By Its Cover

"Anna," my manager began, "I’m sorry but I need you to close by yourself again tonight. Miles made reservations, and I can’t be late. Also, when was the last time you wiped tables? They’re filthy."

"A few minutes ago," I fibbed. It had been closer to an hour, but all of them still appeared clean except for one in the corner. She gave no reply and soon left.

On the corner table, there was still a plate with a half-eaten muffin, and it looked like the customer had gotten more coffee on the table than in his mouth. Of course, there was no tip to compensate either. I dropped the plate and mug into the dish bin with a clatter then channeled all of my aggression into wiping down the table. The spilled coffee dripped off its surface and onto the bench. I heaved a sigh as I started wiping off the bench. As I finished, I noticed something in the corner where the bench met the wall – a little black notebook. I leaned over and pulled it out of the crevice, turning it over in my free hand. There was nothing distinct about it. It was plain on both sides and held closed by black elastic. Was the customer that left a mess behind the same one that left this book? I set it on the counter and forgot about it as I finished cleaning the café and counting the register. Before turning off the last light I clocked out and grabbed my bag.

I’d nearly left without it when the notebook caught my eye again, the blue lights of the espresso machine glinting off its dark surface. It was about to join the six forgotten sunglasses, three pens, and phone charger in our Lost and Found box. My arm stopped midway before tossing it in. I pictured the middle-aged customer who somehow didn’t have the decency to clean up after himself.

Thanks for the tip, I thought, slipping the notebook into my bag.

The whole day had been gloomy, and now rain soaked through my jacket as I walked the usual two blocks to the bus stop. If I’d had help closing, I would’ve beat this downpour, I thought bitterly. At least tomorrow was Monday, my day off since I had to work weekends. While others slept in until noon on weekends, I would roll out of bed at 4:30am, attempt to make myself look halfway decent, then have a latte for breakfast as I awaited the few early birds at the café. Even if they didn’t take advantage of their freedom to sleep in, I still didn’t think they fully appreciated their privilege. Imagine having someone else make coffee for you and then working on your laptop or going about your day as you please. I got on the bus on autopilot as these thoughts filled my mind. The streetlights turned on as the sun lowered in the sky. The passing lights and faded pastels of the sunset barely registered in my glazed-over vision. I used to picture myself being one of them – typing away at laptop, wearing stylish shoes as I sipped coffee between pages, always at a different café. Fantasy Me moved to a different city every few months. Her job gave her the freedom to do that. This time she was at a sidewalk table in Paris.

Why was I thinking about this? Fantasy Me had died about a year after college and countless failed attempts to get a job having any remote relation to writing. Instead, I fantasized about the frozen pizza I’d devour before passing out for a good twelve hours.

My phone buzzed, waking me up from the daydreaming. It wasn’t a friend – my schedule had started strangling my social life after graduation, and the past couple years had succeeded in murdering it entirely. It was an email: Student Loan Payment Due. With my tips from this week, I’d have enough to pay it off. The rest of my paycheck would go toward rent and bills, with just enough left to put toward groceries for the next two weeks. Still on autopilot, I got off the bus and walked to my studio apartment, made the pizza, finished the whole thing along with a bottle of cheap red wine, and passed out.

I seemed to blink, and light was already streaming into my room. My eyes adjusted to read the time on my phone: 8:07. I wasn’t even capable of sleeping in anymore.

Knowing I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, I trudged toward my coffeemaker.

"Ow!" I’d kicked something – the black notebook must’ve fallen out of my bag, which I’d dropped on the floor after getting in the night before.

I picked it up and hesitantly unclasped the black elastic. I didn’t want to know anything about this guy’s personal life, but maybe a phone number or something would be on the inside to return it. If it was blank, that’d be a win for me – not that I’d touched pen to paper in several months. No sooner had I opened it than something fell out onto the floor. It was a handwritten letter that had slipped out of its envelope as it landed. I couldn’t help but read the first couple sentences:

My love,

I miss you. And Ellie. I know I can just call you, but you both definitely need to try this chocolate. I can’t keep much down right now, but I had to taste it, and I have no regrets…

I stopped myself and folded the letter back up to place it in the envelope, noticing it was dated from three years ago. The stamp was German, but the address it was sent to was in Chicago. I typed it into my phone. It was on the North side, but it wouldn’t take too long to get there by bus.

