Jack Bruchard is the wealthiest man in the world. For the past two years something has happened to Jack that goes beyond words, or money. Even though he is not sure what has happened, the new Jack is more fulfilled with this new thinking than anything he has ever done. He lives alone but has turned his home into a center of intrigue for anyone, with advanced books, a replica of our galaxy, and his beloved and extraordinary parrot Sara. Frank Hanson has been Jack's trusted friend and business partner for nearly forty-five years. Jack invited Frank to have a discussion about an amazing man he has found that has found answers about life. As their conversation progresses, it becomes clear that Jack desires more than prosperity now-he wants to help achieve a higher consciousness for mankind. Jack believes he can buy peace of mind and tells Frank he has found a great thinker that has developed a psychological formula to help him carry out his plan. Frank thinks it is the worst idea he has ever heard. Neither man realizes that as they are immersed in their discussion, a man leaves a note at the large desk in Jack's library. It is only the beginning of something much bigger than Jack ever imagined. In this breakthrough and one-of-a kind story, a man embarks on an unforgettable journey to find his purpose, please his Maker, and realize the life he and all of us have always dreamed for all of us. You will become the real you because of this book.
Jack Bruchard ... an Introduction
By George M. GroganiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 George M. Grogan
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-3852-4Chapter One
There was a tremendous stream of light coming through the cupola in my library. The light was flooding my favorite room. I watched in silent admiration as a bright beam of late afternoon sunlight made a path across the room I had so purposefully designed. I still called it the library, but I thought of it as a study. The deep-seated leather chairs, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering two walls, and the absolute quiet ensured by soundproof material covered with cloth wallpaper, beautiful yet unobtrusive, invited you to stay and get to know yourself better. Like a great friend in the midst of this atmosphere of learning, Sara, my parrot, watched me watch the dwindling light. Swaying gently on the center perch of her generous home, suspended in the middle of the cupola, she was content to be with me. I smiled up at her. Sara was like a frosted, feathery rainbow, but this was by no means her most extraordinary trait.
The gilt-edged bindings of the reference books held the mellowing sunlight. Many of them seemed unique in a reference collection, simply because they were written by lesser-known geniuses of the past—less familiar names because they did not, and often still do not, adhere to the accepted patterns of science and society. Although most of these books rested behind protective glass, they were readily available when asked for by anyone who knew about them. They were accessible only by ladder, and the ladder waited in anticipation of a question or a request.
A large globe of the earth sat in a darkened corner of the room, quietly reminding me of the perfect rotation of our galaxy. Overhead, the major planets of our galaxy moved silently. They all moved in a twenty-four-hour cycle, revealing in a hundred ways their intricate relationships, existing only for those who wished to discover their secrets of movement, timing, and harmony.
Bronze busts of some of the great thinkers of all time—Socrates, Plato, da Vinci, Einstein, Tesla, Steinmetz, and some lesser-known but equally great thinkers—basked in the lingering rays. The old schoolhouse clock sounded three times, reminding me of another such golden afternoon.
Chapter Two
It was just past three o'clock in the afternoon when a sudden burst of light flashed from the cupola, catching my eye as I stood in the yard below. It was Sara's mirror, of course. Though she was just a nervous silhouette, moving eyes from left to right and back, and pacing back and forth on her perch, I could feel her anxious and penetrating stare. She began talking to herself, knowing I could hear every word.
"Jack Bruchard," she admonished, "if I were doing it, I wouldn't be doing it this way." She thought for a moment. "Something is going on that I don't know about, and I don't like it." Somehow she knew she should be worried. She paused and sighed, "I'm going to have to talk to Jack." As if to reassure herself, she added, "I guess soon enough he'll lower me down and we'll talk." Abruptly she turned her head and directed all her attention to the sound of someone approaching the house.
"Frank's here," she said in a startled voice. "That's strange. This is getting serious." Her pacing increased, indeed became quite agitated, as she leaned over to follow the path of his car up the long driveway to its destination. "He's alone," she commented. Then she added, as if asking a profound question, "Frank is alone?" She watched Frank Hanson intently, continuing to talk to herself almost in a whisper and with the definite realization that she had absolutely no idea of what was going on.
"He's going into the garage; he drove himself here in his own car, and he's parking it in the garage." She reiterated these seemingly logical activities in a wavering voice that clearly indicated that this was not the norm. Collecting herself, she muttered, "Announce him and be quiet. Be calm." Sara moved a lever with her beak and said musically, "Jack, Frank's here."
Her voice was heard throughout the estate three times, in different areas, simply because I loved to hear it.
"Thank you, Sara," I replied without getting up from the shaded part of my backyard, watching a male peacock strut his outrageous beauty before a much less comely female. My eyes roamed in satisfaction over the well-planned animal refuge I called my backyard, and then I got up, walked toward the house, and met Frank, just as he reached the front door. He opened it with his key, and we both walked into the room smiling broadly. We stood and looked at each other a moment, and then we embraced and laughed. We parted and Frank asked, "My God, Jack, how long has it been?"
