Little Black Book

“Did you hear there’s another millionaire in our state?” a shaggy haired kid said next to me in class. Not to me, but to his friend.

“Really? Where are they getting all this money from?” his friend asks.

“Your guess is as good as mine. How I wish to be rich one day…” the shaggy kid exclaims with a hearty sigh.

I believe this dream is one many my age share. How nice it sounds to have “throw away money”, as my mother would call it. Money’s not too tight for me and my family. However, that doesn’t mean that we have “throw away money”. Just enough to make ends meet with a little extra left over. Ever since a young age, I had dreamed of having a big mansion with every video game, car, and anything else I would want. It sounds like a childish dream, but that’s simply because it’s a dream a child had. The recent news of people becoming millionaires overnight in our state has intrigued me. “How are these people doing it?” I ask myself. Even I’m sharp enough to know that a magician never shares their secrets.

The school day comes and goes without a hitch. As I arrive home, I find a wrapped package outside my front door with nothing but my name on it. No sender address, and no receiving address. This leads me to the conclusion that someone had to have placed this here deliberately. Letting my curiosity get the best of me, I decide to take the package inside to examine it further. I pick it up and head upstairs to my room. It would seem no one is home, so there’s no one I can ask about this package.

In my room, I decide to look at the package once more before opening it. I notice that there is, in fact, something else on the package, a wax seal. Not a seal I’ve seen anywhere else, shrouding this parcel in more mystery than it had before. It’s wrapped quite nicely, though. As if someone skilled with their hands had delivered it. I finally decide to open it and in it sits a tattered, leatherbound black book. The pages are yellowed, and the cover is blank, showing nothing but its age.

“Is this some sort of prank?” I ask myself. There’s no way it could be, most pranks nowadays aren’t this deliberate. At least, that’s what I told myself. My conclusion set my heart and mind at ease a little, but not enough to quell my nerves. I already opened the package, so I don’t see why I don’t open this book as well. When I open it, I notice this beautiful handwriting. The letters flow across the page in an almost effortless manner, the ink a beautiful shade of emerald. The fluidity and precision of the script is akin to what is seen in 18th century documents. After spending another minute gawking at the writing on the page, I decide to finally read it. It said as follows:

“To whom this book reaches, I hope this finds you in good health. To keep this note succinct, I’ll explain to you what is going on. One a backroad in the outskirts of this city, there will be a reward for you. To find which road, go to the origin of the city and face towards where light makes its rest, then move a mile in that direction. Then, face towards Polaris, and move a mile in that direction, as well. There, it will be. Godspeed.”

And that’s all that was written. The hundreds of other pages were blank, not even little traces of ink that could have bled through the first page. Whoever sent this book to me, apparently has my best interest in mind. A “reward” is an offer I couldn’t pass up, at least in my current consciousness. There was one thing hindering my progression in this search; I hadn’t a clue what those cryptic words meant. While reading, I figured the “origin” of the city was the center, like the origin of a cartesian plane. I also noticed that the word “Polaris” was capitalized, like it’s a proper noun. I decide to Google the word and after a few seconds of digging, Wikipedia told me “Polaris” was the North Star. That was an amazing, and relatively easy, start. I now only had to figure out where “the light makes its rest”. I tried to Google that as well, but the knowledge well came up dry. I just recently heard someone walk through the front door, so I figure someone older than me might be wise enough to decipher this. I decided to leave out the part about the black book, just to save myself an explanation.

“Hey, mom. How was work?” I start.

“Hey, pumpkin. It was okay. Do you need something? “

“Hmm, I just have a question.”

“Yes?”

“Where does light make its rest?”

She just squints at me. “What this about?”

“Oh, just…In English class, my teacher has us deciphering phrases to try to figure out what they mean. That’s the only one I couldn’t figure out.” I say nervously. She seemed to have believed my story.

“Oh, alright. The only thing I can think of is a lampshade…or…”

“Or?”

“Maybe it means ‘to the west’.” She says.

“How could it mean that?”

“The best light of them all, the light of God, sets in the west, doesn’t it?”

Of course, my mother had to relate it back to God, as she does. This explanation makes sense to me, though. There’s no way it could be a lampshade, “face towards the lampshade” doesn’t make sense. So, assuming she’s correct, the book wants me to first walk west for a while, then walk north.

