The Black Book of Cleveland, Ohio

When one is asked the ice-breaking morality evaluating question of:

“Hey, What would you do with 20,000 dollars?”

…They already know the answers they want to hear. Donate it to a charity! Pay off my parent’s mortgage! Start a business selling embezzled coat hangers on Etsy! This Sisyphean debate of what one could change with such a sum of wealth has never been an icebreaker I’ve indulged in, as I am not an avid ice-skater/ breaker or, in that regard, even speaker. I had always seen myself as one of those ice resurfacers that are driven by a no-name runner-up to the glittering ice-skaters who slice said ice with ease under disco-balls and stage-lights…what I’m trying to say is that I’m merely foliage in the grand jungle that is my work’s social sphere. I’m a nobody. I’m an ice resurfacer, to indulge in the metaphor.

And I have no idea what to do with the 20,000 dollars that have fell into my lap.

I’m Richard, a remarkably underpaid assistant manager at this average law firm in some obsolete sector of the Midwest: Cleveland Ohio, to be exact, with a predictable routine to rival The Truman’s Show and, if I weren’t self admittedly the most mind-numbing creature to stumble upon the metropolis, (or planet Earth for that matter) I’d suspect I was in it. But alas, as I trudge through the worst of sweltering July heat, adorned with the aroma of body odour masked with obnoxious “EAU PREMIÈRE”, and not to mention the sound of suction from cheap Walmart sandals dancing with the waves of angry driver horns and obsolete chatter, I walk to the best part of my day.

Forgive the descriptions, I’m a hopeless cynic.

Briefcase in one hand, I swap it to the other to push open the marvellously cold glass door to the one place that I don’t hold great distain for: Deja Brew. Yes, I know. The pun is fantastically awful, but the baristas aren’t as stuck up, the AC is to die for in Ohio heat, and I guess they make good coffee. I step in and am washed in a well-needed breeze, almost December worthy and I shiver in delight. I look around, brushing my atrocious comb over that really shows my age over the bald spot I have become accustomed to look for Nicky at the counter, the only friend that has grown an appreciation for my relentless cynicism whilst being a great platform for healthy banter as she brews and I read.

Walking further into this Alaskan heaven I approach the counter, situated in the middle of the store, constructed from fine, deep, carved mahogany and I rest my palms atop it, there are less customers than usual, but I don’t really care, what I do care about is-

“Coffee?” A voice breaks me from my internal monologue, sprouting from under the desk and I look up from the frame.

“Yes, Nick, black as it comes and the sugar-” I stammer my order to Nicky, behind the counter as she continues shining an extravagant milkshake glass. My first moderate social interaction in weeks. PSA: never work an office job.

“If I think I’ve put too much, put seven more?” She recalls, my drink order engraved into her long term memory. If she weren’t miles out of my league I would be flattered; we have settled for mere acquaintances. Friends even. She smiles after saying this and I even smile back.

“Yes please”

“You will definitely die of a heart attack if you go on like this” She jokes, trying to gage my mood over her shoulder as she turns from me, with inquisitive eyes. She knows I hate summer. July 21st to be exact, as it is usually the hottest day of the year, and just my luck, it’s the hottest on record.

“That’s the plan” I quip back

“Well, if you die who will you give this to?” she replies earnestly pulling her cap further down her face in concentration as she pours the liquid heaven into a clumsy ceramic cavity and turns the handle 180 degrees so it faces me. A little smug nose; it’s worn by the warm dishwasher under the counter.

“Hmm well, Nick, I don’t think the impoverished children in third world countries really need a coffee” I say, pitifully laughing at my own joke, tapping my fingers on the counter in mock impatience… as well as unequivocal coffee withdrawal.

“No, I meant this book” She looks up, expecting me to cut her off in knowledge of this book that is positioned a little behind the steel dispenser of coffee as it gurgles after usage and is now in her hands

“What book?”

“Obviously not the book I’m holding” she quips back drooling with sarcasm,

I roll my eyes. She tosses me the book and returns to brewing another customer’s coffee. it’s small, the notebook, around A5 and leather bound like books used to be, each page tied to the other with aged wool. I turn it around in my hands for further inspection.

“Ha-ha, very funny, Nick. But seriously, I didn’t order a book” I say, confused rifling through the blank pages, disappointed and eyebrows knitted in confusion. I expected a story.

“No, I thought you didn’t, it was waiting on the counter the other day while I took break, came with its own note too” she chuckled.

Nick then gestures for me to open to the front cover where a fluorescent Post-It is stuck at a slant with sprawling lettering on it.

“I guess a secret admirer notices you are a regular” she laughs, pushing my arm as I look up at her in bemusement and a slight chuckle.

