The Stranger With The Little Black Book

It had gone a hair past peculiar and was approaching down right creepy. It has been six months since I noticed the stranger, but who knows how long it went on unnoticed. I tried varying my routine to see if I was just being paranoid.

Tracy was once again sitting on the Metro on her journey to work in downtown DC. The train was crammed with the buzz of noise in the air. People tapping on their laptops, the chimes and beeps of people playing games on their phones, the shuffling of feet, the shifting of briefcases and backpacks, and of course the multitude mix of music creeping out of those not-so-soundproof fancy ear buds and bulky headphones.

A few feet away sat the now familiar stranger scribbling in that little black book.

At first I thought it was happenstance that I ran into the stranger so often. I mean in DC we tend to move in shifts and familiar droves. During the oft dreaded ritual of the crowded commute it isn’t unusual to see the same faces from time to time. But this had proven to be quite different. Much more than mere coincidence.

No matter what time I enter the Metro, the stranger is always there in the same train car and always scribbling in that thin black notebook. Sometimes our eyes meet but only for a second and then quickly the eye contact shifts back down or away. I try to smile but the stranger never appears interested in sharing courtesies. If I’m running late for work, the stranger is there. If I go in to participate in an early morning meeting the stranger is there. If I walk all the way down the platform and get into a random train car, by the time I settle into my seat, the stranger is there. It’s uncanny. Somehow, someway the stranger is always there.

I never saw her get on or noticed where she got off. It was almost like she was a figment of my imagination. But at least once during my commute, I would glance around and see the stranger with nothing more than the little black book in hand. I contemplated telling my husband that I thought I was being stalked. But aside from the stranger’s mysterious presence, nothing felt threatening about it.

It was mid February and snow was on the ground, but nothing seemed to keep us from the responsibility of trudging downtown to conduct the nation’s business. It was bitter cold and there the stranger sat with the little notebook in hand, but this time when our eyes met, she didn’t look away. She seemed captivated by me and vice versa. I searched her eyes for some explanation or hint of familiarity but none came. It was as though she wanted me to really see her. An odd shiver shot up my spine. And just as I was about to gesture to her, she got up and walked toward the open door of the train, leaving the little black book in her seat. I shot up to grab it, while trying frantically to get her attention.

Hey ma’am! You left something! Is this yours!? Ma’am, your notebook! We locked eyes but she kept right on walking, totally unbothered. Bing, Bong. Bing, Bong. The train doors slammed shut before I could reach them and in that moment she stopped and gave me an odd backwards glance. It was the weirdest thing.

So, there I stood with the stranger’s little black book in my hand. I couldn’t help but notice the rich feeling of the smooth soft cover. It was bound by a simple but strong elastic closure.

My first thought was to open it and see if it would identify her, but on second thought, I’l just return it to her tomorrow. It should be simple enough because after all, we’e always on the same train, at the same time, in the same car. I shoved the notebook in my work bag and pulled out my phone to play a little mahjong and take the edge off my curiosity.

The next day, I hopped on the Metro and paid close attention to every face I saw, searching the crowd for the familiar face of the stranger. But to my surprise I did not see her. It was peculiar but I had a ton on my mind for the day ahead. Work seemed to be ratcheting up at a break neck speed. So I’d wait and be sure to find her during the evening commute.

Work was a shit show. I spent most of my day chasing down leadership quotes for reporter on a new government program that nobody wanted to go on record about. To top it off, I was humiliated in a mid afternoon meeting. I went to present and my tech wouldn’t work and apparently neither would my brain because I couldn’t recall much of the pertinent details off the top of my head. After stammering into an apology and a request to table it, I realized that the fly of my suit pants was wide open, giving everyone a full peek show of my hot pink lace undies.

My feet were aching from trudging up and down the long corridors in my heels and Calgon was calling my name. My day ended and not once did the stranger’s notebook cross my mind. Once home I threw dinner together, showered, slipped on my pj’s and crawled into bed hoping to lose myself in the next juicy installment of This is Us. I barely made it past the opening. When my dreams came, that last encounter with the stranger was there to greet me.

Like groundhog day, I found myself hopping onto the Metro with 2,000 of my closest friends. It was then that I realized the stranger was once again M.I.A.

