Sam's Story

Sam stood and waited for the bus.

The same bus he waited for, at the same time, every day.

Having the same thoughts as he sipped his same black coffee, three sugars.

32 years old and going nowhere. Living in a dingy apartment, going to a job with no future, no one to share any of it with. Who would want to join in on this anyway?

His house plant bore the majority of his nightly conversations.

He dreamt of being someone different, someone creative, someone happy.

At 6:43 the number 7 bus stops and the doors open shaking Sam from his sad reflection.

“Mornin’ Sam” says Joe as he releases the break and the bus shifts from the curb.

“Morning Joe“ Sam replies as he does every morning to the same comments from the cheery driver.

27 min, same seat. En route to the same job.

His personal groundhog day nightmare.

He makes his way back to his usual spot, 3rd seat from the back on the left.

A small package the size of a book occupies his window seat.

Sam looks around. No one else sits back this far.

Picking it up he notices the beautifully penned words.

“Open me”.

Sam sits down. Again, glancing around his pumping heart hitting his ribs.

Should I?

He scans the bus again for anything peculiar.

Same people riding this morning as every morning. The elderly lady in her violet scarf. The construction worker, already wearing his hardhat, reading the daily newspaper. The mother with her two kids off to daycare, the little girl's shirt on inside out and the boy with one striped sock and one red one. And of course, the red headed nurse, on the way to her shift at the hospital. She always seemed a little sad as Sam passed her.

A feeling he could relate to, of everyone on the bus he felt most connected to her.

Daily, Sam had tried to work up the courage to talk to her; he managed a small smile and a nod once, but his face went flush as he rushed to his usual spot.

No one seemed to be looking at him, all in their own worlds. They didn’t seem to be missing a package.

Sam looks at his watch. 23 minutes to his stop.

His mind was racing.

Come on Sam, do something. Decide already!

Yes or No?! Open it or not?! Why is every little decision so hard for you?

With this self-inflicted dilemma, Sam did what he usually does.

He took the safe route.

With that, Sam put the plain wrapped package down where he found it.

Turning and staring out the window checking his watch and willing the last 19 mins to pass as fast as possible.

After glancing at the package a dozen times, his stop had arrived.

Off he got, leaving the package and its contents behind for someone else to deal with.

Easier that way.

The next morning arrived. Coffee, three sugars. Daydreams.

Joe, the violet scarf, mismatched socks and the usual seat.

3rd from the back, on the left.

As he arrived at his landing point, there was the same package laying in wait for him.

How did no one pick this up, yet?

Somewhat stunned he again picked it up, reading the beautifully penned words, different from yesterday.

“Open me Sam”.

He did his usual check on the ridership of the bus. The nurse wasn’t there today; he made a note of that and refocused his gaze on the package.

Staring at it. Flipping it over. Inspecting the manicured folds of the plain brown wrapping and hidden taping. Care and patience put into the placement of the text, not thrown together.

A real work of art. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to get this to me.

With the confirmation Sam was that target, there was only one thing to do.

Open it.

But not here on the bus, best at work in the confines of the bare grey cubicle where no one else would notice; see what was in the package or Sam’s flushed face.

He slipped past the receptionist, quick nod and a small smile and sat down in his bare grey cubicle, the coffee ring from weeks past still on the desk.

Carefully loosening the wrapping he reveals a notebook, a weathered black cover full of history and crafted with care. Cautiously moving the elastic closure past the rounded corners, the pages so soft they blurred the line between fabric and paper.

Inside the jacket cover was some simple instructions, penned with the same beauty as on the outside:

FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS EXACTLY.

WRITE EACH ANSWER ONE AT A TIME.

ANSWER HONESTLY.

THERE ARE NO WRONG ANSWERS.

Flipping open the first page, greeted him with a question.

“ARE YOU HAPPY?”

Well that’s a hard no, I haven’t had anything to be happy about in years.

Without answering he moved on to the next page to find nothing there, flipped halfway through the book and all was blank.

Sam reread the instructions and with pen in hand wrote:

“Not really, nothing is going right in my life.”

Using his best penmanship he felt this book deserved.

Turning the page once more Sam was startled to see another question.

“WHAT DO YOU HAVE IN YOUR LIFE THAT DOES MAKE YOU HAPPY?”

He jumped back from the desk, the black notebook closing in the air and landing on the office carpeting.

What is going on here?!

