Black

This time I really screwed up. If I could take this back, I would never do anything like this again. Promise.

See, I’m always doing stupid things. It’s not because I’m a stupid person. It’s because I crave adventure. No. . .I’m addicted to it. There isn’t anything I won’t try at least once. And I have jumped off a bridge because my friends told me to. More than once. I’ve committed minor felonies not out of a need for money, but out of an addiction to adrenaline. Today’s adventure wasn’t totally unprecedented, but there would be no bungee cords for this jump.

Today started out like any other day, as exciting as it could be for a young, male interior designer of color working for a chain store. It’s not unusual for me to be underestimated and under-appreciated in my role. Today was no exception and I decided to bolt a few minutes early as I sometimes do when I’ve had enough. Same stuff, different day. But today something happened.

As I was crossing Eighth Avenue, I saw him in my periphery. The Running Man. As he raced toward the cross street, I could sense the tragedy about to unfold. From my vantagepoint, I could see the yellow cab charging up the street like an angry bull, weaving through traffic to make the light. Despite the light being green, a black SUV was halted at the intersection by pedestrians crossing.

I desperately wanted to reach out to the Running Man. The black SUV in front of him must have looked like a car stopped at a red light. I wanted to shout, “Stop!” But the rush hour cacophony intervened. He darted in front of the black SUV. He never saw the oncoming taxi on the other side.

Running Man was struck and flew about ten feet into the air and thirty feet into the intersection. It was simultaneously awesome and devastating, his belongings scattering like the rays of a firework—a shoe here, his backpack there, headphones. . .

And a little black book at my feet.

Running Man landed in front of a very surprised crossing guard. The woman halted traffic in all directions then spoke into her walkie talkie. The din of rush hour seemed to go silent in the moment. “Send a bus, we have an injured pedestrian…”

Injured? An understatement. Running Man wasn’t moving at all. Part of me hoped he’d died instantly. The recovery would be arduous.

As the crowd started to reanimate, I picked up the little black book and quickly retreated to the sidewalk. I now had time to contemplate the black book, with a black elastic band that held it shut. I knew firsthand how precious and personal these books could be to their owners.

I meant to return it.

I looked back into the middle of the intersection. Traffic was still stopped. Half of the pedestrians had resumed their rush hour ritual while the others gawked at the spectacle. I reluctantly stepped back onto the asphalt when a police cruiser came rushing up, screeching to a halt in front of me. The officer driving the car leapt out and raised a hand at us. “Everybody, back the hell up!”

I held up the black book. “I have something that—”

He looked sternly at me. “I said, back up!”

Don’t jump.

Young black men are sadly conditioned not to confront the police, and despite the fact that this officer was darker than me, I retreated.

Now what?

The paramedics arrived and moved Running Man to a backboard and stretcher. They loaded him in the ambulance and left silently—no sirens.

Yeah, he’s probably dead.

I looked down at the book. It appeared to be lightly used (or loved). I undid the elastic and a folded piece of paper slipped out. I picked it up quickly. An Amtrak ticket to Baltimore-Washington International Airport. For today. In five minutes. That explained the running.

Before I could think, my impetuous self began racing toward the station. Within minutes, I was in its bowels in front of a large departures/arrivals board. The train to BWI was delayed forty-two minutes. I had not missed it! I went to the departure lounge to collect my thoughts.

Was I really going to just get on a train to an airport in the middle of nowhere? Of course I was. This was an adventure!

“Ticket, sir?” The woman behind the podium smiled at me. “This lounge is for ticketed passengers only.”

“Oh, of course.” I reached into the black book. I pulled out the ticket. She scanned it, then scanned it again.

“Sir, with this ticket you have access to the VIP lounge.”

“Oh?”

“You can wait there. They’ll let you know when the train is approaching.”

Moments later, I entered the lounge where there were only about half a dozen others and sat down in a leather armchair. I pulled out the black book and examined it more closely.

The first page told me who I was impersonating: In case of loss, please return to: A. Striker.

I was momentarily amused by the irony.

As a reward: MY GRATITUDE.

Whatever.

The quadrille-lined book featured notes and diagrammed sketches. Only about a quarter of its pages were used. There were phone numbers, website references, and an article from a scientific journal taped to one of the pages. Some of the earlier pages had words blacked out with a Sharpie, like top-secret documents. I held them up to the light to decipher them to no avail. I flipped through the pages and noticed a bulge in the storage pocket on the back cover. I looked inside and froze.

There was money in there. Several bills.

I looked around. Everyone was immersed in their own personal smartphone universe. No one noticed me.

