A New Beginning

This Christmas Eve was just like any other: the snow didn’t show, but Uncle Jack Daniels sure did. After too many drinks, they all gathered in the living room and sat on the carpet for their traditional game of white elephant. This was always the precursor for whatever charade of pointing fingers would occur over dessert. It was one of the reasons the holidays always left a bitter taste in Ellie’s mouth-- not that the Jack Daniels helped.

Just as she was trying to remember when Christmas Eve was once her favorite holiday and started calculating how many more Christmas Eves at her parents’ house she would have to attend in her lifetime, her cousin Brandon slurred, “This one’s mine now,” as he swapped the large package neatly wrapped in paper with penguins on sleds in Ellie’s lap for the plain manilla envelope he had.

Ellie had already used her steal for the gift Brandon had promptly stolen from her. She was pretty sure it was a set of rubber wine glasses from Aunt Marge. They would have been perfect for boozy brunches this summer.

Why did they have to sit on the floor? It made all of this so much more humiliating at their age. And why did penguins even need sleds? She didn’t even try to hide her annoyance for her least favorite cousin as she rolled her eyes and knocked back what was left of her (mostly) Jack and Coke.

With her role in the game demoted to just sitting and watching, Ellie got up to refill her drink and open her gift. Whoever packaged the gift didn’t even bother to seal the envelope. Ellie flipped the envelope upside down and shook it. Out came a little black book that was about the size of her hand. She checked to see if there was anything else in the envelope, but it was empty. Maybe there was something in the book? She opened it and found the opposite-- and some pages were even missing.

These days, Ellie talked more about writing than actually writing. She didn’t really even talk about it that much anymore. She went to college with the dream of becoming the name you saw on glossy book sleeves and the byline to sharp essays in magazines. The snide remarks from her family and nagging self-doubt didn’t shatter these dreams for her-- the reality of the job market did. No one cared who you were or what you had to write unless you knew someone who knew someone, it seemed. And Ellie didn’t have the status or the credibility to know the right someones. She had a part-time job ghost-writing blog entries for a travel agency. Words once filled her up in a way that nothing else ever quite did. She was always hungry to read more, write more, push herself more. She wanted to write the next Catch-22 and be responsible for the novel on syllabuses everywhere and coin a phrase used by everyone.

Instead, Ellie felt like a phony writing about places she had never actually seen and people she had never actually met. When she wasn’t haunting WanderLust.com, she worked the graveyard shift waiting tables at a 24-hour pancake joint. She was always more of a waffle person, but the owners paid her in cash and her schedule was the same every week.

Ellie glared at the little black book in front of her and the bitter taste in her mouth came earlier than usual. Was this some sort of sign? Or just a really cruel prank? Why couldn’t the notebook at least be new?

She shoved the little black book back in the manila envelope and threw it in her mom’s junk drawer with all the old thank you cards and dried up pens collected over the years. It has never been a secret that Ellie was living a far from exciting life. She made do, and she was content for the most part. She believed there could be more later, she just needed to do this, whatever “this” was, now. After seeing the little black book, what she pictured for herself one day revealed itself as nothing more than an illusion she had tricked herself into believing. Funny how something so small can make you realize something so big.

* * *

“At least they don’t make us wear roller skates,” Laura offered as she put the final plate on Ellie’s tray. She made direct eye contact with the sunny side up eggs and tried her best to offer a sincere laugh.

The little black book was still on her mind. It probably didn’t help that it was in her back pocket. Ellie wanted to believe it was a sign, to make it one, so she didn’t leave it out of her sight. She even started scribbling in it here and there.

After serving her final table, Ellie retreated to the bathroom and locked herself in the third stall. While most of the cooks and waiters posted up in the back alley with the leftover coffee exchanging cigarettes and nightmare customer encounters, Ellie preferred to tuck herself away. Now that she had the little black book, she challenged herself to write down her own conversations with customers-- both the boring and the brash.

When she finished scribbling, she walked over to the sink to wash her hands. Taped on the mirror was a folded piece of paper with “Elaine” written on it.

Ellie’s mouth got dry. No one called her Elaine, except for her family, which was rare. Her coworkers didn’t even know her full name. She checked for shoes and any sign of life in the other stalls, but they were all empty. She didn’t remember hearing anyone come in. Ellie gripped the sink to steady herself and took a deep breath.

You’re at a dead end. Don’t turn around.

It seemed silly, but Ellie turned around anyways. As expected, she was alone. She read it again and again, searching for a how and a what and a why. How did this get here? What did it mean? Why her? The more she stared at it, the more unsettled Ellie felt. Was this a threat? She had the same work schedule. She lived alone. She took the same bus every morning. Did she have a stalker? Should she call the police? Should she act like this didn’t even happen?

Her thoughts raced against her heart. She couldn’t think or see clearly. She shoved the note in her pocket and left the bathroom.

* * *

Ellie bolted her door and even put a chair under the doorknob, something she saw from time to time in movies. She wasn’t sure how much it would help, but it surely couldn’t hurt. She turned on every light, double checked the locks on her windows, and turned her TV up to the loudest volume.

Ellie tried to pay attention to whatever sitcom rerun was blaring, but she couldn’t focus. Finishing her laundry was out of the question since the machines were in the basement of her building. And there was no way she was going to fall asleep any time soon. At the very least, she could change out of her work clothes. Stakeouts-- if this was considered one-- could be done in pajamas, right?

Ellie emptied her pockets onto her coffee table. After she changed, she counted her tips and reread what she scribbled down in her little black book to see if any of it was worth writing about. Everything was more mundane than she remembered and feeling defeated, she returned the notebook to the coffee table. She tried to focus on the TV again. She never liked sitcoms. Obviously the live studio audience was prompted when to laugh. She once read that it can take 3 to 5 hours to film a 30 minute episode. None of it felt genuine.

Her eyes shifted to the sad pile of tips from tonight and the little black book. The note was right: Ellie was at a dead end. Maybe she should just throw it out. It’s not a threat, it’s a reminder that she’s a joke. If she had a live studio audience, they wouldn’t need any prompting.

Picking up the note once more, Ellie paid close attention to the stroke of each letter. As she rubbed her finger along the ragged edge of the note, butterflies filled her stomach. She picked up the little black book and opened it up. The paper matched perfectly.

* * *

Ellie had never been in a situation like this before. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to do nothing. She could lose her jobs, not to mention her sanity. Instead, Ellie switched up her routine as best she could. She got to work earlier and remembered to put a chair under the doorknob whenever she was home. Weeks passed by in a blur and without any incident, and the note felt far away like a foggy dream.

After another writing session in the bathroom stall, Ellie found herself face-to-face with another carefully scripted “Elaine” looking back at her in the mirror. The butterflies she felt when she realized the note came from her little black book returned, but this time in a larger swarm.

Start over. Check under the sink.

Like the note before, it matched the little black book. The butterflies rioted in her stomach. She could feel her blood pounding in her ears. She didn’t know if she was going to cry, scream, or throw up. Or all three.

Instead of thinking, or crying or screaming or throwing up, she let her hand sweep the underside of the sink until she felt something. She ducked her head to get a better look and pulled out a manila envelope. She remembered when she got the little black book on Christmas Eve in a similar package. Could this be another one? The first one was small and used already, and she was writing in it almost every day at this point. She was due for a replacement soon.

The envelope was a bit heavier this time. Ellie closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, letting her hands do all the work. She was still holding her breath when she opened her eyes to see what her stalker-- or fate or whoever or whatever it was-- left for her this time.

It was not another notebook. It was a bundle of cash. Ellie didn’t need another note to tell her that this was her way of finding a new beginning.