George, The Little Black Book

Perhaps I should not have, but it just sat there, lonely. I picked it up, not of my own volition, really, just because it didn’t seem right to leave it there, new, unused, neglected, abandoned. And now that it was in my hands, what should I do with it? Just open the cover, find the name and return it to its owner. But inside the cover, blank pages gave silent witness to its newness.

I held it gently on my lap, guarding it until its owner returned to claim it. This small black moleskin notebook, waiting for something to be impressed upon it, as was I. The bright sun turned into long shadows until cool air awakened me from my pensive vigil and I decided to return home, taking with me the black book.

Alone in my apartment, I held the book in both hands, wondering what future words it would hold, until I took up the pen to begin its life as a journal, to give it a life, with my meaning.

I have no recollection of how started a dialogue with my little black book. With no intention, I seemed to communicate with my new best friend, my hopes, dreams and ideas. For whatever reason, I named it George and told George of how one day I would travel to places of my, and everyone’s, dreams. How I would glide down the Nile in the traditional felucca boat, its polished natural wood in sharp contrast to the gleaming white sail and follow the footsteps of the greatest adventurers and explorers, but without their mishaps. I would never, for instance, mistakenly go over a waterfall. George became my closest confidant.

Who would I be, between the covers with George? We covered continents, learned languages, ate the strangest foods, stayed in romantic and rustic places.

Together, George and I became a little dog-eared, our travels were wearing us out. But always, we returned to the sunlit bench where we began our journey together.

Until that day, when a woman more elderly than I, sat beside us. After the usual “nice day” chit-chat, she commented how one day she had bought a moleskin notebook just like mine but had lost it almost immediately - she had no idea where.

Of course, it turned out that George was indeed her black book, and with great sorrow, I offered her black book back to her, apologizing for having written in it and offering to purchase her a new one.

Instead, she asked about what I had written. I confessed my dreams of romantic, adventurous travel and how I had poured my heart into the pages, living those dreams on paper yet still hoping to experience them in real life.

Her face softened. She admitted that she had bought the book for that exact same purpose, as she had come to realize that though she could not physically take those trips anymore, perhaps she could experience them through writing about them.

We were of the same heart, she and I. We sat there for hours recounting our untaken trips and adventures, laughingly coming up with scenarios such as, what would you do when the giraffe leaned forward and kissed your neck, with its sandpaper tongue and only the slightest slobber? We giggled and laughed, and shared travels that we had never taken, but knew in our hearts.

I again offered her the black book that she had purchased and that I had filled with my future travel memories. After much convincing, she accepted and left me, alone on the bench, feeling content that I had fulfilled some destiny.

The real destiny arrived in three months, by registered mail. George was returned to me, along with $20,000 to take the journeys about which I had written, as a bequest from the newly deceased Anna, the original owner of my black Moleskin notebook.