I carefully removed the stack. These were hundred-dollar bills. No. . .thousand-dollar bills. I had never seen a thousand-dollar bill before. I pondered Grover Cleveland’s portrait then quickly counted them. Twenty. I counted them again. I was holding $20,000. I examined one of the bills more closely and noticed they’d been printed in 1945, yet they were in flawless condition.

“Sir, your train has arrived.”

“Huh?”

I looked up. A young woman in an Amtrak uniform was hovering over me but I was lost in my thoughts. I couldn’t make sense of her presence in the moment.

“Your train. It’s almost here.”

“Oh yeah, thanks.” I carefully returned the bills to the back pocket in the book.

Don’t do it. Don’t jump off this bridge.

How could I not? I had $20,000 and a train ticket to an international airport. I exited the lounge. Where in the world would I go?

I headed down to the track and quickly found my way aboard the train and to my seat. It was difficult to contain my excitement. This was going to be epic!

My adrenaline surged as we pulled out of the station and the full weight of what I was doing hit me. But as the train accelerated and everything around us became a blur, small but growing doubts started creeping into my mind.

I opened the book again. There was an address in midtown for rare coin and currency shop, which explained the bills. Were these even legal tender anymore? A quick Google search on my phone indicated that while I did indeed have $20,000 that could be used as legal tender, these bills were potentially worth $20,000 each. It dawned on me that I had over $400,000 in my hands. A whole new level of adventure. And trouble.

I unfolded the article that had been taped into the book. It was clearly from a high-level scientific journal. The topic, experimental fetal stem cell gene replacement therapies and the theoretical benefits and implications, was way above my comprehension. I was able to make out, however, that work in this arena was only being conducted outside the United States due to its highly controversial nature.

And then I saw the note: Train 129 - Meet Hank B. @ BWI train platform!

I glanced at my ticket: Amtrak Train # 129.

I read further: Tall, short beard, red baseball cap, brown leather jacket.

Striker, or rather, now I, was running with antiquated currency to meet someone for a purpose having to do with something that was likely unsavory.

What had started out as a thrilling joy ride was now a voyage into anxiety and despair. As I read the notebook more closely, I made out scientific notations that looked like chemistry equations. There were flight numbers highlighted in the book. Another quick search, this time of airport codes, showed most were to or from Central America.

What had Running Man been involved in?

I gulped hard as the train pulled into BWI station. I could see planes taking off and landing in the failing light of the darkening sky. I exited the train and walked slowly and reluctantly along the length of the platform. As the crowd slowly thinned and the train pulled away, a solitary figure stood in front of me.

Hank B.

He looked extremely fit and strong, like a soldier. Because he stood so tall, I couldn’t see the logo on his red baseball cap. I felt a sense of inevitability.

Don’t jump off this bridge. . .

“Hank?” I said in a low voice.

Geronimo! I can’t help myself.

“Mr. Striker, nice to finally meet you.” He took two steps towards me and extended his hand and shook mine in a crushing grip. Because his brown leather jacket was open, I caught a glimpse of his shoulder holster and pistol. He was obviously left-handed. I made a mental note of that.

“Come with me,” he said.

When we got to the parking lot, he opened the rear door to a black sedan and I climbed in. He got in the front passenger side. He then turned to face me. He pointed to the driver.

“This is Carlos.”

“Hola.” Carlos acknowledged me in the rearview mirror but did not turn to face me.

“We can discuss everything in front of him, okay?” Hank stated more than asked.

“Okay,” I replied.

“Your mom arrived on the flight earlier today and she’s at the hotel resting now. Everything went peachy. We have a nurse keeping an eye on her but I personally don’t think it’s necessary.”

“That’s great,” I lied. Nothing was great. I suppose nothing will be great from here on.

“You have the money?”

I nodded. I reached into the black book and pulled out the twenty crisp bills. I handed them to Hank, avoiding eye contact. He quickly counted them then carefully put them in the envelope, which he tucked into the glove compartment.

“Excellent,” he said. “Now, a few ground rules. Your mom is going to stay in the hotel for a few days, just for observation. You’ll be staying in the room with her. As you’ve been told before, no one can ever know about this procedure or this transaction. No one.” He glared at me intensely. “Understood?” Eye contact was unavoidable.

Again, I nodded. I did my best to hide my anxiety but the ground was fast approaching and this time there was no bungee cord.

Some bridges are just too damn high.

Hank turned to face front again. “Good. You people seem nice. I’d hate for things to get unpleasant between us and anyone else who found out about us. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. This will all be over soon.”

Over indeed.

So now, as I sit here and jot down my thoughts in someone else’s little black book in the back of this black sedan, as the daylight extinguishes and the suffocating black of night looms, I can’t help but feel the absolute terror of my predicament.

What do I tell Running Man’s mom?