My Little Black Book

Big storms had passed maybe yesterday or a day before. I couldn’t remember. I only knew my part of the world, where summer would float over fall and only winter had rain.

And it had been rainy. I was hiking on a mess of a trail. But old growth redwoods wrapped around the path, which was nice, and around all of this was the fog and mystique of the forest.

With each step forward, my boots would sink slightly into the path. My weight was more than enough to break the brittle icy cover from last night’s freeze. Fortunately, the mush below was shallow.

It was more than likely that I had been meandering around the cliffs and coast longer than I thought. All I was sure of was that my stomach growled constantly, but that it would pass. I was to meet old friends and new, and there would be food, lots of it. Lots of drinks. And lots of fun. A slew of memories was awaiting me at a very fine party that I could only imagine.

Of course, what I really needed immediately was some food. If I was lost, I would have imagined an apple for survival. Instead, my march reminded me of creme brulee. Every smack from the heel of my boot was like a spoon cracking the thin top layer, a crisp blanket over a mud of satisfaction. Every step became crunchy pudding bites of cream and chips of sweet burnt sugar.

It was also cold outside—not too cold, but very cool. And my fleece, like a pastry chef’s torch, made me sweat just enough to feel alive and well. So, at least I felt warm.

“Hey!”

A low voice muffled in the fog.

“Hey!”

It faded.

“Hey, to you too,” I thought.

Maybe I recognized the voice. It was on the tip of my tongue.

The forest felt even cooler compared to a short moment ago. The trees suddenly looked dimmer. It could only mean it was later. Maybe some folks couldn’t wait for me, which would’ve been fine. There was supposed to be a lot of people and an even greater number of provisions.

I kept walking. A good log for sitting showed itself as I passed some ferns. Although I assumed the party was close, I stopped to rest on it and I reached inside my fleece. I grabbed my little black book, and lifted its bookmark ribbon to pull back old pages. I’ve had many of these notebooks, and a lot of energy had gone into them. You can say it was my world and I was happy the one I held had blank space.

Doodling and writing were always enjoyable, and daily entries strengthened my memory. Except, it was all stylized, like a photograph with filters. Even so, having my notebooks helped to move me into the next day.

An hour later, a couple pages of lucid sketches, captions, and made-up dialogue were completed. Feeling satisfied, I closed the book and I rose up, stretching a bit, tucking my “memory” back into my fleece. As if nothing had happened, everything earlier disappeared. The previous encounter was forgotten.

“Hey!”

“Yes!”

It was John, a dear old friend, I believed—somehow.

“John! I’m late!”

He materialized from a foggy end, running unbelievably—like a mad bee. It was unnatural.

“Take this and run—NOW.”

My chest puffed. A heavy bag slammed against my stomach. The force of the throw leaned me backwards, but I remained standing. And I was confused, but I was up and able and the bag was apparently mine.

“Run-run-run!”

John continued on beyond me and he faded away somewhere on the coastal side of the trail, deep in the fog. A muted splash was heard further past where he had gone. I looked around. I breathed. Maybe 10 minutes passed. It could have been 10 seconds. I continued on the trail, shaken.

I had to stop again as I was beginning to forget (again).

I forgot why I was even with the bag so I started to inspect it. The curiosity was overwhelming. The bag’s opening had an untied string. Slowly, I pulled and widened it, creating enough slack to look inside…

“Money!”

My butt dropped suddenly onto the mud and I sat, playfully biting my tongue, and I counted: $100, another $100, and another—200 of them, $20,000. Smirking and squinting, focused on the forest perimeter, I raised myself up and I shoved it all away.

Protective of my newly acquired hoard, I had to keep walking.

Shortly after, the fog cleared into a field—figures appeared.

“The party! At last!”

John was forgotten already and I firmly gripped the bag of money. The crowd shouted.

“Hey! Stranger!”

I didn’t recognize them either.

“Where am I—who are all of you?”

One man was incredibly odd. He had squiggly hair and a fuzzy jacket. He appeared to be a character from an illustration, as if he was drawn. He spoke to me.

“What’s next?”

He soon spoke again, just when my lip twitched to answer.

“In your little black book, obviously.”

Puzzled, I pulled it out and it opened on a random page, an earlier page, where I saw a sketch of the man in front of me. Squiggly hair and a fuzzy jacket, plus other crude lines. It was an old entry.

“Oh, my. You’re my imagination.”

“Yes, and so is the prize!”

My eyes opened wide and I ran. I ran past them and through them and I forgot them all. My breath and heartbeat were the only sounds. What had happened was all in my head.

There it was, still with me, opened. My little black book was on a blank page. I smiled as my stomach growled once more. Of course, my next drawing was a creme brulee.