Convinced this was a very vivid daydream, Sam still could not resist reopening the book and looking again. As confused and scared as he was, there was a strange yearning making him want to continue.

After careful thought, the flood gates opened. He began to articulate the answers like a seasoned journalist, the ink making a home in those soft pages. Deeper and deeper into memories and events in his life that had brought him happiness. Each word is written with care as if scribed in stone in a permanent home for all to read.

Sam was totally immersed in the spell of the notebook. As per the first entry, no further questions would be asked until the previous was answered and in an honest heartfelt manner.

No honesty. No next question.

The notebook was mysteriously able to determine Sam’s true feelings and bring them to the pages.

Several times making him dig deeper into where he was coming from and who he was, to get to the next question.

Checking the time, Sam was shocked to find 2 hours had passed. Four questions answered.

But how many more were there?

As difficult as it may be, this would have to continue when he got home. Closing the little black notebook, Sam knew this was not going to be a productive day at work.

On the bus ride home Sam closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face. He wondered why him? A question that often had appeared in his thoughts but this time felt different, a sense of luck to it all now.

As the usual riders returned for the afternoon commute, the bus took a detour due to some road work. Everything seemed to be just a little bit different, there was a slight breeze in the air that touched his face. Sam noticed the red-headed nurse enter. Visibly upset and teary-eyed. She sat in her seat and stared out the window, fighting back tears; a representation of how Sam often felt. As the bus pulled to his stop, he again wished he dared to offer some words that might comfort her.

One day, one day.

Bursting through his apartment door, dropping his bag on the floor, Sam grabbed a bagel and cheese from the fridge and cracked open a cola. Dinner was served.

Seated at his table on the only chair he owned, Sam gently laid down the mysterious black notebook.

Opening it, he continued the process he began at work.

“IF YOU HAD $20,000 HOW WOULD YOU SPEND IT?”

“Well after I woke from the shock I would ....” and so the words began to be placed on the soft vanilla pages of the little black notebook; this time with great ease and purpose.

After this entry, Sam re-read it and was surprised at his initial offering.

That does not sound like me. Why would I do that? Probably not a worthy answer that would earn a next question.

Turning the page, ready for a rewrite; he sat paralyzed.

“THANK YOU” was all it said.

He felt a sense of grief, a small piece of loss in the opening the realizations that the notebook had pulled out of him. The realizations, the truth he somehow pulled from long forgotten places within him.

That is it? After all this?

He closed the journal, laid his head down on it exhausted.

After several minutes of feeling the loss of the process now done, he felt a slight bulge against his cheek from the back cover he had been rested on.

Rising, he slowly opened the cover.

Slapping his face several times to confirm consciousness, below in front of him tucked in the back pocket was a large lump of money.

The small bit of undeserving he felt paled in comparison to the excruciating joy running through his body. Though his old habits of serious self doubt still lingered, he hoped he would have the opportunity to use it.

As he peered down and studied his gift, visions of it disappearing the moment he reached out to touch it flashed in his head.

Ready for the worst, he picked up the first bill. Still, in his fingers, he brought it to his face and took a deep breath. Never had he been around this much money. And it was all his, to do with what he wanted.

Thanks to the little black notebook, he knew exactly what that was.

The next morning a mocha with whip cream in one hand, a smile on his face and the little black notebook tucked in his bag. Sam stood and took in his environment.

The scent from the bakery overpowered the fumes of the cars and even a bird chirping seemed to drown out any sirens from the nearby hospital.

Right on time the number 7 pulled up. Sam greeted Joe as the doors opened.

“Morning Joe, how are ya?”

“Looking good Sam!

You been on an overnight vacation or somethin'?”

“No Joe. Just feeling good. Gonna be a good day, I can feel it.“

As he headed toward the back of the bus Sam stopped.

“Hello, my name is Sam.” he said to the redheaded nurse.

“Hi, I’m Cynthia.” replying with a smile.

“Mind if I sit?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

In the 27-minute ride, Sam and Cynthia talked and discovered the many things they had in common.

Pulling the bell, Sam’s stop arrived.

He got up to leave.

“Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow?” he said.

“I’d like that “she smiled.

With that Cynthia turned and gazed out the window, feeling just a little happier than she had been in a while. As she rose to exit at her stop, there laying on the seat beside her was a small plain wrapped package.

The size of a notebook.

Perfectly penned words.

“Open me.”