Instead of grabbing for Mahjong, I rummaged around in my work bag until I came across the little black book. It had rounded corners and I opened it to see if there was a clue as to how to get it back to her. In the front cover read ‘In case of loss’ with a space for your name and an encouragement to list a prize for the person who returns it. I thought, what a cool touch. But no name was listed only a phone number.

I flipped through the notebook and I was shocked to see that not much was there on the ivory colored pages. Considering the stranger always appeared to be using it, I had assumed it would be full of notes and writings but it was mostly blank. What was there was a few doodles and a black ribbon bookmark placed on a page with a cryptic note that read, YOU SHOULD TAKE THE MONEY. I thought, how weird. I kept flipping through the notebook and found an expandable back pocket that contained twenty crisp one thousand dollar bills. I almost choked and quickly fumbled to get the notebook put away, while peeking around to see if anyone else had noticed my discovery. I wasn’t in the mood to be knocked over the head just for trying to help this stranger.

Since the 1000 banknote was discontinued in 1969, I was immediately skeptical as to whether the money was even real. But to be on the safe side I kept my workbag on my person all day instead of the normal practice of leaving it at my desk. On my first available break I called the number from the front cover. It went straight to VM and the message that came on simply stated a date, time, and location. Several times over the course of the day I rang the number hoping someone would pick up. But time and time again it went to VM. I looked the number up online in the reverse directory hoping to find a name or some clues. Nothing. So the cash haunted me ALL DAY LONG. I was so preoccupied I considered taking the rest of the day off.

YOU SHOULD TAKE THE MONEY. What did it mean? Was it coincidence that I had possession of the little black book or was the message specifically for me? Was the stranger setting me up for something sinister? Was I being Punk’d?

My thoughts and my emotions were all over the place. I was curious. I was nervous. I felt threatened. I felt lucky. I was confused. I was excited. I felt intrigued. I felt worried. I was baffled! But my thoughts kept going back to our last interaction and that odd backwards glance the stranger gave me. It was as if the stranger lured me directly to this point. The meet up was set for the last day of February, early morning, at my absolute favorite spot in the entire city - the Lincoln Memorial.

Many questions remained. Should I go to the appointed place at the appointed time? Should I tell the police or try to turn the money in? Should I read my husband into the situation? Should I have the money authenticated? Should I leave it on the train to be somebody else’s headache?

It was leap year, so I took the day off from work on the 29th. I had decided to see this through. It’s a public place with constant roaming park police so what’s the worst that can happen?

The morning of, I packed the little blue taser into my coat pocket and the little black book into my purse and headed out to see my beloved Lincoln. There was light fog feeding even more edge onto the anticipation. I saw a few joggers and a few asian tourists getting a jump on their day of sightseeing. But the stranger was not there. I climbed the stairs to have a quiet moment with Lincoln before the meet up and on the very top step leading into his shrine was a second little black book! My neck almost snapped off looking for who could’ve possibly snuck by me to place it there.

This time the pages were near filled.

It began with I will be dying soon, but I couldn’t go on without at least trying to right this wrong for which I feel responsible. I’m a neonatal physician, but the year you came into this world I was an arrogant prick with a drinking habit. I was working the graveyard shift on the night your family arrived and I wasn’t exactly sober. I won’t make excuses. There’s no other way to put this so I’m just going to rip the bandaid off. You were switched at birth. To make a long story short, you were born in a shared birthing room. It was chaos that night. There were 12 deliveries all within 20 minutes of each other. Must have been a full moon. I recall almost having to catch you before you hit the floor, only to rush around the curtain to pull the next newborn from her mother.

The little black book almost flipped out of my hands! There’s no way this could be true! I belonged to my family. I knew it in my bones. But all at once the world began to spin. And dizziness consumed me. I tried to stabilize myself with deep breaths. As soon as I could, I read on.

I hired someone non threatening to seek you out, follow you and bait you into finding this little black book. Inside the back pocket you will find the key to a safe deposit box which contains $30 million - one for each year of your life. And even that won’t cover the guilt I’ve carried. I want you to use this money to find your real birth family or whatever will give you peace. More words and more details followed, but my life has never been the same.