Arlo’s Journal

Arlo Huberman opened the door to his apartment when he heard the knock.A delivery man was on his door step with a clipboard. “ Am I speaking with Arlo Huberman…” he paused, slightly confused by what he was reading. “Sorry, is this the house of Arlo Huberman 2.0?” He looked up through his eyebrows quizzically at Arlo.

Arlo drew in his breath sharply.

Arlo had been named for his grandfather (or Papi, as Arlo called him), making him, technically, Arlo Huberman Jr. When his grandfather was alive, he’d always referred to Arlo as ‘Arlo 2.0’. He was the only one who ever had.

When he’d been alive. He had passed only 3 weeks earlier.

Arlo nodded and left the door open, his mind clouding over with grief Android open for clipboard guy and his men to enter, his mind fogging with reminiscence as he watched familiar items being brought past.

Papi had been like a father to Arlo in the past 11 years. Even as a child, Arlo’s life had not been without tragedy. His mother passed when Arlo was too young to remember her, after a leukaemia battle, so it had always been just Arlo and his father. Then, when Arlo was 14, he had been called to the principals office in 3rd period to see Papi sitting there next to the principal. He’d never forgotten the look on Papi’s face. Papi’s voice had cracked when he spoke to Arlo. ‘Arlo. sit down.’ Then when Arlo complied, ‘There’s been an accident. A truck had its brakes fail and went through a red light. Your father happened to be crossing the intersection. He died instantly…’ Arlo remembered a loud, buzzing filling his ears and feeling tears fall down his cheeks and Papi’s arm move around his shoulders. He had let himself be led to the car and back to Papi’s home. Papi immediately decided to take in Arlo, to the poorly disguised relief of Arlo’s aunt. After a whirlwind few weeks of mourning and packing and moving, Arlo 1.0 and 2.0 became roommates.

Papi and Arlo were cut from the same cloth. Both loved going fishing and camping. Both loved cryptic crosswords and puzzles. Both loved animals, and Arlo began volunteering with Papi at animal shelters, and there was almost always a foster dog or two at home. Arlo had been an avid writer and Papi a voracious reader, and Papi had always told him that one day, he knew Arlo would be able to write a great novel. Remembering this, Arlo looked around his cramped apartment that he slaved at his 60 hour a week call centre job to pay for. He had moved to the city 2 years ago with the intention of getting a job and using the city for inspiration to write in his time off, but he became so exhausted by the long hours that he never got time to write a word.

Papi had constantly asked if he could read Arlo’s latest piece, but Arlo had brought a new book from the library in the city every time Papi finished one as a distraction from questions. Papi loved historical and philosophy books, and some of Arlo’s best memories, from both before and after his move to the city, were sitting together in Papi’s matching worn brown leather recliners with Papi reading. When Papi read a book, he’d stop every so often and reads particularly important or enlightening passage aloud, and in the many visits Arlo had made to visit Papi between his bowel cancer diagnosis about 6 months, and his death 3 weeks ago, he’d always continued this tradition.

Arlo he realised he would never hear Papi read a particularly important passage again. His chest ached.

Papi had a theory that ‘all great people in history kept a journal’ and not long after taking him in, had gifted Arlo a pen a small black, softcover notebook. He showed his grandson he had an identical one that was currently about half full, and took Arlo up to the attic to show him the bookshelf where he had dozens of similar black notebooks, showing Arlo how when he filled one, he etched the spine with start and finish date and filed it in order. With a surge of guilt , Arlo realised he hadn’t started a new journal since his last one finished about 6 months ago, and made a mental note to get a new one.

After Papi’s funeral, the will had been read. Only Arlo and his aunt, whom Arlo had barely seen between the death of his father, and the last week his Papi lived, had attended. Grandma had died before Arlo was born, so they were the only two family members left. A few years back, when Papi’s octogeneric legs had stopped being able to handle to multiple flights of stairs, he had sold the modest home he’d always lived in and rented small, single level house. The attorney informed them that the rent was paid up for another 6 weeks, and that as the cancer treatment, plus a small amount for the funeral and finalisation of the will had used up most of what the sale of the house 4 years ago had brought in, the grand sum of all Papi had left was the contents of the home, and around $8,000 cash in his bank account.

At that point, his aunt had interjected. “I’m his only living child,” she stated. “He’s always had a soft spot for this boy” she jerked her head in Arlo’s direction “over me, but as his only true next of kin, I will let you know now, if this kid has been preferenced over me just because he lives with him more recently, will be launching an appeal.” Through her rant, she did not ever look at Arlo.

