The Infinite Game

The Infinite Game

By Don Jones

Word count: 1,998 words plus title

“Legend has it that Cleopatra, Lao Tzu, Joan of Arc, Leonardo DaVinci, Emile Bronte, Albert Einstein and Ernest Hemmingway all used the same single notebook.” My dad said, when I was nine.

“Not just the same kind of notebook, my boy. Each, in the long lineage of generational geniuses, used the exact same book, The Notebook, passed from one generation to another. Scribbles and sketches. Phrases and paragraphs. Chords and formulas. The embryonic germs of their best ideas captured on its pages.”

My dad leaned into the sailor’s telescope, trained toward the jagged iceberg in St John’s harbour.

“Imagine. What if they didn’t capture those inklings, didn’t record their fledgling notions before they fell from precarious perches? How much poorer would we be today?”

He stood back from the telescope. “Take a look-see.”

Three Zodiacs were circling. Waiting for the ‘berg to breach.

“Lucky for us, their jottings and ruminations found a protective nest in The Notebook. Their seeds blossomed. Thin sketches flourished. Notes found their rhythm. Young ideas tested their wings, leapt off the page, and began their incredible flights of imagination that changed our world.”

Dad walked to the window. “Each genius is limited to two pages. Compelled, by the law of nature, to pass The Notebook onto the next generation.”

“How does the next genius find it?” I said.

“Divine providence, my boy. The Notebook has been found in an Egyptian tomb. In a Chinese mountain cave. Behind the walls of an English manor. On a marble table in a Parisian café. Behind the painting of a matador in a Spanish bar.”

“It’s breaching! Look Dad.” I jumped aside. He put me back. “Don’t miss a single second. Magnificent.”

#

I spent the first seven years of my life on a small cove, close to St. John’s, Newfoundland. Then we packed up our truck, took the Argentia ferry to North Sydney, Nova Scotia, and for eight days drove the 4,177 miles to Rachel, Nevada, on the edge of Area 51.

“The last genius might have given The Notebook to aliens. We’re going to where they hang out.” Dad believed in nudging providence.

We stayed for six months. Each Saturday Dad slept out under the stars to signal his openness to being abducted.

We moved to French Lick, Indiana, for ten days.

Nice, France, for over a year.

Northumberland, England, for fifteen months.

Two years in Barcelona. The first twenty-one months with Dad. The last three waiting for him to get out of jail. A minor misunderstanding around broken tiles. A particular pattern of colorful tiles in Gaudi’s Cathedral were deciphered by Dad as, ‘The Notebook is here.’

It wasn’t.

But something else was.

Dad threw a musty cloth bag to mom before the Policía Nacional arrived. In it was a stack of Euro’s worth $20,000. Half of which paid for the Cathedral repairs. The rest took us back to St. John’s.

Walking out of jail, my dad said, “Success. One less place to look.”

#

“Happy 12th, Mark!”

“We found The Notebook.” My mom said, holding it tightly with both hands.

“We have added our best creative work.” My dad said. “We want to pass it to you.”

“Where did you find it?” I said.

Dad coughed, said, “Tied underneath my chair at work. Couldn’t cut the ropes. Found a mallet and smashed the chair to pieces. The Notebook, covers spread wide like wings, soared like a blackbird across the office.”

“Was your boss mad, Dad?” I asked.

“No. Why would she be mad?” He said.

“Was that the same day you quit your job?”

He snapped his red suspenders.

“Aren’t I supposed to find it by surprise?” I said. “Like hidden under home plate on a baseball field?”

“You are so right Mark.” Mom said.

The next day Dad and I went out for a walk to the local ballpark. “See those clouds up there? What do you see?”

“Clouds.”

“Rectangular. Like a notebook, right?” He said.

“Ok.”

“Could be a sign.” Dad stared at his brown, red-laced shoes. They were a hair’s width away from home plate.

I started digging. Found The Notebook inside a zip lock bag.

Providence. The genius linage, that spanned thousands of years, had found its way to me.

I must have the potential to change the course of history with my ideas.

We walked home slowly. Dad waved to our neighbors, as if we were in a parade, his heavy hand sat proudly on my small shoulders.

One day, my dad said, “What’s in your Notebook?”

Nothing. I had scoured the book. It was blank. No Cleopatra, Einstein or Hemmingway. No secrets, formulas or chords. One page had been torn out.

He read my face. “Be right back.” He said.

“I found this note under my office chair with The Notebook.”

“Dear Genius,

I filled the last two pages of The Notebook, Number 10, with scribbles that will one day solve the tricky question of time and space.

That feels good.

I will leave a fresh Notebook, Number 11.

Albert”

“Einstein?” I said.

“Very Likely.”

I hadn’t had time, between school, baseball and chores to jot anything down. No partial formulas, no early stage ideas. No sketches, phrases or lyrics. Only my identification, “My boy. No fixed address.”

“Turn Albert’s note over.” Dad said.

“Principles for Using the Notebook, By Albert”

The last principle, # 8, was called ‘The Infinite Game: What’s in Your Notebook?’ Dad and I started playing it right away, passing The Notebook back and forth, hardly stopping, except to laugh.

#

My mom passed away five years ago. I was 37.

I held my dad in my arms.

Mom was the love of his life. He was hers. The closest to an argument, was when Dad beat himself up for something. She wouldn’t hear of it. He would stop. They wanted to explore the world. Somehow, they did. I peeked out my window when Dad slept under the stars in our backyard. Mom slipped into Dad’s orange sleeping bag, her head on his shoulder. They laughed. Pointed at the stars. Fell asleep in each other’s arms.