I wondered if it was even worth attempting to return it. I quickly flipped through the notebook, trying to avoid reading it. It wasn’t hard since the handwriting was small and messy. The notebook was almost entirely filled. I didn’t really think after that, I didn’t decide – I just found myself leaving my apartment and making my way to the bus stop. Compared to jet setting from city to city, it was a sorry excuse for an adventure, but I felt alive as I deeply inhaled in the March air. The little break from routine was refreshing. Sitting on the bus, I noticed the rain from last night had melted most of the snow and exposed little patches of grass, mostly brown with some encouraging tinges of green. I watched as the buildings passing by became more luxurious.

I got off in an upscale neighborhood, feeling out of place as I walked up the street in my beat-up sneakers. I became anxious to find the place and get this over with. If the notebook’s owner didn’t still live there, I’d just put it in the Lost and Found tomorrow.

Finally, I found the right house number. It was a lavish yet somehow tasteful prairie style mansion with large windows. My anxiety doubled as I walked up the steps and rang the doorbell.

A little girl opened the door, about 7 or 8 years old.

"Hi," she said, "What’s your name?"

"Uh, it’s Anna," I said, caught a little off guard. The girl’s arm was in a sling.

"I’m Elia."

"Hi Elia, are your parents home?"

"My dad is, lemme go get him."

She ran down the hallway, energetic despite her injury.

Her father soon appeared, a balding man with glasses that I recognized as Mr. No-tip-McCoffee-mess.

"Uh, hi," I said, still standing on the porch, "I work at The Daily Grind. I think you left this there." I held out the black book.

His eyes widened.

"You came all the way here? – Oh, come in," he said.

I entered the hallway and handed him the book, distracted by my surroundings. I was taken aback to see a framed Pulitzer Prize on the wall of the hallway, awarded to Joel Lewis. The name seemed familiar. The man opened the notebook to find the envelope enclosed inside. His eyes filled with tears as he tucked it back inside the cover. He wiped them away and sniffled.

"Sorry. Sorry – you see, this was the last correspondence from my wife."

"Oh." My eyes widened. "I’m so sorry."

"Why don’t you have a seat?" he said, "I just made some coffee."

The next moment, I found myself sipping coffee in an airy living room. I would’ve expected him to have a room filled with leather chairs and tobacco smoke, but instead it was houseplants and an essential oil diffuser.

"I meant to come back and apologize about leaving in such a rush," he began. "You see, my daughter’s school called saying she had an accident on the playground and, well, you know how paranoid fathers are."

I didn’t, but I nodded.

"Thank you so much for returning my book," he continued, "I hadn’t even realized I’d left it."

"No problem," I said. "It seemed important."

"It is. I’ve been working on a novel in it for months, but the letter is what’s truly priceless to me."

I didn’t want to pry, but he sensed my curiosity and said, "Sarah was getting treatment in Munich. She was supposed to be gone for a few weeks while I stayed to keep Elia in school. But there were… complications."

"I’m sorry," I said again, not knowing what else to say.

"I found my soulmate," he said, wiping tears again and shrugging. "I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I just wish I’d been by her side, so I always keep her letter at mine."

I nodded slowly. After I brief silence, I said, "So you’re a writer? I noticed you won a Pulitzer."

"Ah, yes, that was from years ago. I’m a fiction writer," he said modestly.

"I used to write," I said, instantly regretting it.

"Not anymore?" he asked.

"I, um, couldn’t find a job after college," I said awkwardly.

"And that stops you from writing?"

"I guess I realized I just don’t really have any stories to tell… I haven’t really been through anything that I think someone else could relate to."

He paused for a moment then said, "Wait here."

He left the room and returned shortly with a small black notebook, a new and pristine version of the one I’d returned.

Handing it to me, he said, "I didn’t write for two years after we lost Sarah. I’ve only just started again. Writing isn’t always easy, but for some of us it’s absolutely necessary. Even if you don’t start soon, I hope you write again someday."

I nodded and smiled. "Thanks," I replied.

On the bus back home Joel’s parting words echoed in my mind:

"I’m a firm believer that everyone has valuable stories to tell, but not everyone has the gift of writing to share them."

My eyes welled with tears. I felt an urge that I hadn’t in a long time. I dug in my bag and found a pen at the bottom.

I opened the notebook to find something tucked inside the cover. It was a check. I let out an audible gasp – it was for $20,000! The memo read "a delayed tip".

I looked out at the clear blue sky, now with tears streaming down my face. I didn’t know if I’d go to work the next morning. I didn’t know if I’d stay in the city or buy a one-way plane ticket to somewhere far away tomorrow. I didn’t know if someone out there would relate to my words. But I took out that little black notebook, and I started to write.