The lawyer cleared his throat. “Mr Huberman was aware of your views on inheritance. You will be pleased to know that he has left you all of his estate with a few minor exceptions.” As he saw her begin to draw breath to argue, he continued, a bit more loudly. “These are items of largely sentimental value for Arlo Jr. These items include Mr Huberman’s journals – 72 volumes in total. 2 recliners, items that belonged to Arlo Jr.’s parents that were stored with Mr Huberman, and a framed photograph of Mr Huberman and his grandson with a placard inscribed ‘The 2 Arlo’s’. These items have already been packed and will be delivered to Arlo Huberman Jr’s residence 2 weeks from today’s date. The packing and shipping of these items has already been paid for, as per Mr Huberman’s final testament. All other items contained in the house, and all cash in his account, is to be passed on to you.”

After this, his aunt let out a gust of breath and said no more, clearly satisfied that her father had seen reason.

Now, 14 days had passed and the items sat in his home. Clipboard guy had handed Arlo a small, final box before getting the required signature and leaving. Reaching for the keys on the coffee table, Arlo used the jagged edges to pierce through the tape and unseal the box. In it sat a fresh, black notebook and an envelope. Arlo opened the envelope. The letter within was dated the day before Papi died. Arlo began to read.

“Dear Arlo 2.0,

I am dictating this to my lawyer as I can no longer write.

I can’t tell you how much joy the last 11 years as your stand in parent has been. You are an amazing man, and I love you. I know the last couple of years hasn’t gone to plan, for either of us. I always wanted to be able to give you the support you needed to just be able to write, but I’ve noticed every time a ask you about your writing, you pull out a book by another author to distract me. I’m not one you can pull the wool over, but I am one to respect when one doesn’t want to talk. So instead, over the past couple years, every time you’ve steered me away, I’ve put a bit of inspiration away for you, placed throughout all of my journals. I thought it could be one last puzzle for us to have together. If my good lawyer has done right by me, this will have been given to you as they have been delivered.

I know things will not be easy going forward, and that the last two weeks must have been arduous. I wish I could have sheltered you from them, but alas, I could not. But I encourage you now to turn to the inspiration I have left for you - a great writer (Alberto Manguel – thanks for introducing me to him, by the way) said “Maybe this is why we read, and why in moments of darkness we return to books: to find words for what we already know.” I hope in the darkness, I can help you find the words you already have within to do what you’ve always wanted to do.

Forever rooting for you,

Arlo 1.0”

A droplet of water landed on the paper and slightly blurred the writing. Arlo realised his cheeks were wet. Drying them with his sleeve, he got unsteadily to his feet and walked to the boxes of journals now piled in the corner. Knowing they were coming, he had purchased a large thrift store bookshelves to house them, and one by one, he unpacked them and placed them in order, right up to the very last one, which Papi had died before finishing. He hung the photo for ‘The two Arlo’s’ above his TV.

Arlo dragged one of the recliners next to the bookcase. He propped a cup of coffee on one of shelves where he could wedge it, tucked his new notebook and pen in beside him, pulled the first of Papi’s journals down, took a deep breath and said to the room “Ok Papi. Inspire me.”

Arlo was so entrenched in reading and absorbing Papi’s words when, an envelope dropped to the floor after turning a page 45 minutes into the first journal, Arlo jumped. He picked it up. On it was written a quite from Ralph Waldo Emerson that Arlo was sure Papi had read aloud at some point. But why an envelope? Arlo cracked it open, only to pull out four $50 bills. Arlo was stunned. He put the money in an empty shoebox and tacked the envelope to the wall so it was displayed like an art piece, a last example of Papi’s wisdom. Arlo then did a quick flip looking for loose items. No more envelopes in the notebook. He left his reading for the night. Two days later, after making his way through the first volume, taking notes as he went for ideas for future pieces, he started in the second journal. Before he began reading, he did a quick flip through again. This time, he found not 1, but 3 envelopes. He began to flip through each volume in turn. Some journals had one, some multiple envelopes, each similar to the first – a passage of wisdom from Papi on the front, and $200 cash inside. Arlo began putting up the empty envelopes as he had done the first adding the cash to the shoebox. In the end, there were 100 envelopes. 100 passages of inspiration from his Papi. $20,000 in his shoebox.

The next morning, Arlo called his job and quit. With the money from Papi, he could afford to pay his bills for the better part of a year without having to work, and with his living room a sea of inspiration, he was ready to do what he’d been wanting to do but to exhausted to for so long. Arlo sat down, notebook in front of him and pen in hand, and wrote.