I smile. “Thanks, mom. Love you.”

“I love you more, sweetie.”

Returning upstairs satisfied, I decide to set my plan into motion. Tomorrow is Saturday, a perfect opportunity to do some adventuring in the city. I don’t drive, rather, I can’t drive. Because of this, I’m going to have to either walk there through countless suburbs or get public transportation to the center. For now, I know I should get some rest. That seems impossible now, however. The endless possibilities of what this “reward” is kept occupancy within my head in the form of racing thoughts. I laid awake until the early AM.

Saturday comes, as expected. No one is home, and it seems no one will be home until this afternoon or maybe even evening. This gives me ample time to run amuck in the streets without worry. I rummage through the cushions of the couch, the laundry, and whatever other hidden crannies were in my house to amass enough money to get to the city. I find the right amount, with an extra five dollars to boot. This is good just in case I would want to get a snack on the way, or something. With the preparations complete, I throw on my Chuck Taylor’s and head out the door to the nearest bus stop.

After a 30-minute bus ride and 5 stops that harbored no passengers, I make it to the “origin”. The origin is a 4-way intersection, a somewhat satisfying fact. A fact that also made finding my directions easier.

“Let’s start where light makes its rest.” I say to myself. I open my phone and go to the GPS App to keep track of how many miles I’ve travelled, then set off.

On my first walk, I gawk at the sights I rarely see. Subway stations, towering skyscrapers, and $1600 a month studio apartments I couldn’t possibly afford. Seeing the bustling prosperity of the inner city made my lust for wealth grow larger. “How I wish to be rich one day”. Also, while walking, I see cameras on every block, specifically in the less “well-to-do” parts of the city. It sucks that I’ve never had a big brother, but maybe if I moved downtown, I would have one.

After 15 minutes, I check my phone and it tells me I’ve walked the first mile. That took less time than I initially anticipated, making me antsy to get there faster.

“Now, to follow the North Star.” I think. I pivot on my feet 90° and continue on my way through the city. The northern part is more, depressing, for lack of a better word. There’s at least one vacant, boarded up house on every block, if not the entire block. Rows and rows of crumbling brick houses tower over me as I walk down the poorly paved streets. On the blocks that have more livable housing than others, there’s an alarming amount of security cameras there, as well. I can’t also help but notice how much darker the people in these northern parts are. An almost instant change from the fair-skinned folks of the origin I started at. I start to think what these people here would do with wealth. If one person from these parts were suddenly able to “make it out the hood”, would they share with those who too are in dire need of assistance? It’s easy to think that you would help out your fellow brother, and it’s easy to think that you should. The archetypal story of one brother betraying the other for their own reasons exists for a reason.

Another 15 minutes pass, and this time, I didn’t need my phone to tell me I have arrived. I found myself on a partially paved road. The road connects from the northern part of the city onto a dirt path that has a thin chain fence dividing it from the paved parts. From there, it’s just a path through a sea of trees. At the end was a clearing, where a lone warehouse building stood. It stood decrepit, from a time long ago, before when my mother was even a thought.

“This is it.” I think to myself. It had to be.

Before entering the warehouse before me, I had to mentally prepare. Was I being deceived? If I were to die in this building, an hour away from home, what would happen to me? I believe that, if someone were truly out to get me, they wouldn’t have encoded the location to me in such a cryptic manner. I steel my nerves and head inside. Its dimly lit, but I can see the silhouette of something in the distance. I take out my phone and turn on the flashlight to examine what it was.

What I saw was beyond my imagination. Imported cars, towers of blue and green bills with America’s Founding Fathers on them, rare accessories of pure gold. I cannot fathom the fact that this much of anything just, exists. I then started to wonder how I would take all of this home. I couldn’t possibly walk through the inner-city bearing riches rivalling monarchs of old, so I had to come up with a plan.

“I could periodically come here to pick up any riches I needed.” I thought. This was a plausible, and the easiest plan. I decide to start today. I look at the piles and piles of wealth before me and decided what to take first. I figured the first natural idea was to grab 20 of the hundred-dollar bills, and maybe a few of the golden jewelry. I thought this should be enough for now and head out the warehouse.