“Don’t worry I didn’t read it” she whispers as she reaches for the sugar jar, then the cutlery drawer, hesitates like a statue, spoon in hand but decides against it and instead trades the spoon for pouring the sugar straight from the jar.

I take this book and go to my usual seat, a round table at the back of the store, requiring a distinct weaving through bookshelves filled with the works of those from Little Women to The Hungry Caterpillar, a cacophony of categorisation that still makes me laugh.

I place the briefcase on the only adjacent seat and look at the curious little book once more. I open the front cover and remove the fluorescent Post-It to toss it and see another, less eye straining paper folded and cello taped to the back. Most mystery I’ve ever had, outside the 14 Sherlock Holmes books I’ve read manically in high-school. Mystery, nonetheless.

I pull the paper from it’s backing with a rip and it reads:

Make a wish

No, I’m not joking. Make. A. Wish.

I laugh at myself for taking the little book seriously, clearly an obvious ploy made by one of my know-it-all lawyer colleagues who proudly exude enthusiasm and only complain that I’m not more like them. That I don’t get my kicks from the plethora of subpar television shows. I decide I will humour the book and its sender and write a wish in there.

I pull my fountain pen, which is also discover has leaked all over my diary and blotting out the appointment I have for tomorrow, just my luck, is my appointment with the CEO concerning my job. If I didn’t think I was going to get fired before, I definitely will now. I sigh, pull out a biro from the breast pocket of my blazer and decide to still humour the idea before deciding I’d better go home early and fix my diary, call my idiot of a boss, and find out when I’m supposed to get fired/ met with.

“I wish I had 20,000 dollars” I write, my usual clean typewriter font.

“Writing back to the lover?” Nick peers around a bookcase, my coffee in hand and the flannel tucked into her apron pocket, her hair a gracious waterfall albeit close to my cup.

“Leave the book here, see if they come back for it. Actually, Nick, I’ll take the coffee to go if you don’t mind but I’ll be back tomorrow”

I collect my things as she transfers to mixture into a portable cardboard cup, Deja Brew blazoned on the side in a similar sprawling font to the note.

We say our goodbyes and I walk back to my inner city apartment; (the measly 15th floor, not high but not low enough to make carrying shopping up the stairs any easier, just because it’s cheap doesn’t mean I can’t be my cynical self about it), in the same heat I came out in although it is nearing the evening. The walk home is quieter in the evenings, songbirds can be heard instead of the buzz of English and occasional Spanish.

I get to Apartment 31, my apartment and unlock the door with the key and a semi-rustic holiday keychain of a London bus I’ve had since 9th grade, red fading to a more mahogany hue and the painted people inside scratched off by wear and tear. I throw the briefcase in my left hand down on my stained sofa and sip the bitter coffee with the other. I walk to the fridge: Wednesday’s leftovers. Great. I go through the rest of my evening routine, heating the leftovers of a microwave hamburger and soggy oven chips and then washing my face with a worn, greying towel before getting into bed. I get to that stage of sleep where it feels as if you are on a cloud, slipping slowly from consciousness into a warm abyss until I hear a monstrous knocking on my door.

The knocking- or more appropriately described ramming of my wooden apartment door causes me to jump from my sleep in a sweat and whirlwind of getting a shirt on while my heart is either racing from the anxiety or the copious amounts of sugar from the coffee. I run, or as well as a guy who is around 20kg overweight, stumble to the door, put on the chain and ease it open.

It’s Nick, she’s red in the face and still wearing her work apron and her fists are a combination of inflamed merlot red around the metacarpal and white at her fingertips, devoid of blood. She looks up at me with either pure rage or exasperation in her eyes. I don’t know which, still don’t. I’m not good at reading faces; just books.

“Decided to be on the other side of the law for a change?” she whisper-shouts through the chain, holding my door ajar (the incredible female superpower or being mad but also civil with you, I admire it). I close the door in her face, unlatch the chain and open it once more, equally as angry to be disturbed at 3am.

“God’s sake, Nick, once again I have no idea what you are talking about” My eyes drift to the bills and I seize the opportunity to lighten the situation “Wow, looks like a good day of tips”

“Except!” She pushes past me and my arm that learns on the doorframe with a swift duck and stares me in the eyes in a less insane fashion than prior “It’s not mine, it’s addressed to you, Rich”

The wad of notes, tied with elastic bands, with note crisp and, I assume new are now in my hands. The smell of new money dances over each of Benjamin Franklin’s façades, printed on mint green paper and flutter like fern butterflies as I count each note.

“100, 200, … 1,200, ….10,000, … 17,000, 18,000, 19,000” I count under my breath as I rifle through each note.

“20,000” Nick finishes my counting as she stands behind me and stares at the sum of money in shock.

I turn the stack over and feel my eyes move to yet another eye-burning fluorescent Post-It, with a more legible message than the prior cursive disaster:

“Granted”