A Sketchy Tale

"I used to be an artist myself, you know."

I raise my head to the sight of an old lady standing in front of me. She is smiling and holding loosely on the subway pole with one hand while grasping on the strap of her small shoulder bag with the other. I immediately close my notebook with my mechanical pencil between the pages, and stand up to offer her my seat.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there." - I say timidly.

"Oh, don't worry, you can sit. I wasn't trying to call you out, I was just enjoying watching you draw. Those are nice sketches you have there."

I thank her with an awkward smile, then take a quick look around. Only a few people are standing and none of them seem to be too old or impaired, so I sit down again. I'm barely two stations away from home, but it's been a long day at college and my backpack is heavy with books - the library only had the hardcover edition of Gombrich's The Story of Art, and it weighs as much as a milk jug. I go back to sketching in my notebook.

One of the downsides of drawing on the subway is that you often get unwanted attention. Most people pretend they are not looking at what you're doing but, every once in a while, there will be someone commenting on it, or eager to mention that their 11-year-old child also likes to draw. I've even had people asking me if I could make a portrait of them - for free, of course. But between my part-time job and college, there's not much time left for me to draw, so anything is better than nothing. Of course, it would make more sense for my future career if I could quit and use my time to practice and study but, since I'm only halfway through paying my tuition fee, that's not an option unless I magically find 20,000 dollars lying around somewhere.

"I hope I'm not being too intrusive, but I would like to take a better look at your sketches if you don't mind." The old lady says, already reaching for my notebook with the same hand that had been holding the pole just a moment ago.

Ok, at this point it gets a little weird. I'm used to the small talk, but no one has ever tried to randomly grab my notebook. Also, I can't help but think of how counter-intuitive it was for her to let go of the pole instead of her purse. I was caught off-guard, but I let her get it. She's just an old lady, I think, what harm can it make, right?

But as soon as she pulls my notebook towards her, the train comes to a sudden, violent stop. I was pushed harshly against the glass divider beside my seat, becoming squeezed between that and the weight of the person who was sitting by my side and was pushed onto me. Every person standing was thrown forward with inertia and some of them fell. It almost seemed like slow motion, the old lady lifting one foot, then the other, leaning to her side and floating. She kept looking at me the whole time, her eyes and mouth growing wider as she was falling. One hand still holding my notebook, and the other still grasping firmly on her shoulder bag. She hit head first on the floor, and her body slid a few feet after the fall.

I jumped from my seat to go check on her, and as I got closer, I watched her white hair rapidly become stained with bright red. I freaked out and tried to scream but couldn't produce any words, so it came out more like a shriek. Her eyes were wide open but she was completely still, so I couldn't tell if she was conscious or not. Well, I could tell it a moment later, when she let go of her bag strap and landed her hand on my arm. She tried to say something, but her voice was low, so I leaned in closer. She said, in an urgent tone, "Take my purse and don't let anybody get it from you. It is extremely important. There's a note inside; you'll know what to do."

My head was racing with adrenaline, so I just followed her orders without a question. I threw her purse in my backpack and stood back as other people who were less shocked approached her to help. It was all so chaotic that I don't think anybody noticed I had taken her bag.

A few minutes later, the subway guards opened the door by hand and escorted the passengers out of the train. The old lady was still on the floor, and some guys with a stretcher went in as I left the train with the others. We walked along the tracks until we reached the station platform, where we were able to see the cause of the accident. They were sitting in the middle of the rail, receiving medical assistance. A failed suicide attempt.

After a brief talk with a paramedic to check if I had any injuries, I went home. My mind was so numb that I walked six blocks in what felt like just a couple of seconds. It was only when I arrived that I realized I didn't have my notebook with me. I would normally be upset but, given the circumstances, I was relieved to be alive and unharmed. I was still shaken though, so I turned on the tv to try to calm myself down, and there was live news from the subway station. The reporter said that a dozen people got hurt in the accident and one, unfortunately, died - an old lady who fell and hit her head. She had no documents on her, only a small black notebook with nothing but drawings in it.

The news made me think of the old lady's purse, and at first I felt stupid for having brought it home and wanted to take it back to the station. But then I remembered her wide-eyed scared face and how she asked me to not let anybody get it, so I thought I should open it to see what could be so important. Inside, there was an envelope and a piece of paper folded twice, nothing else. The envelope was a brown one, the type that people use to send documents. Its contents only filled the bottom half of it, and the top half was folded over. By its weight and feel I thought it could be a book, maybe one of those pocket bibles that some people like to carry around. The envelope wasn't sealed so I opened it, and fell back when I saw what was inside. Two generous stacks of cash, wrapped in rubber bands. Fifties, twenties, and even a few hundreds. I couldn't guess how much money it was, but it was certainly more than I had ever seen.

If it was a hypothetical scenario, I assume I'd be happy about finding such a fortune. But it was very real, so instead I felt utterly responsible for something I never asked for, and started sweating with anxiety. It was too sketchy a situation, that amount of cash, the way the old lady was protective of it. I started fantasizing about some mafia guys coming after me, or the police banging on my door. As the panic took over, I decided to read the note to see if there was a clue about what I should do. And I was willing to do almost anything at this point. All I wanted was to get rid of it all as soon as possible.

I took the piece of paper and unfolded it. There were just four lines of text, written in ink. My hands were sweaty and shaking. My sight was blurry, and I felt like I was going to pass out, so I had to hold the note very close to my face to be able to see it. I took a deep breath, focused my eyes on the paper. And I swear to God.

I couldn't understand a single word she wrote. Not even a single letter. It must have been the most terrible handwriting in the history of writing by hand. It looked like a bunch of waves, spirals, and ticks thrown on the paper completely at random. I felt so disconcerted that the panic wore out. The only question that could come up in my mind was: "Who the hell writes in cursive nowadays, anyway?"

The note was so illegible that I thought maybe it was encrypted, so I tried reading it in front of the mirror, sideways, upside down, against the sun, under blue light... nothing. Turns out it was just, plain simply, bad handwriting. From a now dead, unidentified woman.

For a couple of days, I lived in fear that someone would come after me to ask about the money. I couldn't keep myself from searching for news about the accident all the time. On the third day, the old lady was finally identified as a retired art teacher who ran a local gallery. She had no heirs, no relatives, and only very few friends. The news made no mention of any trouble with the mafia or police, and no mention of a missing purse whatsoever. She was buried later that week, with the notebook she was holding when she died. My notebook.

That's when I lost any hope of ever seeing that little black notebook again. But on the upside, the reports on the accident stopped, so I was free of any potential threats. I felt bad that I couldn't read the old lady's note but, since I couldn't figure out what to do, I decided to keep the money. I still haven't had the audacity to spend any of it, but I counted it. 20,000 dollars.