“I should bookmark this place in my phone.” I thought to myself. However, when I tried to use my phone, I received no signal. I’m okay with this. This place can just be my little secret.

I face towards the start of the woods and start to head back. On the way back I couldn’t help but smile with such glee over this discovery. The dream of having “throw away money” was coming true. The ideas of what I could use this money for was endless.

I then reach the beginning of the northern city from the woods. I see a panhandler at one of the numerous stop lights dotting the avenue.

“Do you have a dollar to spare, boy?” he asks me. I start to get nervous at this man’s questioning.

“N-no sir, I do not. I’m sorry.” I tell him. He then just looks at me, dejected.

“Alright, son. bless your heart. Stay safe.” He tells me.

Instantly, a wave of guilt overwhelms me. Why did I lie to that man? Without hyperbole, I have thousands of dollars or more in my pocket from the riches I’ve just stumbled upon, so why did I lie? It was just some urge that overcame me, I wanted what I had to myself. I then try to rationalize my decision in my head.

“He was probably going to use it for drugs, anyway.” I think to myself. How could I think so negatively of that man like that? To save myself and ease my guilt, this is the story I ran with. I made myself believe that he didn’t deserve any money, at least from me.

I get home in the late afternoon. Seems like no one is home, again. That’s fine, I wanted some time alone to think about my next course of action, anyway. I head up to my room and pull all that I took out of my pocket. The money was still there, I have no idea why it wouldn’t be, but you can never be too sure. Out of curiosity, I decide to open the little black book again. This time, some more writing in the same handwriting and emerald ink appeared on the second page. It went as follows:

“Congratulations on your newfound wealth. It seems it didn’t take you much effort to find it. No matter. Now, what you need to do is write down how much money you take from that warehouse, as well as how many non—dollar things you take. That’s all that is required of you.”

The random appearance of new words on the page confused me, but no longer was I scared. This book, and whoever the author is, whatever the author is, has my trust. I take out a ballpoint pen and write what I took today.

I started to frequent that warehouse. It started with once every 2 weeks, then once a week, and then every day. Something came over me after that first time. Something possessed me to continue taking. My parents were starting to get curious and ask me where I was going all the time, and each time I would come up with something different. It started with just “staying after school for a club”. I know they wouldn’t believe that a club runs every single day, so I then told them I was going to a friend’s house. These lies kept piling up over the course of a few months. My riches kept piling up over the course of a few months, as well.

This evening, my mother finally questioned me directly.

“Where are you going all the time?” she asks me at the dinner table.

“A friends.” I tell her. She calls my bluff.

“I’m not dumb. You’ve never spoken to me about this friend’s name, where they live, or any of that. So, I’m going to ask you again. Where are you going all the time?” Her words became cold, angry. I, in turn, started to become defensive.

“Why does it matter? I come home at night, don’t I?” I tell her.

“That’s not the point. You’re running around in these streets not telling me where you’re going, then shut yourself in your room all day. It’s dangerous for young kids to be out and about all the time. What are you hiding?” She presses. “Are you out doing drugs? Is that what’s going on?”

I grow angry. “Of course I’m not doing drugs, mom. Don’t think I’m like those scum in the city.”

“What did you say?” she says.

“I said, don’t compare me to those scum in the city. I’m not like them.”

She flares up. “How dare you look down upon people you don’t even know? Do you even know their struggle? It may not even be their fault their lives are in that state.”

“That don’t matter to me. There’s no reason they should be on the streets like that. That’s all their fault for letting themselves get like that.” I tell her. Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve.

She slams her hand on the table. “You haven’t worked a day in your damn life and you’re trying to preach like you know something. You ain’t got a clue how hard it is to keep a house, to find a job after you’re already down, any of that! I thought I raised you better than to speak like that!” She shouts at me.

So moved by my statements, she doesn’t finish her food. Instead she goes up the stairs to try to reach my room. I didn’t want her to find the riches I had stashed away, so I chased after her.

“Hey, wait!” I yell after her. “Where are you going?”

“I’m taking shit away. It seems you’ve been a little too spoiled.” She says, marching up the stairs.

Her “spoiled” statement made me angry. “Don’t you dare go in my room.” I tell her.

