I Was Lost But Now I'm Found

By Ernest Lopez

The search for a medieval archangel and, yes, a female archangel. You see, that was part of her penance to be forgotten by the church and its followers, but it did not include ancient stories passed down through the ages mostly by those she helped. She was known by many names in different parts of the kno

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorUnit
• Release date: Aug 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958895191

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I Was Lost

But Now ’m Found

Ernest Lopez

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Copyright © Ernest Lopez. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-958895-18-4 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-958895-19-1 (E-book Edition)

Printed in the United States.

I Was Lost

But Now ’m Found

I dedicate this book to my loving wife, Julia.

Without her, this, or any book I write,

would never be, and that’s the truth.

I Was Lost but Now I’m Found is a story that could only come out

of me after over twenty-five years of marriage to a good woman.

I know there are more out there, and you know who you are.

ACQUISITIONS

This is a story written as it unfolded. I had no idea as to where it was taking me. It took hold and even surprised me, but you have to believe as I do then think, yes, that would be nice. There is a lot of the truth in what I write; but yes, it is fiction.

I Was Lost but Now I’m Found

by

Ernest Lopez

Enjoy!

I

I Was Lost But Now I’m Found

You know, when you go down to the seashore or say Hey, let’s go to the beach to anybody, what flashes through your mind would be the water, the waves, the sand, and all that running around, getting wet, all kinds of fun, then lay out to let the sun burn you just a little, then one last dip before you go home or back where you’re staying at the time. Unless you’re into booze and easy, fast women, that party will be till tomorrow afternoon, and you can’t remember what you did, but that’s just another story. This is hard to accept unless you have been in the same lonely part of life as I was at the time. Everything had gone wrong or turned ugly in my life up to now, and I couldn’t see any change as I sat there on the edge of the bed, so in an effort to break loose, I said out loud, Hey, let’s go to the beach. I even answered out loud, Why not? It can’t be any worse, so I pulled on some work clothes that were about shot, got into my old car, and was off to the beach or seashore. The one thing I hated most was a lot of people together having fun, with loud laughing and noise over the roar of the waves. To me, this was too much, so I drove my old car down the coast, looking for a spot too ugly and empty for anybody to want to go there. Finally, I found it—just off a cliff was a dirty little beach. Nobody was around, not even the crazy fishermen that seem to be in all those off-the-road spots. OK, this is the spot where I chose to be alone. I parked off to the side of the road and climbed over and down the rocks all the way down to the water. I could see this was a very lonely place. The dirty sand ran all the way to the cliff. I guess, in a good storm, all this would be underwater. The waves would smash against the rocky cliff as I walked on the sand, not feeling sorry for myself, just plain down. As I came to a clean spot on the sand, I flopped down. The sand was hot. As I looked down, I could see the fine sand, the tiny seashells, the sand flees, then, down the shore, broken sticks, trash, and a lot of seaweed. As I sat there, the seaweed around me was dry and black, but down there away was a large pile of fresh seaweed. Did you ever wonder what’s in these bubbles in the stems? I thought I’ll just pop a few to see. As I got up, I walked down to that big pile of fresh seaweed. I pulled out my pocketknife to cut the first one open, then the shape of the pile caught my eye. It looked like a body as I picked up a stick to poke it and pull it apart. No, it was all seaweed—no, wait, there’s a large leather bag or sack in there. It’s all tangled up with a rope. I pulled the large bag free, away from the seaweed. It was heavy and still had water in it. I had to look inside. I cut the whole top off the leather bag where the rope held it tight. As I looked inside the wet mess, it looked like a bag full of oatmeal, but I knew it was all paper; the seawater had eaten it all up. As I started to pour it out, I could make out the faint picture of hundred-dollar bills. Wow, a bag this big was full of money. How much had there been, and how long had it been in the water? I laughed, Well, I sure can’t spend it, as I dumped the whole bag out—wait a minute, at the bottom of the bag, a bunch of smaller leather bags about the size of my fist. I counted six pouches. Now there’s something inside, and it feels hard. I spread out the large leather bag flat, then I cut open one of the smaller leather pouches; they were dark-blue sapphires, big ones. The second bag had large cut diamonds. The next one was diamonds. Also the fourth was dark-blue sapphires. The last two were rubies. I sat there and thought what to do. If I tell the world what I found, everybody will try to claim it’s theirs, even get taxed on the worth of the find. By the looks of the bag, it’s been lost a long time. All that money lost, and nobody cried about it—why or where was it lost? That seaweed could have come from anywhere. The owner could have drowned or been killed or just plain died of old age, but if lost and it’s hot, there will always be somebody looking for it somewhere; and the more its worth, the more it will be sought. These stones don’t wear out. I’ll take everything home, except the mush. Nobody can tell it was even paper. When it dries, it’ll just blow away, and seaweed has no roots; it just floats along the coast wherever the ocean current takes it, but it is big or large, whole seaweed. It broke loose from the rest and wound up here because it’s the only new seaweed on this beach. Well, it’s time to leave. I locked everything in my car trunk. It’s safe only because nobody knows about it. Before I drove off, I climbed to the top of the cliff and looked out. Yes, I can see, just breaking the top of the water, seaweed out there. It could have been lost out there, someway got stuck in all that mess, then a boat or just the current pushed it free, and it washed up on shore, but it would take years for the money to rot out; and the way the leather bag was tied, it could have floated out in the ocean for a long time before it got stuck to the seaweed. Ocean currents come from all over. One thing is sure: if it was lost here, there would be somebody here always until it was found. It had to come from out there, and maybe it’s better I get outta here. Nobody even knows I’m here, and now it’s a good thing. As I drove home, I was thinking, all the stones are cut, so there is some kind of record someplace so they can be identified by the size and cut, so selling them on the open market is out. I must find an old jeweler that deals in stones and become his friend even if it takes a year before I even ask about any lost stones of this size, and to my surprise, I meet this old guy. He was a stone cutter for a large gem importer till customs caught up with him. The old guy was not charged, but he lost his job, but what he said was enough. He opened my eyes to how the business is played. It’s the most cutthroat, no-holds-barred business in the world. Wealth and power to deal change hands all the time. Whoever controls the goods has all the power and say on any deal. Possession is everything, and you deal in cash or bearer bonds at the time of sale. You trust no one. Even where and when you deal is kept secret, and there are guards everywhere. Every stone of size has a record as to who owns it, where it came from, and its worth. This is important. Their worth is never to change. They must control the amount of stones let out for sale to the public. It’s less than ten families that control all stones all over the world. A true stone holds its worth, whereas a man-made perfect stone is almost worthless. I had so much to learn. The old man started schooling me in the difference between real and man-made stones. One day, he told me, why don’t I get a job working for some large jewelry store? I knew more than most jewelers. I told him, You taught me well, and I think we can both be very well off, but I need a partner I can trust with my life. Are you that one, old man? Can I trust you?

