeah….never mind.)

He is in an episode of TALES FROM THE DARKSIDE. When even his parents call to wish him a Happy Birthday on the wrong day, that is the last straw. He starts drinking again and his family all desert him. Finally, the punchline is revealed in the last scene. We see another poor schlub waking up and finding his wife wishing him a Happy Birthday, and he says, “But my birthday’s in November.” (Referencing TFTD episode “The New Man” S1E1, with a similar plot except a kid he’s never seen before shows up at work claiming to be his son, and everyone else in the world tells him the kid really is his, even his wife and other son. And, sad to say, we never get any explanation; we just see it happening to someone else - with the same darn kid.)

In a plot similar to 50 FIRST DATES meets MEMENTO, the guy has a head injury so he wakes up each day thinking it’s the day after his birthday. Every day, his family and friends pretend it’s his birthday in the hopes it will jolt him back to normal. They’ve tried it over and over again, and now it’s the middle of May and still obviously not working. Time to call in Adam Sandler. (I should have quit after TALES FROM THE DARKSIDE).