The Journal of Morrison James

I found it. Well, that’s what I call it when I take things. After years of having my head shrunk, I understood growing up on the cusp of poverty makes you want to hoard things. It makes you turn every little precious thing into a plug for that hole in your heart. So, when I was a teenager, I got hooked on the “five-finger-discount,” as my friend Ben called it. I liked the rush. As I got older, I honed it, part entertainment, part therapy. There is a strange honor in doing it well. I only mark the most deserving people; That guy, the one who spends too much time on his hair, or that woman who spends more money on her nails than she does on her kids. It never felt fair to be the smartest person, the most talented, and yet I could never catch a break. I see all of these gray people passing me with better cars, better houses, stumbling into perfect lives. I know life isn’t fair, but somehow taking a little piece back was all I needed to set the numbers straight.

But, this mark was different. I followed him for an hour. His satchel, (yes, I said satchel--no one says satchel, but that’s what it was) thick leather, hand-sewn with big brass hardware, had the patina of an old bookstore. I just had to have what was inside. He was old. He lumbered down the north side of the street into the sunset, which made it easy to follow him as I stepped on his shadow. He stopped at a coffee shop. I didn’t want to pretend to be pretentious, so I waited outside toying with an empty dispenser, queasy from the sickly combination of coffee and bakery. The barista spotted me and waved ferociously, shouting “Hey, Alex!” I smile and nod returning my attention to the archaic box, which now has opened leaving me awkwardly fumbling in an empty container for an imaginary paper.

With a drink in hand, the mark walks again. Drinks are a good distractor in my favor. He stops at a street vendor selling tiny creatures out of found objects. The artist was sitting on the curb with items on a milk crate, so his old eyes required him to bend over to get a good look. I knew this moment: He was about to drop his shoulder and the bag would fall. I paced my walk so that I would reach him in time to catch the bag. 3...2...1...caught! “Whoah!” I shout with feigned surprise as I cradle the bottom of his bag in my hands as it violently swings. “Oh, thank you!” acknowledged the old man as his eyes bounced between the bag and his hot drink. It was such a small gesture, it didn’t even require a reply, just one continuous flow of motion as I moved along and slipped his wallet to the far side of my body into my catch pocket.

I swiftly rounded the corner and doubled back to my car. I threw off my jacket, onto the passenger seat, heavy with the day’s bounty. As I got on the road, I rifled blindly through the pocket, dodging the mundane until I found the satchel item. It wasn’t a wallet, but a book, a small leather journal. I shook it out of the pocket and held it in front of my face to get a good look. It was black, smooth, and very worn on the edges. It was stiff with age, but I tried steering with my left elbow to aid my right hand in prying open the pages. At this point, I’d lost hope that it had any monetary value and was driven by pure curiosity. In frustration, unable to drive, open, and read, I pulled over and settled into my seat to reward myself with a look inside the book.

I cracked the book open where a worn red string bookmark separated the pages for me. “Melinda Martinez, February 17th, 1970 - September 23rd, 2015; Martin Moreno, September 21st, 1965 - December 30, 2010”...is this an acknowledgment...in the middle of the book? Birth and death dates? I recognize these names. I kept reading, “Margaret Olivas March 2nd, 1928 - June 24th, 2018; Angelina Montaño October 14th, 1924 - April 8th, 2004.” My great aunts? OK, so this man writes the names of people who pass away. Why would someone do that? What are the odds that these are all people I know? Wait, these are ALL relatives? Maybe this man is someone I know. My eyes never leave the book. “Pauline Gonzales June 2nd, 1970 - January 7th, 2024.” Pauline is my cousin and she’s still alive. And obviously, 2024 is in the future, so these can’t be birth and death dates. My panic begins rising as the minutes pass. Each name I recognize as a relative and each name I cross-check on my phone’s browser. Accurate birth. Accurate death. The book seems different every time I explore the pages, shifting under my thoughts, like a dream coming into focus on a slow morning.

The thrill of unwrapping the mystery has left me and I’m glowing with a feverish heat. I wonder. I close my eyes and I picture my mother and father. I open the book and there they are, “Kimberly Harris, October 10th, 1962 - May 16th, 2045” and “Joseph Harris, January, 17th 1958 - February 27th, 2021.” That was just three days ago. I just talked to him. Was it three days ago? I text him something mundane so as not to set off any alarms, “What r u doing right now?” I wait seconds for a reply, but I grow impatient. I call Mom. “Hello?” she answers with a reluctant question, even though I know her smartphone tells her it’s me. “Hi, Mom. Have you talked to Dad lately?” Silence. “Mom...Mom!”

“Honey, I didn’t want to just message you and you never pick up your phone.”