The old man laughed and said, You’re the only friend I have. I’m old, maybe a year or two left. I have nothing. I live and eat in your house. I am your partner. I have nothing else. Why do you ask?

Yes, trust me. Then I pulled out this one large blue sapphire and placed it in his hand. He looked at it then back at me. He pulled out his jeweler’s eye and checked it out in the light.

He’s quiet, then he said, It’s real. The cut is perfect. The size, it’s a large stone, but I don’t recognize it. Where did it come from? How did you get it?

I asked, What’s a stone like that worth right now?

$500,000 to $700,000 in the open market, but nobody has a stone this size and not registered. How can this be? Who cut this stone?

I told him, I don’t know, but you said possession is everything. If it’s too big, we can cut it in half then sell as a matched pair of stones for almost the same price.

The old man looked at me and said, Yes, we could, but you’re not telling me everything. I’d rather hear the whole story before anything.

I knew all he had told me and taught me was true. He never lied about anything, even the women. It was always the truth between us. He would laugh when it came to women and admit to the ones he truly did love, even if they did turn out to be only for themselves and would take them run out on him, thinking they took it all, only to find out later it was a test—what they took was the bait, a small price to pay for the truth between them; so when he did lose his looks, and age always catches up with everybody, he favored the whores; the younger, the better. He would take one in and clean her up. She took care of his needs until she wanted to move on. They would part friends. Some married would come back and check on him like he was their uncle, but they both knew he had saved them from a life on the street. They would cry in each other’s arms as their husbands waited outside, some with kids. It was a good thing the love was there between them. There was the crying, the thank-yous, and the I’ll-always-love-you. He would only say, You love yourself and choose the right path. I was happy to help you. You were worth the time and pain. Look at you now. He would never take their money. He would only kiss them on the forehead and, with one big long hug, whisper in their ear, You be happy. Never look back. They would leave in tears. I would stay out of the way till they would go, never saying anything until that old man told me his story.

I asked, How many did you take in?

He looked backed at me and said, "Not so many, maybe thirty or so. It wasn’t all work, you know. Think about it, you take a real hard cold-blooded crazy bitch that will cut you up for a dollar, most with a pimp that you first have to kill off or hurt him so bad, he just don’t pimp no more, then you pay for that first time, but all you do is hold her in your arms. You talk to her until she starts to listen to what you are telling her. You are offering her a choice: she gives up three weeks of street life, stays with you, live alone, then the doors will open. She can go or stay. If she goes, she don’t come back. If she stays for another three weeks with the door open, she is free to come and go as long as no more street whoring. The price is she will love only one man until she is ready to move on. You see, a street whore can screw you blind anytime and not feel anything. She can suck you dry or cry for mercy. It doesn’t matter to her—this is cold business. The trick is to make her stop and understand that there’s no more money, no more pimp, and her feelings count. It’s only if she wants, and never any pain unless she strikes you first, and there is a rubber room if you have to kick a habit, but no matter what, the doors open in three weeks, and it’s your choice. You’re cleaned up, you get $200, and the old man