Jumpstart

I’ve never been particularly wealthy.

That isn’t to say that my family wasn’t well enough off to raise me and my siblings, but I can’t say there haven’t been times I’ve been left wanting for things. I worked my way through college, and though my loans will take approximately 40 years to completely pay off, I’m not that financially strapped.

At least, that’s what I tell myself as I pinch each penny of my paychecks.

It’s Saturday when I decide to head out and try my hand at finding a new coat. Well, perhaps new is the wrong word. The first place I hit up is the local thrift shop. Thrifting has become the hot new trend, so prices have gone up at most stores. Still, it’s better than adding to the egregious carbon footprint that is fast fashion.

“Welcome to Nue Urbana! Let us know if you need help finding anything.” The bubbly voiced cashier greets from behind the counter.

I smile and nod politely before bee-lining toward the back wall where the winter fashion is kept.

The selection isn’t great. The sizing runs toward smaller frames, but I I know if I dig for long enough, I’ll find something. I start sifting through the racks, stopping every few pieces to get a closer look.

“Too small… wrong cut… what the heck is that stain?!”

Letting out a frustrated sigh through my nose. “It’s okay, there’s still more to look at…”

I move from the rack along the wall to one of the carousel displays. Two-thirds of the options are DQ’ed immediately just from sizing alone, leaving me about two dozen options. “The fashion industry is giving me the middle finger. Why is everything so freaking small?!” Diving in, I start the sorting process once again.

I’ve narrowed it down to the last few options when I find it: a worn denim jacket with a sherpa collar. It’s straight out of the seventies and gaudy as hell.

I love it.

Pulling it off the hanger, I throw it over my shoulders. It’s a little big, which is honestly kind of empowering, something big on me. It’s also pleasantly warm.

It’s perfect.

Deciding to forgo rehanging it, I carry the jacket over my arm as I make my way up to the register. The cashier has a beautiful round face and deep set eyes. I know I’m smiling a little stupidly as she rings me up. I offer an awkward thanks before heading out.

The temperature had dropped considerably in the short time I was in the store. Shrugging the jacket on, I turn the collar up and start the trek back to my apartment. The jacket is really warm and I’m thankful that given the sudden temperature change. At a particularly harsh gust of wind, I shove my hands in the pockets and duck my head.

“Colder than a witch’s-”

I stop as my hand slides along something hard inside the pocket.

“That’s… odd.”

Knowing that it would be a real jerk move to stand in the middle of the sidewalk to find out what was in my pocket, I start to power-walk toward a nearby strip center to get out of the wind.Once I’m safely tucked under an overhang, I tug the object from inside the confines of the pocket.

It’s a black hardcover notebook, no bigger than the average field journal. I flip it over to find both covers are blank. I move the band from where it holds the book closed and turn to the front page. There isn’t a name or address, but there is a simple message in plain black ink.

Take what you need. Leave for the next.

I read the phrase a few times, wholly confused.

“Did I accidentally buy a bible with my dad-jacket?” I thought to myself.

Before I have a chance to read further the wind kicks up again.

“It’s too cold to be perusing potentially biblical texts on a random sidewalk.”

I tuck the book back into my pocket before power walking toward somewhere warm.

Preferably with coffee.

There is a little independent café about two blocks from my apartment. I have always found it seems to be just the right amount of busy.

Today is no exception.

The barista behind the counter is that cute pop-punk kind of hipster that can only be found in the city. I decide to order a large cold-brew with oat milk; winter be damned. I pay the cashier and settle into one of the single-seat tables by the window to wait.

I pull the book out from my pocket and flip it back open.

It’s well-loved, and beyond the first page there are dozens upon dozens of little messages. Most are asking for something: love, money, fame, and so on. As I continue I notice that nearly all the lines are written in different handwritings.

Some notes are multiple in nature.

Something about those particular notes seems off compared to the rest. Roughly six or so pages in a small, out of place scrap of paper catches my eye. It looks like a torn receipt.

“Maybe a hint to the previous owner?” I thought.

Dislodging the little paper, it’s immediately clear that it’s written in the same pen as one of the multi-lined messages from a previous page.

