Little Black Book

The old man was always dressed in a black coat. The first time I remember seeing him he looked to me as a ninety year old thirteen year old. That was 20 years ago. His coat was truly oversized for him. He would walk the streets muttering and writing in his small book. This book was the color of his coat, and indistinguishable from his coat as he carried it. The only time you knew he had it was when he would open it and write.

The town people would whisper as he walked passed them. Every now and then he would shoot them a side look and even more seldom he would speak to them. He would speak softly to them, not with them. The looks upon their faces usually were of surprised distain. Never seeming to miss a step he would continue on.

When he stopped to write in his book, it seemed only to be momentarily. There would be no long narrative with delicate words in that book, only pointed phrases or sentences. Then he would return to his purposeful stride down the street.

As I got older, I heard the whispers. Why does he stay? He has no friends. Why does he wear that old coat? Winter and summer, that same coat! What does he write? He looks too old to work for the government agencies. What sort of man is he? We don't need his kind in this town. Just look at him! Keep your children away from him!

As a young teen, I started the whisperings too. These whisperings were with other young boys my age age and younger. These whisperings reflected those of the adults I had heard earlier in my life. And, now as I look back, I can not remember when those questioning whispers turned to unfounded statements of hate. Hate spurred by fear of unknowing.

The days came when the man did not walk the streets. The first day was an eyebrow raising look. The second day a bit of whispering talk. The third day was, "Thank goodness, he has gone." By the fourth day, my heart told me he had not left.

The weekend came and I joined the other guys for a time of raucous behavior. Of course the conversation turned quickly to what may have happened to the man. I noticed that one of the guys seemed to try to divert this favored subject more than once. Shrugging it off, we went on to different parties and houses. By the end of the weekend when the group was disbanding for another week of tedium and respectful behavior, I noticed that the one who had diverted talk of the man had already left the group. When did he? I don't remember. Aw, let him go! Why should I care if one doesn't care to join in with the fun of the group. Well, my heart told me that I should care.

So I left the group and went to find the dissenter. Jokingly I chided him of his behavior, missing all the fun and now having to face the coming weekdays without having all the fun of the weekend. He said not much to my words, but that he had spent the weekend in a satisfying manner and looked forward to the week. He was evasive and non committal about the weekend. I prodded him for specifics. He finally looked me right in the eye and told me about the man. How some of the guys had found him in his little house and started pushing him around, accusing him of all the whisperings. He was one of those guys. When the physical assaults started he had not participated and left. He couldn't sleep that night and returned to the little house the next day to apologize to the man. When he got there he was appalled to see how far the others had gone. He had returned daily to help the man.

What? Oh my heart was torn. What part of this was me? My hands had not been there at the little house, but were they not there as assuredly as my voice may have helped create the situation? Was I responsible for the actions of others? No! They did it! But what about those whisperings that turned to unknown fear and hate, did that move those hands to violence?

The man recovered and was soon again seen on the streets. When I would see him in public I would gently nod and wave with two upraised fingers. When I visited him in his little house we would talk of things; sun and rain, wind and snow, habits and needs, love and hate. My weekends soon were filled with conversations and books. But never the little black book was discussed.

One Sunday, our conversation was much different. I had found my soul mate. I was so talkative of her and the joy I was experiencing. I feel now that he had already figured it all out. He had joy for me and with me. And I am sure that he knew that our days of visiting would be limited, even though I hadn't even figured that out yet! The man then talked of his book. It was to be mine, when the time of his leaving came. I could not even imagine what that would mean to me since I didn't know what the book was. What did he mean "of his leaving"?

I married my joy a year later. The man, invited to the event, didn't show. The dissenter came bearing a gift. In the box he brought was the black book and a note from the man. The note read, "The time has come for my leaving. I give you my little black book knowing you will use it well."

The small black book has profited me much. There is no long delicate narratives in the book. Yes, it contains short pointed sentences and phrases, observations of an outsider looking in. Observations without prejudice can yield many profits in everyday life.

Yes, it has been about 20 years since I first remember seeing the man. I now have a young son, David, who looks to me for love and guidance, and I have a black book and memories to guide me in this endeavor.