Mustard Rays of Sunshine

Joe opens the door to the tiny -- almost claustrophobic in nature -- book store. A bell DINGS. The girl working the desk lifts her head from her typical New York magazine, this one specifically is one for fashion and all things stylish, and looks up to greet Joe. He’s a stranger, but she’s nice. Her name is Lucy. She’s (somewhat) important.

Joe begins to wander around the store. It’s books, mainly; used books, such of subordinate crime stories, old books, such of the old Roman emperor Tiberius and his reign of power, and new books, both such of dramatic and comedic value. But Joe isn’t looking for anything specific. He’s here to ponder. His hands touch the leather - they almost sink into it, in fact, craving it, seeking it, adoring it. Joe’s eyes close and he takes a deep breath, trying to immortalize the moment.

The sunshine strikes his dingy mistry green shirt directly. A small reflection bounces off Joe’s eyeglasses and hits the cherry wood of the receptionist desk.

‘Excuse me,’ Lucy says, she’s gotten close to Joe now and he’s forced to break away from his own little bubble of a world, ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’

‘No, I --,’ Joe responds quickly; his voice carries a raspy quality that most people would supposedly categorize as attractive. ‘I’m not looking for a book,’ he finishes his thought.

‘Oh? Then how can I help?’

‘I’m looking for a notebook. You know, like a leather one or something? To take notes.’

‘Those are at the counter,’ says Lucy affirmatively and leads Joe to the desk. ‘Anything in particular?’

‘No, just -- black. Just like a little black notebook,’ Joe says while he peruses the options. ‘This one.’

It’s exactly as he says - a little black notebook. It’s rough around the edges, but that’s obviously a stylistic choice; the paper inside is a rustic flaxen color and honestly, it looks very nice.

‘You a writer?’ asks Lucy.

‘Why?’ defensively responds Joe. Is this offensive to him or something?

‘I’m just wondering.’

‘Do I look like a writer?’

‘Kinda.’

‘I’m not one. Not yet.’

‘Is that what the notebook is for?’

‘Yes. Thought I’d finally put pen to paper. You know?’

She smiles. Puts the notebook in a bag, takes Joe’s money, receipt, hands him the bag, and says goodbye. Joe heads off away from the store. The sun now hits his face directly. The bell DINGS. And he’s out.

Joe’s apartment is messy, but in a charming way. It’s messy in that common sense that says ‘this guy is weird and pretentious, but he also seems intelligent and maybe I’d like him to be my friend’. It’s a strange atmosphere, but it works.

Joe puts some objects aside on his (messy) desk and takes a seat on his tiffany plastic chair. Turns on a night-lamp and it shines down in an orange hue: of course this guy doesn’t have normal light bulbs, of course he bought some artsy special orange bulbs to give himself that ‘necessary’ poetic flair!

Joe takes out his new little black notebook from its bag and sets it on the desk. Carefully. You have to understand, this is an important moment. Joe’s wanted to write his whole life. He’s finally about to start. This is an important moment. The orange from the lamp hits the black on the notebook in a beautifully ambiguous way.

Joe takes a breath. Sharpens his pencil real quick. (Who still uses a pencil?) He cracks his neck. Let’s go.

Opens the notebook.

Inside the flaxen paper, a 100 dollar note. This is strange. Joe was sure he flipped through the pages when he bought the thing because he needed to make sure that this specific little black notebook remained unsullied by the debauchery of everyday degenerates. He definitely would have noticed if money, of all things, was laying inside the pages. Should he -- return it?

Well, if he returns it, the store would just keep it for themselves. And this money probably comes from some nice stranger who decided to better the day of whoever bought this little black notebook and Joe just happens to be the lucky one. He must have missed it when he bought it. He better keep it. Stop judging. He needs it.

Joe takes the money and closes the book. He goes to put the bill in his nightstand drawer, that’s where he keeps all of his savings, and then heads back to the desk and the orange light.

Same ritual follows: breath, sharpen pencil (seriously, again?), crack neck. Let’s go.

Joe opens the notebook.

Well. Now this is strange because, yes, surprisingly, against all odds, another 100 dollar note. Joe takes it and flips through the notebook pages. Did he really just open the book on a different page to find a different note that he again didn’t notice? Strange. Strange, indeed, but now he’s checked it. The notebook remains full of nothing, but empty and inviting paper.

