Little Black Journal

“SIR, YOU LEFT YOUR…” it was no use, thought Mosbey. The gentleman in the clean blue suit had already stepped off the train and into the rain under the shade of his umbrella. How could a man in a suit forget anything? Especially something he was just writing in. Mosbey hopped across the aisle into the now empty neighboring seat and picked up the notebook. It was a small black thing, small enough to fit into one’s breast pocket, so he put it in his own. Other riders on the platform plodded onto the train car and found themselves empty seats. Then the whistle blew and the train departed.

Mosbey sat in the gentleman’s seat and puzzled as the train chugged; What would be written in the notebook of a man in such a clean suit? He took the journal out of his breast pocket and held it in his hands. It had a black, worn leather cover and was curving slightly. A tattered ribbon stuck out of the bottom, noting that the gentleman in the clean blue suit was two thirds into filling the pages. But what’s inside? Almost everyone has a partway completed journal. It wouldn’t kill me, or him, to read a page or two. At least I should see what the gentleman’s name is, the conductor would be able to return it to him if he were a regular commuter. Though, I’m a regular commuter and I’d never seen him. Mosbey opened the front cover and read silently: “This journal belongs to John F. Moseby.”

John F. Mosbey? Surely there is more than one John Mosbey, that’s not strange, but two John F. Mosbey’s? That’s downright peculiar. He flipped to the page the tattered ribbon had marked and read today’s entry.

Today I left work and, instead of going right home, visited my grandmother. Mother had told me she suffered another heart episode last week and that I should wait a few days after she was home again to see her. That I should let her rest. I brought a bouquet of yellow roses and a frozen casserole from the market under my office. McHorty’s Convenience. Mrs. McHorty was in a sour mood, and boy did she make it known.

Mosbey tried to keep his mouth closed as he read, but it hung open in awe. The occurrences the man in the clean blue suit had written into the little black journal were identical to the duties Mosbey had done today, too. It puzzled him that the gentleman not only had a grandmother with heart problems, who loved receiving yellow roses, but that the gentleman’s office was also over McHorty’s Convenience. How could a man work so close, and yet I had never seen him before today? “Oh my god!” Mosbey was looking down at the page and saw words appear in the little black journal all on their own. An older man looked up from his newspaper and Mosbey closed his journal quickly and stuck it back into his breast pocket. A man so old and so obsessed with the news would surely blabber about this. I need to keep it hidden until I’m home.

MOSBEY FUMBLED WITH THE lock on the door to his little home. The small cottage was all he could afford with his measly editing job. He couldn’t afford a car nor the gas for it, hence the daily commute from village to city on the train. When he finally heard the lock chamber click he burst through the door, disregarded removing his boots and jacket, and walked directly into his kitchen and turned on the stove for his tea kettle. Then he took the little black journal out of his pocket.

The new entry read: I was anxious to get home once I was on the train. The spring mud still freezes at night, and I didn’t want to freeze myself walking from the station to my pitiful home. I could be living closer to my grandmother, closer to my job, if I had more money. The rain made the trek much less pleasant, as by the time I was stepping off the platform of my home station it was more of a snowy, rainy mix. It felt like mud was falling from the sky. Mud above and mud below.

Mosbey was pulled away from his reading of his journal by the frantic whistling of the kettle. He turned off the stove, poured water into his mug, and decided to take off his jacket and boots. Being two thirds full the journal would take all night to read, and one should be comfortable for a task such as this. As he hung his jacket back onto the hood near the front door, Mosbey wondered how a stranger could have an identical life, identical thoughts, as well as an identical name as his own. This is impossible. How could this be true?

John F. Mosbey read as much as he could that night. The little black journal had written in it the details of his life and his thoughts through the past two years. The journal included the breakup with Marie after four years that had happened five months before. It included the struggle he had with monthly expenses after Marie had moved out, struggles he still faced. It also included his grandmother’s first heart episode, and how the fear of losing her added to the pains of losing Marie; how afraid he was of being alone with no one to love and no one to love him. It shocked Mosbey how the man in the clean blue suit could so much about his life and his interior secrets and struggles.

HE AWOKE THE NEXT morning in the wrinkled clothes from the day before and the little black journal, closed, on the coffee table before him. He let it lie there all day as he was at work. When he got home he would read his journal and read over his day.

