Lost and Found

The end of yet another day. I am so glad when this time comes. Time to leave and go home. The bus ride over from work to the train had been uneventful, as usual. Not many people on the bus with me again.

My legs feel a little tired. I check the pedometer on my phone and notice that I have walked over 23,000 steps again today. Yes, it felt like another one of those days. Busy on the retail sales floor, finding a product, answering guests queries. No wonder my steps were that high.

I don’t love my job, yet the one benefit is this continuous exercise that I am getting on a daily basis.

The short walk from the bus stop to the train platform allows me to take in the light of the early evening. I love this time of day. It is my favourite.

As I take the elevator down to the train platform, I notice the quiet. Looking up I see that I have made it in perfect time again tonight, only seven minutes to wait for my train to arrive.

There is only one other person on the train platform at this point in time. They, I can’t tell if it is a man or a woman, are sitting on a seat listening to something on their phone. How can I tell? Their foot is tapping a rhythm.

Within a short while, I hear the approaching train heading through the tunnel. I hear it before I see the bright light approach. It gently pulls up to the platform and I step to the door. It’s the same carriage I enter every night. The very first carriage.

Whilst I feel very safe riding the train, it’s a habit I have gotten into to ride close to the driver. I fumble as I push the disc that now has green lights flashing on it, telling me the door is able to be opened. I panic slightly because I know that if I don’t hit that button hard enough, the door won’t open, and the train might pull off without me.

Why I panic I don’t know. Another train will be along in fifteen minutes, and still, I want to be on this train, as it signals the end of my workday.

The train door opens for me with a whoosh and I step into the carriage and move left up the step and into one of the dozen or so seats at this end of the train. I like sitting in this space because it has me facing the same way the train is travelling. West, to take me home.

I’ll face the other way if I have to, and it is not my preference.

I love the half-hour train ride home. It’s long enough to be soothing after my busy day, and yet not too long that it feels like it takes forever to get to my station, only a short six minutes’ walk to my apartment.

As was the case on the bus and the station platform there aren’t many others in the carriage with me.

A man, at the other end, busy having a conversation with himself. It is hard to tell if he is on the phone using one of those earpieces and blue tooth to talk, or just one of the many around who seem to spend large parts of their days deep in conversation with no one but themselves.

I remembered that I had read in a book recently that when a person has spent many long hours alone and disconnected from others this is what can happen. They end up having conversations with other people in their heads. Maybe it's their way of coping with what to them is utter loneliness.

Anyway, he seems harmless and I am glad that I’m at the other end of the carriage. The overhead announcements as we travel tell me we are getting closer to my stop. On the train, time passes by and the only thing that signals that I am close to home are these announcements.

“Next stop, County Center, Little Italy. County Center Little Italy is next.” That’s me. It’s time to move. I step down away from the seat I was in and wait for the train to pull into my station. I struggle with the same thing of trying to make the door open when we arrive.

And I’m out, off the train. The cooler fresh air hitting my face as I step onto the platform. I stop and pause for a moment, checking the platform as I do.

What I am checking for, I’m not sure. But I check it anyway. I step and go to move right, headed to the Northern end of the platform and the street that will take me home when I look down.

And there under the edge of the bench seat at the station is a notebook. A notebook with a black cover. It’s a Moleskin. How do I know? Because I have had many just like it myself. I love these little notebooks as they are so sturdy and fit easily into my pocket. This one has been lost though. I pick it up.

A small thrill of excitement runs through me as I wonder if the owner of this notebook has filled in the very first page of their notebook, just as I have many times. Moleskin always have these words inside their books “In case of loss, please return to:….. As a reward: $...” I always easily fill in the first part and never know what to offer as a reward, so that section often stays blank in my notebooks.

What has this person written?

I notice the book is well worn. The black cover has a small few scuff marks where the colour has come off and the inside cover is worn through. The elastic holding the notebook closed is stretched. Obviously from many hours of it being opened and closed.

And just like many of my own notebooks, it’s clear to see that, just like me, they love to hook a pen or pencil inside the top edge of the book. The inside top of several of the pages are bent over.

It’s funny to think of someone else using a notebook the same way I do.

Let’s see who owns this book and how easy it will be to return it to them. I decide to wait to open the notebook till I get home. It’s only a short walk and will be better for me to call them, if they’ve inserted a phone number, rather than walking and talking.

So, I safely tuck the black notebook inside my handbag. It sits right beside my own aqua-coloured one. Twins.

The short walk home is uneventful, although I notice the sights and sounds of my area beginning to liven up as it does at this time of night. People starting to come out to walk their dogs before dark. Those finishing work and heading over here for the food.

I find my security pass and enter my building, saying ‘Hi’ to the front desk person as I go. I really must ask what their name is so I can use it in future. I don’t like not being personal.

The same security pass opens my room and I throw my backpack onto the bed and take off my coat and mask. It's so nice to get rid of that for the day. I’ve had enough of wearing it by this end of the day. Time to breathe freely again.

Now, let’s look at this notebook.

I dive into my handbag and pull out the black book. I smile thinking about this concept of a little black book. I wonder if this one is full of the names of women. Such a cliché thing.

The inside of the cover is filled in and it says “In case of loss please return to Greg Bradbury (719) 314 2760.” “As a reward $20,000.” I laugh at that last part. Seems like a crazy amount of money to offer for the return of one small notebook. I bet it was just some made-up amount, for the fun of it.

I rifle through the notebook and notice it is full of what seems like mathematical calculations. Not being good at math they don’t mean anything to me, except that I recognize them for what they are.

Good on Greg Bradbury for being good at math. Time to call him and tell him I found his notebook.

I call the number and it goes to voicemail. I leave a message letting him know that I’ve found his notebook and where I am. I offer to meet him later to return the notebook.

Time to get changed and think about dinner. I put the black book back in my handbag, ready to meet its owner when he gets back to me.

Half an hour later I am in the middle of eating and my phone rings. I answer it and it's Greg Bradbury returning my call about his notebook. He can’t thank me enough for calling, and more importantly for finding the notebook. He tells me it contains really important material.

We laugh about the fact that we both use Moleskin notebooks. And also laugh at the fact that we live next door to one another. His apartment building is way more upmarket than mine. And after some more chit chat, we agree to meet up in an hour so I can give him the notebook back.

I don’t even bring up the issue of the ‘Reward’ amount written on the inside of the notebook. It seems just a fun thing that’s there.

We meet in the piazza, right outside his apartment building. And he says to me that I will never know just what an important thing I’ve done, by finding and returning the notebook. We talk about this great space in Little Italy, how we both enjoy living here so much, and life.

It is one of those funny things because we will most likely bump into each other again someday. It’s a large place and a small world. I walk back to my apartment happy that I did a good deed for the day.

Three months later…

I wake up and notice the light coming in through my third-floor window. The start of another day.

Headed to the bathroom I notice an envelope has been slid under my door. It’s the standard way for mail to be delivered in our apartment block. I didn’t think I was expecting any mail, but obviously, I can’t always know what’s coming.

I walk over and reach down, picking up the envelope. It's from an address I am unfamiliar with.

I open the envelope and to my surprise what I find inside is a check for $20,000. The check is from a Research Foundation. The letter inside is from Greg Bradbury and reads, “You will never know how much you helped our research through the simple and thoughtful act of returning my notebook. Thank You.”

I am surprised. Attached is a cheque for $20,000.

Who would have known that finding that little black notebook and returning it could bring this much fortune into my day?

I realize that I was crying.

Little does he know that with this check I can now book my plane ticket home. A place I haven’t been for three whole years.