The Registry

John Hardt wasn't expecting anyone today when his faulty doorbell sounded. He never had visitors on Sunday mornings. He slipped on his sandals to go check the door, though he didn't want to get up from the couch in the middle of a news report about a local woman who mysteriously vanished and hasn't been seen for a week. Sure, he could've set the VCR to record it, but that would have required putting in a tape and making sure it was blank... more effort than it was worth.

He tied his robe belt as he approached the door and then flipped the deadbolt unlocked. No one was still there when he opened the door, not even a mail truck in sight. But there was a parcel – addressed to him – on his ratty welcome mat. He hadn't ordered anything, and no one sent him gifts on his birthday or Christmas, let alone any other day. Ever the curious cat, he picked up the box and took it inside, apathetically closing his door behind him.

The package was barely sealed well, so it was an easy open for him as he stood there. The item on top was a small black notebook with a sticky note that read "If you want this, then you must keep it."

John lifted the nondescript cover with his right pinky and peaked inside. The first page had a list of apparently random names, starting with "White, Herbert." He turned through a couple more pages and found more of the same. His brows furled as he reared his head slightly and then shook it as if it would have brought him to his senses.

Below the book was another package, wrapped in what was likely once a paper grocery bag. John pulled out the book and stuck it his left hand, which had already been holding the box. He pulled at a lose end of the wrapping, slowly tearing it open until he saw the familiar green face of Benjamin Franklin... and then another.

He dropped the package, and dozens of $100 bills spilled out of the frail package as it hit the bare wood floor. He turned his gaze from the valuable mess towards his left hand, which clenched onto the now open book while nearly tearing out the first page with his thumb. He stared at the book intently for seconds as if the names on the page would explain the windfall. His hand relaxed and he set down the book on the floor after stooping down to count the money, which ended up being $20,000.

John had been two months in arrears on his rent and owed about $500 in utilities, having been recently laid off. His jalopy had also been sitting on the street for what seemed like ages, needing a new radiator and other miscellaneous repairs. He knew this cash could take care of his financial woes, but he wasn't sure if it would be legal to keep the money or what people would think or ask. "Why ever would they believe this?"

Since the banks were closed anyway, he decided it would be best just to use some of the money on what he really needed. After corralling the cash into a pile and sliding most of it under his rug for the moment, he held onto thirty bills. He shucked his robe and slid on a pair of lounge pants, quickly out his door that he very well made sure was securely locked. He hopped over the porch railing and rapped on his elderly neighbor's door. "Hey, Bob. Can I borrow your wheels for a run to the drug store?"

Bob reluctantly handed over the keys as he had been doing for months on end. "Hope you get a job today, John. I'll have to start charging you rent on the Coug."

"No worries, sir!" John said with an unusual giddiness in his tone as he slipped a Franklin to the older gentleman.

"Finally got yourself a 9 to 5?"

"Not exactly. I'll fill you in later when I get back from getting a couple money orders for my bills and some groceries."

Bob shrugged it off and turned to go back inside as John hopped into the working ride, buckled up, and shifted into gear. Driving under the speed limit since many neighborhood kids loved to cross the road on their Big Wheels, John approached a turn in the road near a copse of young elms. Despite going only about 15 mph, John did not make the turn, and the car crashed into the trees. The still running car had no sign of a driver, though the seatbelt was still engaged. The windshield was intact and the inside dash was as immaculate as Bob always kept it.

Back at John's house, the little black book caught a draft and blew open through many pages to one that had only yet been completed halfway with names. On the next blank line, a new name appeared in a phantom fashion, from left to right, in the same ink as the many other names already there: "John Hardt."