She stops walking, turns around and slaps me. “Boy, have you done forgot who you’re talking to? You really done lost your mind, now.” She then continues her march up the stairs.

“She’s getting close to my room. Even if she finds the black book, I’m done. She’ll figure it out.” I think. In a fit of rage over her smacking me and trying to invade my room, I pull her down by her shirt and she goes tumbling down the stairs.

I instantly feel regret, more than anything else I’ve done in my life. I see her roll, and roll, until she hits the bottom of the stairs, unresponsive. I sprint down to check on her.

“Mom!” I shout. “Mom, wake up!” She doesn’t. Her heart his still pumping, yet slowly. Her body is still warm, but I can feel it starting to fade. I begin to weep.

I felt as though that, when my father came home, I couldn’t possibly show my face to him. I take my little black book, my phone, and as much of my riches as I could and decide to runaway indefinitely. It’s nighttime, so I can see the North Star clearly. I just run towards it, my pockets heavy with money and my conscious heavy with my actions. Tears of sorrow and regret block my vision as I run. While running, I trip and fall into a random puddle of water. My phone gets cracked and doused with water in the fall, and I get mud and water all over me in the process. I begin to weep more. I look down at my reflection in the shallow puddle and see a disgraced version of myself. My physical appearance was the same, yet something else was different.

I am the scum in the city.

No longer in a sprint, I continue following the North Star in a petty walk. I find myself in the northern part of the city. I see dozens of minimum wage works getting off of their jobs at wee hours of the night. These people I just called scum, prove to be more reliable and of good nature than I. I walk faster, I feel as though I don’t belong to walk among them. Before I reach the cut in the woods where the warehouse would be, I see the same panhandler from months ago. He looks sickly, about to breathe his last breath. Even so, he uses his breath to speak to me.

“Hey, boy. I…remember you…” he says weakly. “Why so solemn…?”

I can’t even bring myself to speak to this man. A man that has shown me kindness, though I’m a stranger. This man, who treats me like everyone else while I looked down on him. Something inside me changes. I take out all the wealth I’ve collected in my pockets and sit it down next to him. He starts to tear up.

“Boy…” He says.

“Sir just take it. I don’t need it anymore.” I say, and then continue walking.

He quietly says, “Bless your heart, son.”, the same thing he told me when I denied him money. He then starts praying to his God in praise, thanking him for sending someone along such as me. If only he knew.

I continue my somber walk to the warehouse. Nothing to my name now besides this little black book. I spend this time reflecting on my actions. What I had done to my mother. And for what? For such a selfish reason as not wanting to share my wealth? My greed has costed the life of one I loved.

I arrive at the warehouse and open the door. This time, it’s pitch black. There’s no flashlight I could use to shine light on the copious amount of wealth that I knew was in this building. I have become disenchanted by the riches, anyway. I spend the night in the warehouse. Nights turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months. I begin to live here, eating whatever was thrown out by others in the city.

One day, I hear the warehouse door open. I see a kid, my age. He too, is holding a little black book in his hands. A leatherbound one, with yellowed pages and cover that shows nothing but its age. He appears to also be with his friends.

“Look, it’s here, guys!” He exclaims excitedly. His friends begin to move deeper into the warehouse. One of them pulls out a flashlight and shines it on what’s there. They spot me.

“Who the hell is this?” one of them asks.

“Why does he look like that?”

“He’s probably dangerous. What if he came here to try to take the riches, too! See, he has a black book in his hand, too!”

I try to speak to them to tell them I’m not a threat, but to no avail. They jump me.

“This money is ours, alright? Get the hell out of here!” They say to me, half beat to death. I’m kicked out of my last place of solace, my house of riches.

Beaten and battered, I make my way over to a lone tree in a clearing farther down from this warehouse and sit. There’s not much else I could do at this point but that. I decide to open my black book one last time. In it, I saw the lovely emerald handwriting again. On the other pages, were lines and lines of sloppy blue ballpoint pen, the list of things I took. It was a firm reminder of all that has happened. I begin to cry. I cry for my mother, who I took the life of. I cry for my father, who I left to deal with that alone. And I for myself, as well. What a fall from grace I have taken. I just close my eyes and hold my little black book tight.

“How I wished to be rich one day.”