While Mosbey was working he struggled to do anything but think about the man in the clean blue suit. He wondered how an absolute stranger could leave a journal that was obviously magic behind. Why he would even let the journal leave the house. But then again, if the little black journal only contained details of my life, what worth was it to the gentleman? It is better off in my hands, he supposed. Mosbey completed some tasks and ate his lunch, but the thoughts of the gentleman returned. He wrote in that journal… He wrote about me and my life… How could he know? He had to get back on the train. He had to find that man. He took up his jacket and left.

IT WAS RAINING AGAIN today and the platform’s maintenance workers were throwing a dirty, salty mix down to prepare for the pooling rain to freeze that night. Mosbey paced the length of the station trying to glimpse any sign of the man in the blue suit or his big umbrella. Mosbey had forgotten his at the office and only forfeited his search when the cold wetness of the storm had fully permitted his boots. He rode home wet and defeated.

When he arrived at home Mosbey saw the flashing red light on his side table that meant he had a voicemail. He clicked the buttons on the machine and let the recording play into the empty space of his cottage.

“Second strike, John,” spoke his boss’s voice. “And a very solid strike at that. Leaving early, without even trying to make an excuse. Gone without a trace. If you make it three and, well, you’re fired. See me in my office tomorrow, first thing. Goodbye John.”

Mosbey was about to sink himself onto the couch, but remembered his dampness and slunk into the bathroom. Fired. The word echoed inside of his head. I can’t afford another loss. He undressed and stepped into the shower. The hot water took its time to come through the pipes and Mosbey stood at the further end of the shower and peered out between the edge of the curtain and the ceramic shower wall. He looked at the smallness of his house, the toilet only two feet away from where he stood. The sink up against the door jamb. Too tiny. This place is way too tiny, that’s what Marie said. She couldn’t take the lack of privacy. Or was it my lack of drive? He plunged his head under the water; I can’t lose this house. After Grandma goes this is all I will have left. I need to do something. Mosbey put the rest of his body under the running water and warmed and washed himself.

Once dried and dressed, Mosbey warmed his kettle and picked up his little black journal. Today’s entry read: I couldn’t work today. It’s all getting to me. I left work early and stood out in the rain at the train station. Then I stood in the shower, moping about Marie again. After all these months of her leaving I didn’t think that she’d be right. I need to do something to get out of this job, out of my tiny house. I need to do better for myself and for my grandmother. I need drive.

And then the words appeared before him on the page: Maybe I’ll rob a bank. Mosbey chuckled. The other John F. Mosbey has a real sense of humor. Rob a bank? No way to pull it off; I wasn’t born John F. Clyde, he thought before laughing at himself. He shut the journal and leaving it on the coffee table, prepped a cup of tea before finally bringing himself to bed. He had a big talk in the morning.

THE NEXT MORNING, THE little black journal was on his bedside nightstand. I don’t remember bringing the book to bed. I already had enough trouble getting to sleep, thinking about the meeting with the boss. I didn’t need to stay up reading over the past two years of my mundane experiences. He picked it up. Instead of being shut with the ribbon marking the newest entry, the journal was marked with a pen wedged in between the pages as if someone had been up writing all night. What was written inside of those pages were intelligent, diabolical, very well thought out instructions on the robing of the Haverford County Bank. The journal hit the floor. Mosbey slowly pulled the covers off of his body and got up out of bed. Pacing the twelve feet diameter of his bedroom he considered, disapproved, and then considered again trusting the authority of the little black journal and its mystery writer: the other John F. Mosbey.

He picked up the journal and read over the instructions again. Is this really possible?

JOHN F. MOSBEY WAS ON the train to see his grandmother and her live-in nurse for dinner. It had been a while since he had ridden this route, the last time being to his old editing job in the city. He brought his umbrella, having remembered that Haverford county experienced terrible freezing rain during this season. As the train carried Mosbey out of the village and into the city he drew his attention away from the less picturesque view and instead pulled his little black journal out of the breast pocket of his blue suit. He began recounting his day and recording his reflections, beginning with his joy that this was no longer his regular commute. It was much too long, and it surprised Mosbey when the train finally got to his stop. He put his journal down on his seat to free his hands for putting on his jacket, picked up his umbrella, and walked out onto the platform into the rain. Behind him he could hear a strangely familiar voice: “Sir! Sir you left your…” And then the whistle blew.