Misplaced Belongings

I've lost count of how many important little belongings I have lost. Wallets, IDs, phones, watches. I tend to misplace things. Or, rather, things tend to disappear. Because they always seem to reappear. Right where I first looked for them. My wife tells me I just miss them the first time. She says the second look is the lucky one, that my wallet, my ID, my phone, had really just been there all along. But there’s a tingle that tells me otherwise. They pop out, and then pop right back in, like a cigarette break. I’m sure of it.

I take my dog out for a walk twice a day. Once before work, and once after. The night I found that little black notebook, I was just going about that same routine. At seven thirty-five I got home, linked the leash to her collar, and took her for a stroll around the block. It was cold, so I didn’t stay out long. Just long enough for her to sniff around and do her business. Then, I took her inside. Same old, same old.

I’d had trouble finding my keys beforehand, which isn’t normally odd, but I had just gotten home 5 minutes prior and I was certain I set them on the kitchen counter. They weren’t there. I didn’t panic, though. I just asked my wife if she could buzz me back into our second-floor apartment when I got back. She did. No problem. But when I looked right where I could’ve sworn those keys were thrown, there sat a little black Moleskine notebook. One I had never seen before.

My wife is a writer and an excessive organizer. She has a notebook for just about everything. Except, I knew this one didn’t belong to her. I thought it could’ve been new, but it looked far too tattered to have been bought recently. It had an ancient-ness about it. A type that suggested it had never been touched. Or, at least, hadn’t been touched in years.

“Hey, Shannon,” I called out to my wife.

“Hmm?”

“New notebook?”

She glanced over her shoulder from her spot on the couch, inquisitive. I pointed at the thing. She looked more confused than I was.

“No… Not yours?”

I shook my head. She got up, wandered over to me.

“Has it been here this whole time?” I asked.

I may seem to misplace things, but I’d like to think I have a keen eye. That’s how I know my things must momentarily disappear before they reappear. But things never just… materialize out of thin air.

“I don’t think so.” She answered.

We both just stared at it for a second, hands on our hips, examining, like we were waiting for the other to figure it all out. Neither of us had an answer.

“Did someone maybe leave it here?”

Shannon shrugged. “I mean, nobody came over today.”

Again, a staring contest with the little black book. A second, two seconds, a dog’s bark, a crowd’s cheer on TV, a refrigerator hum. Eventually, she picked it up. I almost reached to stop her. I don’t know why. I didn’t want to disturb it. When she handed it to me, I saw her finger had left an imprint on a layer of dust. I held it, but that’s all I did.

“Are you gonna open it?”

I looked at her like that’s the last thing I would’ve thought of doing. Shannon was curious, but she felt the weirdness just like I did. She was scared, and so was I, but I didn’t want to let the book win out. As mortifying as that sounds. So I opened it, slowly, half expecting it to creak like an old door. It didn’t, but I let my mind make the noise anyway.

At first, I saw nothing, only blank pages. It was only when I started flipping through those pages that something fell out. A piece of paper. I jumped back when it hit the ground. Shannon immediately dipped to pick it up.

A check. A check with my name on it and no monetary amount to be seen. The first thing I remember thinking is “this looks far too new compared to the Moleskine.” And it was. It must’ve been. Shannon flipped it around between her fingers and fiddled with the edges as she read. I glanced at the pages it had been tucked between. There was one thing written in that tiny notebook, right on those pages.

“‘Go Crazy.’” I recited out loud.

I looked at my wife and she looked at me. She shrugged and so did I.

It was only a day later that we decided to follow the black book’s orders. She filled in that blank with a penned in “20,000” and I drove it right to the bank. The notebook stayed on the counter that whole time, untouched.

My belongings tend to disappear. The little black notebook followed suit. It did not reappear, though, as most things tend to. I have never seen it since. I know I will never see it again. I’d like to think it’s out there, somewhere, replacing another woman’s set of keys. Then another’s. And another’s. And another’s.