Two rare people were standing in that room—two very close friends. I tried to answer as if an answer was needed. "Two or maybe three lifetimes, without even knowing it."
I guided Frank over to one of the comfortable chairs, brought out two silver goblets, and filled them with a rare old brandy made by my grandfather. I handed one to Frank and sat down facing him.
I didn't see it at the time, but a strange indicator was present in the library, an indicator being a lesson or a sign that actually helps to create personal growth. Above the mantel of the fireplace hung an oil painting of two men who looked remarkably like Frank and me, sitting in the same chairs on a similar waning afternoon. The clothing worn by the men in the picture was indicative of a bygone era; this was the only discernible difference between the reality in the room and the reality depicted in oils.
Frank smiled and said, "Even though it's been a long time, and we have much to catch up on, I think you'd better tell me what is going on before I break into a multitude of little pieces."
Sara stopped her pacing, leaning forward with her head cocked. She, too, was anxious to know.
I smiled at both of them and said, "All I ask is for a little of your time and undivided attention. I want you to think."
Frank carefully put his goblet down, took a deep breath, leaned forward, and said intensely, "Jack, I'm a quivering mess inside. You can't expect me to judge anything intelligently when you invite me into a situation I know nothing about. The subject matter is wide open; I'm not. Look, you are my best friend, and whatever it is you want to talk to me about, I want to be as realistic as I can be in judging it. I get the feeling you're going to hit me with something that's going to require an awful lot of thought." He paused and added, "Jack, when was the last time you invited me up to your place to help you with something? Alone?"
Then, as if to give him time to prepare for what I had to say, Frank smiled up at Sara and said, "I'll bet Sara is pretty excited about all of this." He looked up at Sara again, seeking some kind of confirmation. "Right, Sara?" She stared straight ahead and didn't utter a word. There was a long moment of silence. Frank reached for his goblet, gulping, rather than sipping, at the brandy, and sank back into his chair. "Now I know I'm right," he said finally. "I should be nervous."
I searched my mind for the right calming words, but before I had a chance to say anything, Frank fidgeted in his chair. "This should have been a rocker," he complained. "I like to rock, and right now I need to rock."
I couldn't help but laugh. "You know something, Frank? You are really a classic! The more I find out about people, the more I am able to see we are from the same classic mold."
I leaned forward, the laughter gone from my voice, my face, and the room.
"Frank." I spoke his name with a seriousness that chased any lingering wisps of lightness from the corners of the room. "I'm going to philosophize with you." In an immediate recognition of Frank's reaction to the word "philosophize" and with my frustration barely concealed, I said jokingly, "Frank, you're smirking. Already you are prejudiced against an idea because of a single word."
Frank quickly defended himself by changing his smirk to a big smile. "Hey, I'm not smirking! That's a genuine smile! Actually, I shouldn't be smiling, but I just had a brilliant flash of insight as to why I'm here." He leaned forward again hopefully. "You're going to finally make out a will, aren't you?"
To this typical hopeful question of Frank's, I threw back my head and laughed. "That my friend is the furthest thing from my mind at this time."
Frank, in a sudden burst of his own frustration, snapped, "Well then, our time is wasted because what could be more important than determining where all of your money should go?" Frank paused long enough to consider how he sounded. "Jack, you are going to give it some thought, aren't you? About all your money? Do you realize that Capital magazine tried for two months to get through to me for an interview without success? Do you also realize there was really only one question they wanted to ask me? How much money does your boss, that's you, Jack, really have?"
"What did you tell them?"
"Exactly what I tell everyone about your wealth when I know it should not concern them. Well, I guess if they didn't treat the amount like the greatest and most important guarded secret of all time, I'd be more open about it. Excess is what's important. Yes siree, money is not as important as lots of money. So anyway, once again I made a calculated guess. After all," he said, his voice taking on the practical yet creative edge that had always drawn me toward him as a man I could trust and love, "you know things I don't know. I know things you don't know. I considered what the press should know and what they would print, and then I speculated on what could be grasped by the public. With all that taken into consideration, I think I came up with a credible figure." He smiled, tapping the fingertips of each hand together. His self-satisfaction was evident. "I told them that if everything on this earth had a price on it, Jack Bruchard could buy the whole works." He smiled even more broadly, obviously content with his cleverness, but with so much yet to be said, I found myself unimpressed by his skill with words that appease and reveal so little at the same time.
At least the tension had left the room. It was time for me to speak. "Frank, we've been friends for forty-five years, and for the first time I've been able to see the real reason we've been such close friends for all these years." He still smiled, but the smile reflected the unselfish love of a true friend. "I could never really see it before." I looked into his eyes with such intensity that he fought glancing aside. "I think," I continued, "there is something inside you that is part of me. You may not be consciously aware of that right now, but part of you knows what I have on my mind." I waited for that to sink in. "Do you realize how little you know about yourself?"