It’s hard not to spot chartreuse cursive.

It’s not the easiest read but at least it wasn't smudged.

“You only get one wish. If you write more, everything goes away.

Think about what you really want. You only get one shot.”

One shot?

Wish?

What was this note even talking about?

Deciding to keep looking through the notes, I find a few more lines “wishing” for more than one thing. Each of those seem to be followed by a line about how it’s all “a joke” or “a hoax.” With nearly two-thirds of the book filled and only a few lines denying the validity of the note’s claim, I have to wonder: what would I wish for?

The barista calls out my name. I pull myself away from the book and leave it at the table to retrieve my drink from the bar. As I grab the cup, I find myself really considering what I would want: or even what I would need.

“Um, excuse me - could I borrow a pen?” I ask the pop-punk barista.

He turns and grabs one of the pens from the flower pot next to the register. Offering a smile and a small thank you, I shuffle back to the table.

The voice in the back of my head, which sounds a lot like my sixth grade social studies teacher Mr. Lassiter - not going to dissect that right now -, tells me that this is a stupid waste of ink. But I can’t really find a valid reason not to write something.

If it is a hoax, I can write it off as a fun little social experiment; but if it’s real… it couldn’t hurt to try.

I sit back down, coffee in one hand, uncapped pen in the other. Turning to a half-filled page, I take a moment to read through the other wishes.

“I wish I could find my soulmate.”

“Can I get into Harvard?”

“I want more than anything to have a child.”

Two of the messages sound like wishes; the college one sounds like a kid asking a magic eight-ball for advice.

Honestly, I can’t fault them. I was like that in high school too.

Taking a long sip of my drink, I try to center my thoughts. One wish - no stipulations.

Take what you need…

Swallowing, I set pen to paper and write a simple message:

“I wish I could jumpstart my life.”

Almost immediately, I want to scratch the words out.

What kind of vague, stupid wish was that?!

I rest my head on the table and fight a groan building deep in my chest. Of all the things I could have asked for, I ask for a jumpstart. A small part of me hopes that if this little book does grant wishes, that it can interpret word vomit.

Raising my head back up, I notice a notification on my phone.

I pick it up and unlock the screen, finding an email waiting for me - from my bank.

Had I forgotten a bill?

Did I overdraw my account with iced coffee again?!

Bracing for the worst, I open the message.

“Dear valued banking member,

As you know, you entered one of our special rate contests. We are pleased to inform you that you have been randomly selected as the winner of this contest! Attached to this email is a secure forum for you to fill out and return to your nearest branch. The first prize for this contest is $20,000.00, which will be deposited upon completion of the proper forums.

Thank you for your loyalty.

Congratulations!”

What?

What?!

WHAT?!?!

I immediately dial my bank. The little automated menu leads me to a hold, and the entire time I can feel my heart beating staccato against my ribcage. Finally, I hear the little beep signaling that another person is on the line.

“Good afternoon, this is Melissa, can I get your account number please?” A chipper voice asks.

I trip slightly as I try to speak, “Uh- Yes! 555-8675.”

I hear the clacking of a mechanical keyboard over the phone followed by a small ‘ah-ha’ noise.

“Here you are. Oh! Congratulations on winning the most recent contest! Were you needing a good fax number or an address to drop off your paperwork?”

It’s real… My wish… came true.

“No thank you” I murmur, “I just… I needed to confirm it, is all,” offering a polite goodbye before hanging up.

A jumpstart on life…

Twenty-thousand is more than a jumpstart. I can feel tears welling in my eyes as I look down again at the little black book.

Leave for the next.

Carefully, I tuck the warning note back into the pages and close it back up.

I grab my coffee in one hand and the book and pen in the other. I walk back up to the counter, fighting a smile the entire way.

“Thank you for letting me use your pen,” I beam at the barista, “I also found this book on the table… Could you put it in the lost and found?”

“Sure! I’ll give it a look later to see if there’s a name.” He assures me.

Nodding, I tip my coffee in a little salute.

As I make my way back out into the cold of the afternoon, I feel a sense of what can only be described as peace. I took what I needed, and now, I know someone would be able to take what they needed too.