little black book

She stares at the little black book on the table; it sits there small and oblivious and inert. She should just throw it away, just throw it away.

Her palms sweat. She doesn’t move.

Her phone ding dings and she jumps, dreading what she’ll see on the screen.

Little banners light up her screen: two responses from an unknown number. She’d learned quickly to turn off message previews after she’d made it to the third page of the little black book.

Ding ding.

The automated numbers from her bank letting her know she’d reached her deposit limit for the day.

Her stomach churns. She rubs her hands on her jeans and stares at the book.

She should throw it away.

Ding ding.

Two days ago she’d been nothing but a stupidly broke twenty-something with a moderately useless art degree. Then the siren call of Uber sang its sweet, sweet song and she’d succumbed.

It wasn’t as bad as she thought; most people didn’t want to talk, most people were fine with Lo-Fi beats and a clean, middle-class SUV taking them from one location to another.

She’d promised her mom she wouldn’t drive on weekends, but with all the COVID stuff and the world falling apart, part-time jobs weren’t really offering huge, hourly bonuses and no one was hiring.

So she switched on the app and within five minutes got the notification.

Ding ding.

It was a sketchy area, sure; down by the airport, but not at the airport.

The profile was slim with info, the picture out of focus. But the name was there and the route was long. Plus, hefty upcharges cause weekend rates (sorry mom) and late-night, compounding to a number that promised something other than ordering off the dollar menu this week.

It was raining, he didn’t have an umbrella, he separated himself from the shadow of a doorway that she hadn't even noticed when she drove up.

“I’m here for Roger,” she calls out the window, and the man nods. He’s as nondescript as his picture holding a small carry-on, too young to have a name like Roger.

All she can remember is how often his phone goes off. Sure, everyone is popular but there’s just this constant ding ding in the backseat.

Roger doesn’t say a word, keeps his eyes on his phone, writes occasionally in a small notebook he pulls from a front coat pocket, barely nods at her cursory questions.

His drop-off isn’t a business or restaurant like she thought. Instead it's a dropped pin on a poorly lit alley between two downtown, swanky, high-priced motels.

She eyeballs the pepper spray in her center console and drives, the low familiar curl of nervousness sits in her gut.

“Do you journal?” He asks suddenly, his voice equally as unremarkable as the man himself.

She tells him she’s never been able to make a consistent habit out of it.

His eyes flash oddly in the passing headlights.

“I find it to be educational. To document and reflect on one’s daily transgressions.”

She’s not sure how to respond. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by it, his eyes turn back to the phone. All the while in the back of her car:

Ding ding.

Of course she feels stupid when they finally arrive. He nods once at her goodbye, steps out into the rain, making an immediate beeline for the shelter of the alley.

She watches, thinking it was just weird enough to be on her list of plebian horror stories to share with any overly chatty future passenger.

But she’s immediately distracted from this thought by the notification of another fare. This one short and simple, one bar to another. Standard stuff.

The girls are screaming from the rain when she gets there, too many piling in at once and she’s honestly weighing the cost of the ticket against the price of the fare, wondering how long it will take before one requests Ariana Grande.

“Hey, you left your book back here.” The sashed and tiara’d bride-to-be says in a tone that’s heavy with first-world inconvenience, practically shouting over the others.

She takes it from her hands.

Not a book. A notebook.

Slim, black, plain. She thumbs open the front page and there’s no name.

She throws it in her passenger seat and checks the rearview to make sure they’re all buckled in.

Later, after her car empties and the music returns to its accustomed station, she remembers the notebook. She frowns.

No name. She flips through the pages, trying to recall where it could have come from.

The first page consists of two vertical columns. The first clearly phone numbers, no consistent area code. Plain black pen.

The second column is labeled “keyword" at the top, making the page seem lopsided.

The words are innocuous. Unusual.

“Mint julep”

“Birthday party”

“Roadside”

“Perfume”

Not dated. Some crossed out.

“Do you journal?”

He’d looked up from this notebook when he asked.

She opens the app and scrolls back, trying to remember the exact time of the fare.

Roger. His name was Roger.

She finds the bachelorette party and drags her finger down, victorious. Less pleased about having to contact the odd guy but still, maybe he’d tip her for returning his weird little book.

The app refreshes, familiar little spinning wheel and chug of data.

Nothing.