I watched the path of sunlight across the room become less distinct. Frank's eyes followed the same path to its end, tracing the light back to its reflection in my eyes. The sigh that rose deep from within me was barely audible. "It's a shame people don't spend their lifetimes trying to find out who they are and what they are here for."
Frank broke in gently, "Jack, I'm ready. You have my attention."
I dwelled on the realization that this was the moment for which I had been waiting. Everything began reeling in my mind; my thoughts were like horses on a carousel, whirling at an unheard-of speed, round and round, like an explosion in reverse, all the pieces came together. "Your friend is the wealthiest man in the world, and in this materialistic world, that is very important. But Frank, what do you think is left when you know you can buy anything and everything?"
Sara stirred on her perch, edging along it to get as close to us as possible. Frank raised one hand, extending it in my direction, palm up in a questioning, helpless gesture.
"Finally your values change," I answered. His hand fluttered to his lap in acceptance of this truth. "You want things that have nothing to do with money. Now I want things that last, things that are considered universal. I want something that is better than the currency." I stopped talking and studied Frank's questioning hand movement and his concerned face waiting for another answer.
I returned his questioning look with another question: "Frank, what are you thinking?"
Frank replied slowly, with an expression on his face I could best describe as longing, "Jack ... my friend, there has been a change. You are different. You have really been a true friend. I have known you ...," his voice trailed off. I understood his need to reminisce about a man he once knew, a man no longer the same as the lifelong friend he saw before him. He knew we were at the same place only in time and space. "Here we sit," he went on, "two men who were once the same in our drives. We never knew what was going on inside of each other, or even inside of ourselves. When I was eighteen, I met you, and thought you were quite a good fellow. You had loaned me two dollars to buy a book on financing and book balancing. Do you remember? That was how I introduced myself to you. Of course at that time, I never imagined I would become a billionaire, and my best friend would be the wealthiest man in the world, and he would put me in charge of more businesses than any one of them had employees. That sounds ridiculous because it is. And yet, the longer I stayed with your business, the more I found out about you and myself. And as we grew, the further we were separated. Yet the further and further we were separated, the closer we became as friends. Jack, you know I'd do anything for you. No, not just about. Anything! This thing you want, it sounds bigger than words, which actually isn't saying much. But words can be like dollars when they come to have a meaning all of their own. This thing that I still know nothing about ... it ... ah ... sounds big." He chuckled at his ineptness for finding the right descriptive word. "Big. Even for us. Usually we do things our way. This is going to change things. It sounds like ..." Frank paused, took a deep breath, set down his half-empty goblet, and continued concernedly, "... you are putting yourself on the line. I'm not afraid to tell you that it worries me." Then he laughed, slapping his forehead in a gesture of disbelief. "I don't even know what it is, and I'm worried."
"Do you want me to continue?" I asked.
He leaned forward, saying earnestly, "I know I'm like a little kid, Jack. Please bear with me."
"Frank, I am going to do something with my money that is irrational, nonsensical, and outrageous, but I'm going to nurture this seed as long as it needs my money to stay alive and grow." I said this resolutely, pausing to allow Frank to digest its possibilities. "I am going to buy. No, invest. No, actually something better than either one; I am going to do what needs to be done to accomplish a higher consciousness for mankind." Neither Sara nor Frank spoke or moved. I looked from one to the other. These last words seemed to fill the room, reverberating off the walls, the only sound breaking a deafening silence. Frank and Sara remained steadfastly immobile, unblinking—as if even the slight movement of this natural reflex would somehow be inappropriate. Everything seemed to be part of this stillness.
I couldn't know at the time that while we three sat so totally immersed in what was going on in our minds, another man was sitting at the large desk in the library. Later, I would learn to understand seeing things such as this. The man was busily involved in writing something down. He never looked at Frank or Sara or me, but simply continued to write.
At last I shattered the silence and said, "My first thought was to bring peace to the world; however, that is a natural conclusion of bringing peace of mind to the world." The quiet ensued for several moments, until I could no longer bear it.
Suddenly, my words began spilling out in rapid succession. "For millions of years, man has been insulting his Maker by implicating his Maker in some of the most atrocious acts imaginable. I cannot find a reason for this. Or should I say the reasons are no longer adequate for me, the closer I get to God. Since man can accept all the atrocities that he either does or hears about, how does he then turn around and accept that he was created by such a divine and incredibly perfect intelligence? What I am saying is this: I don't know how religions justify the killing that goes on. No matter what your answer is, or mine, it's wrong. Because the answer does not stop the killing; it enables it. Can you imagine where I must be, that I want to buy peace of mind for people? But then I am only reacting to a terrible situation. Buy a change, and people will probably understand and accept that. Look, I know it sounds absurd, although not so much economically as it does philosophically. If you don't change people with money, how do you change them ... all of them?"
I abruptly changed the subject, like switching the mood from rock to classical music. "My father was in a mental institution because of the war. My brother was killed in the war. And my only son was killed in the last great fiasco."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Jack Bruchard ... an Introductionby George M. Grogan Copyright © 2012 by George M. Grogan. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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