“Mom, WHAT?”

She stammers, “Your Dad passed away a few days ago. I just found out myself. His girlfriend found him yesterday.” I hung up. I was less shocked in hearing that my father passed away with a lifetime of abusing his body and failing health. I touched the book. I wanted to see something like the Northern Lights move across it. Magic spells, ghosts, or religious spirits, I didn’t care. I was fully nauseated now and opened the car door to expel this morning’s Lucky Loops cereal.

Unaccustomed to remorse, I felt an unfamiliar wash of guilt and I just wanted to be rid of it. I’m thinking of the old man now, and with some hesitation, I open the pages. I read, “Morrison James, March 17th, 1473 - .” No death date.

I began prowling Central in my car for the old man, roughly judging how far he might go if he continued down the street. Along a side street, I catch a glimpse of a silhouette walking into a duplex. I pull a hard right and accelerate into a spot to see the man stepping through the front door. I still have the journal in my hand as I jump out of the car and look up to see him waiting for me, like a father on Prom night. Eyes locked, I approach. Without words, he steps to the side to allow me to pass. I felt both shame and comfort.

I walk into the stale, dated living room and look back to him for direction. He gestures me to the couch and sits across from me in a well-worn gliding chair, framed by the satchel.

“Well, what did you think of my journal?” he says with a bit of a laugh.

“It scares me. I don’t know where to begin.” I reply softly.

“I can see you have some darkness in you. There’s nothing to fear. I have a gift for you. A gift for your gift.”

“My gift?” I ask.

“You know who I am?”

“Morrison James?” I answer.

“Yes, and I am a Soul-Keeper. My time is over and I need someone to take my place.”

“I’m a hustler, not a Soul-Keeper.”

“I know what you do. I know you have a desire to set things straight, to create balance. That’s what a Soul-Keeper does.”

I snap, “Yeah, no thanks.”

“Open the book.” Morrison insists.

I opened it to see my own name, “Alex Harris, July 7th, 1995 - July 7th, 2023“ and below that, “Melody Harris, November 13th, 2021 - July 7th, 2023.” I ask, “What am I looking at Morrison?”

“That is the beginning and the end for you and your daughter.”

“OK, A). My birthdate is the same as my death date. That’s not very original. And B). I don’t have a daughter.”

Morrison laughs, “You’d be surprised how many people die on the day they are born--lots of inhibitions on that day. I’d guess a car accident.”

“You don’t know how I die?”

“Only when, not how.”

I didn’t ask about ‘Melody’ because I knew he was right. I’ve never been pregnant, and I haven’t even stopped to think about it, but it explained everything I have been feeling this month, and the, um, timeline works. The Lucky Loops that reappeared this morning weren’t just a bad batch, but a baby. A bit of pride rose up and quickly faded to horror.

“OK, so I’m going to die in two years on my birthday with my as-of-now-unborn daughter. HOW is that a ‘gift’?” I said with anger.

Morrison leaned forward, “The gift is an offer. Take my place and I can grant you the chance to change the entry. You can live as long as you want and you will save the life of your unborn child.”

“As the Grim Reaper?” I scoff.

“Or you’ll be dead. And she’ll be dead,” he said dryly as he sinks back into his chair.

A daughter I haven’t even had the chance to meet. Is it better to have a chance to live, even as a Soul-Keeper? No one would miss me. I don’t know her and I don’t love her, but I want to give her a chance to have a life. Maybe this is my great opportunity to set the numbers right. Maybe she will give more than she takes, love more than she hates and feel “hashtag blessed” more than cursed. I want that chance for her and for me.

I didn’t realize I had begun crying. I was past feeling embarrassed, so I let the tears roll and answered weakly with the remaining breath I had, “I have taken and broken so many things. I will take this, take it from you,” as I look up at him.

“You honor me and you gift me as well,” he says, smiling.

“What do you get?” I ask. He reaches over and gently takes the journal from my hands, pulls a pen from his pocket, and opens a page with his name. He slowly scribes today’s date as he sighs, “I rest.” He slides the satchel over to me and says, “You will have this and everything in my estate.” The satchel had weight to it, so I instinctively flipped back the flap to peek. Besides a selection of fountain pens strapped to the face, there were two surprisingly small bundles of one hundred dollar bills wrapped with $10,000 indicators. As I snapped up in shock, he tossed the book to me in a lighthearted gesture and stood up to escort me to the door. I didn’t see lightning or shimmering light, but I did feel something mystical pass between us. I clutched the journal to my chest and I put the now-familiar satchel over my shoulder. I jutted my hand out offering to shake, but he pulled my hand to his face and kissed it before letting me slip into the darkness.