Breath, pencil, neck. Open the notebook.

100 dollar note. Well. Now. What? Something’s afoot.

Joe stares at this little black notebook, eyes wide and completely perplexed by the leather. His right hand meticulously crawls to the book and eats the money bill; then closes the book. Then opens it again, on the same page: it’s another 100 dollar note.

Joe is -- well, simply said, the man is confused. He seems to have gotten his hands on some magical book that just -- gives him money? Seems unlikely, to say the least. Test the hypothesis, at least.

A new ritual follows: open the book, find the money, take the money, close the book. And again, stay with me: open the book, find the money, take the money, close the book. Do we dare: open the book, find the money, take the money, close the book.

Again and again and again and again and again, until the stack of cash next to Joe becomes appetizingly fat. Joe’s been counting: 188, 189, 190, 191…

That’s a lot of goddamn money. If this is real, he’s the luckiest man in the whole wide world! Joe’s smile is as ample as a giant leatherback sea turtle.

200. If his math is right, that’s 20000$ dollars!

The book opens for the 201st time. Surprise! Nothing. Empty. Nothing, but paper. Maybe it’s faulty, so Joe tries again, but no, empty again. Perhaps this cash cow has a limit and perhaps Joe has reached it. But nevertheless:

Joe leans back in his chair, which squeaks and peeps from all the apparent extensive use, and removes his eyeglasses. He massages his scalp for a second and then allows himself to gently glance at the stack of cash on the desk. What the hell just happened. Right? Magic. Is. Real.

Joe decides, at that very moment, not to question his luck because it is luck nonetheless. It doesn’t matter where this money came from; it will help him do some good and turn his life around, so he is simply grateful for the miracle. That’s all.

The next day, Joe goes for some home improvements. The shop he enters, no DING this time, is atmospherically bleak and underwhelmingly depressing. White LED’s shining down almost piece anyone walking through with a death-defining ‘bzzz’ sound.

Joe heads straight to the electronics section. Some worker, his name is maybe Bill, is accompanying Joe, until Joe stops.

‘This Mac. The newest Mac. This one,’ Joe exclaims proudly. He can have it, so he’s getting it. ‘I need a TV, too. A fridge as well, and a new microwave.’

He has those, too. Back at Joe’s apartment, thankfully we’ve left that rotting warehouse of a store, we say goodbye to a few store workers. They unload a colossal shipment of ‘home improvements’ into Joe’s circular living room. They leave and the door closes behind them.

Joe rushes to his desk. On it, no longer a little black notebook -- in fact, the beloved little black notebook has been squandered to the side, as it has already seemingly fulfilled its purpose. On the desk now, appropriately, is Joe’s new laptop, for which he already has installed all necessities. When it opens, the screen and keyboard light up and an alluring blank page begs Joe to lay his crafty hands on it.

Breath, crack the fingers, neck. The ritual has been modified for its purpose.

Joe starts writing.

Joe opens the door to the tiny -- almost claustrophobic in nature -- book store. A bell DINGS. The girl working the desk lifts her head from her typical New York magazine, this one specifically is one for fashion and all things stylish, and looks up to greet Joe.

‘Hey,’ she exclaims, smiling, ‘I know you.’

Joe wears a cotton white shirt, one that has clearly been extensively steamed pre-wear, and popping maroon shoes. It’s a different look. Not bad -- just different.

‘Do you?’ he asks Lucy.

‘Yeah, you bought a notebook, right? A little black notebook.’

‘Yeah?’ Joe answers timidly, not sure whether Lucy is simply kind or leading up to something not-so-great.

‘Yeah. It serve its use?’

‘Yes. I suppose it did.’

‘So you’re a writer now?’

‘What?’

‘You said you were going to start writing. Did you?’

‘I, yeah, I guess, yeah, I did,’ but he’s not sure, ‘I wrote a few chapters, but it didn’t feel right. I guess I needed to try it to know it wasn’t for me.’

‘Sometimes that happens. Sometimes the magic’s just not there.’

‘Guess so.’

Their eyes dance for a few seconds. Lucy’s look begs curiosity, there’s something different in this man, as if something has died, or changed, or he’s corrupted somehow. Joe’s look is such of hidden sorrow, as if he’s lost something he never even knew he had.

‘How can I help you today?’ Lucy finally asks.

‘I need a notebook.’