She does it three more times with rapid annoyance.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

She flips to the first page again. She pulls out her phone and texts the first number about finding the black book.

A solid 15 minutes go by before there’s a familiar ding ding

“Hey I think you have the wrong number…”

Second number. But this time she gets an idea. She matches the keyword to the number.

Birthday Party.

She presses send and doesn’t really have time to feel weird about it because the response is nearly instant.

“I told you I’d get it” The first green bubble says.

“There’s no more after this.”

Then a picture.

A subway station sign in the background, a bank of lockers.

The final message is a series of numbers that would correspond with a lock combination.

It’s late. There are no fares popping up on the screen and she’s just curious enough…

The numbers work. The locker swings open, she feels suspicious.

Inside is a manila envelope.

She gingerly opens the sleeve and peers inside, trying not to draw too much attention even though there’s no one around.

The judging eyes of Ben Franklin stare up at her, tinted yellow by the envelope.

She sits in the car and stares at the envelope. Her sense of morality warring with the fact that she’d just literally fallen into $500.

I should take this to the cops. she thinks.

And say what?

She peers at the envelope and opens it again. Sure enough, five $100 bills.

I should try to find him.

She opens her phone and pulls down the list of past fares,

A ride request dings in. She can already smell the alcohol on their breath and the passing drunken flirtation.

Party of four. Two miles.

She’ll make $8 plus tip.

The notebook sits on her dash. She chews her thumbnail, opens it, texts the third number.

It took her a week to make it to the third page of the notebook. Each number responding in less than 15 minutes, each response less and less comfortable.

Vague threats or pleas for time. No one seemed bothered that it was a random number texting them strange words at all hours.

Every text resulted in a picture of a locker at some station and the codes.

The amount of cash went up incrementally, too, each page and sent text returning bundles of bills and with it the impending anxiety pacified by the number she sees in her bank account.

It’s when she hits the third page that she realizes something is very wrong.

The first line, a number and two words: “Railroad crossing”

She texts the number and waits.

The response is only slightly delayed.

Ding Ding.

“Did she scream?” It asks in a blue bubble.

She stares, uncomprehending at the words.

The little conversation dots appear, typing and stopping and typing.

A little question mark appears next. Sits.

30 minutes pass. No picture, no locker. Nothing. Just those two messages.

Ding ding.

“For 20k I’m allowed to ask a question.”

Her hands are sweaty. Back to the mental dilemma.

There’s no real proof that any of this is wrong, that this isn’t just a weird prank, this could be completely legal.

$20,000.

She wiggles her thumbs above the keyboard anxiously, sets her jaw.

“She did.” She responds.

The dots appear immediately.

A picture. A locker number and password.

She throws up in the bathroom.

Sleepless, she peers at the notebook on the table.

I should throw it away.

There’s an envelope of cash waiting at the station.

Her curiousity on the hand...

She opens the notebook for what she promises will be the last time, flipping through pages she hadn’t really been curious enough to read deeply. Stomach souring with each new word.

“Hunting trip.”

“Scuba Diving.”

“Payback.”

“Exhaust.”

“Shrimp tacos.” On and on.

She reads and reads the words, and all the while her phone keeps going off.

She flips and flips until she finds the last word on the last written page.

“Uber Driver.” It says, her number next to it in the neat, crisp font that seems to mock her from the page

She throws it across the room.

She drives away from the station, the packet of money stashed in her glove compartment. Her hands feel dirty. She feels dirty. She feels like everyone around her knows.

Knows what?

She’s got to get rid of it. Burn it? Throw it in the river? Drop it in the trash?

She leans her head on the steering wheel. Somehow feels safer with the notebook tossed in the backseat, like if there's space between them it isn't quite real.

All she can think about is all the money in her glove compartment. All the numbers still inside that book.

Her number inside the book.

Her phone chimes with the familiar sound of a fare being assigned.

It’s nearby, city center.

Might as well. It’s not like she’s making any other decisions tonight.

She pulls to the side of the road and rolls down her window.

“Uber for Theodore,” she calls, still thinking about what's in the glove compartment.

He gets in quietly and shuts the door.

She pulls away and taps the app for the destination.

Her neck prickles, her focus darts up to make eye contact in the rearview mirror.

He looks up from the notebook in his hands, meeting her gaze with a pair of dark eyes that flash weirdly in the oncoming headlights.

“I see you’ve started journaling.” He says.