They always believed that one day they would find The Notebook. And jot a tiny idea that might grow and take flight.

#

My dad’s doctor just called. They did some tests.

Buddy, my golden Nova Scotian Retriever, and I hit the road. Drove from Toronto to St. John’s in 38 hours. Only stopping for gas, food, and to let Buddy out.

As I packed, I found that old black Notebook beside my bed. How did it get here? It had been in a box with my childhood toys. Buddy! She must have dug it out.

The Notebook was smaller than I remembered. Now aged. Worn. The black cover bent, but not broken. I closed my eyes. The memories came in waves. Ran my fingers around the frayed rounded corners. Felt the errant threads. Flattened the black elastic band that was twisted in parts. Threw it in my bag.

I called my boss as the sun was coming up.

“I’m sorry to hear about your dad, Mark, but it’s the end of the quarter. The market’s expecting us to close strong, and …”

“I quit.”

Buddy looked up at me, as if to say, “About time.”

#

“My boy!” Dad answered the door, looking every bit my healthy happy dad.

Buddy jumped on him.

After dinner, Dad poured us double shots of 27 year-old whiskey. We sat in armchairs. Buddy lay on top of Dad’s socked feet. Dad got up to stoke the fire. Sat back down, slipping his feet under Buddy. The fire doubled in size. Neither of us wanted, or needed, to say too much. The smooth warm burn settled in. I sank deeper into the soft cushions.

It was my turn to tend the fire. It roared back to life.

My dad saluted with his glass.

I said, “Someone once taught me that a roaring fire’s like a good life, you have to make sure the heat comes from the honest bottom of it all.”

Dad was soon asleep.

I put his empty glass on the floor.

A blanket over his knees.

Shed a tear, that I promised Buddy I wouldn’t. She looked up, as if to say, “It’s Ok, Mark.”

My dad woke as I was taking out The Notebook. “You still have that?”

I smiled.

He said. “Do you remember how we played, The Infinite Game: What’s in Your Notebook?”

“Course.”

“What’s in your Notebook?” He asked.

I opened The Notebook, randomly, to two blank pages. “Our home. Twenty-three brightly-colored wooden houses, strung like colorful trinkets, along a black ribbon of highway, that weaves in and out of fog, hanging around the neck of our Atlantic cove.”

“Magnificent.” He said.

“Your turn.” I handed Dad The Notebook, saying, “What’s in your Notebook?”

He pulled the book open to two blank pages. “Aliens landing in our backyard. Blinking lights. Tall. Heads attached to their chests. Telepathically inviting me go home with them.”

“Are you going, Dad?”

He turned to another two blank pages, said, “Looks like I’m not. It’s your mom and me. Our heads sticking out of my old orange sleeping bag, looking up, filled with wonder, watching a starship leaving Earth’s orbit. Magnificent.”

“You know the first time you asked me, ‘What’s in your Notebook?’ I couldn’t think of anything to say.”

“I know. He put his hand on my knee. “It took awhile for you to figure out what The Notebook was about.”

“Dad, did you ever feel badly about not adding something to The Notebook, Number 11?”

Dad gently took The Notebook. Pried open the pocket on the inside of the back cover. Smiled. Handed it back.

I pulled out a folded paper. It was the missing page, with my mother’s pen drawing. My dad, his head poking through the clouds, his feet ten feet off the ground. Mom’s left arm wrapped around his waist. Her head buried under his shoulder. Smiling. A small baby tucked in the crook of her right arm.”

I turned it over. A note in my dad’s handwriting, signed “Mom and Dad, Creative Geniuses.”

I still can’t read it out loud.

“In the great tradition of The Notebook, in keeping with the linage of generational geniuses, we give to this world our greatest creative work, a success beyond our wildest dreams, a heart and soul and body, that has within it, the most powerful force in the universe, Infinite Imagination. We proudly present our baby.”

The End

Principles for Using the Notebook.

By Albert

1. Infinite Imagination. You possess the most powerful force in the universe. Never doubt it.

2. Jot ideas. Even geniuses forget ideas. Jot. Sketch. Write. Keep. Remember. Revisit. Breakthroughs rarely come from ideas we forget.

3. Stay curious. Follow the threads wherever they take you. Even if, especially if, no one else is interested.

4. Observe. Don’t evaluate. Write all ideas down. Go with the flow. Don’t wait for ‘great’ ideas.

5. Some things are better left ‘till tomorrow. Like quitting. When you are too tired to go on, say out loud, “I’m going to quit!” Then add, “Tomorrow.”

6. Be kind to yourself.

7. Protect inklings. They are on the endangered species list. Over time seeds blossom. Thin sketches flourish. Notes find their rhythm. Young ideas test their wings, leap off the page, and begin their incredible flights of imagination that change our world.

8. The Infinity Game: What’s in Your Notebook?”

a) Pass The Notebook to your partner. Ask, “What’s in your Notebook?”

b) They must open the book to any blank page. Without hesitation, tell you what they see, in as much detail as possible. If they hesitate, they must hand the book back to you.

c) Reverse roles. Repeat ‘a’ and ‘b’.

d) Everybody wins. Winning is observing and accepting, rather than evaluating and rejecting.

e) There is no end to this game. Ever. Imagination is infinite.