The Little Black Book

The Little Black Book

It was 4.28 AM and pools of light illuminated periodic sections of the dark platform.

Scant few passengers gathered around the apparent safety of the lit areas, maintaining an approximately equal distance from the next.

Bored, tired, unfocussed eyes and closed expressions cast downwards at an assortment of mobile devices. Cordless ear-buds and ear-muff like headphones further sealed off the outside world.

The throng of early morning commuters seemed to be in a state of suspended animation, barely moving in silence.

It was very cold.

One sat apart from the others. His long brown coat buttoned to the knee, thick scarf wrapped snugly around neck and chin. His black-rimmed glasses and a thick mess of dark hair obscured most of what would have been visible of his face.

Beyond the long-coated man, the last of the night’s mist clung stubbornly to the far end of the platform.

The man appreciated the solitude. It felt comforting somehow.

His name was Johan, but no one here knew that. He looked to be in his mid to late thirties, but impossible to tell with any accuracy, and no one might have cared to guess.

His posture spoke of sadness and defeat as he sat, slumped on the bench seat at the edge of the last dim pool of light on the platform.

He looked empty somehow. There was a marked vacant perimeter around him.

Instead of clutching a mobile phone in gloved hands like the other commuters, Johan held a little black book in his pale, gloveless hands. It was soft and pliable to the touch, like velvety skin. He stroked its soft cover, letting his fingers trace over the embossed design on the front. It was a bird in swirling pattern of flowers. It was beautiful. His wife’s design.

The notebook contained the sketches of a gallery he has been commissioned to conceptualize. It was due, well overdue actually, but with all that had happened over the past few months it was lucky to have been completed at all.

It was not easy to be creative through such misery.

Sounds of the next train began to emerge from the misty darkness - a mechanical whining sound and a rhythmical chu-chunk, chu-chunk, chu-chunk. The train lights flickered through the mist-obscured stark black trunks of the woodland it passed through before it rounded the bend, headlights illuminating the silhouettes of bare winter branches that leaned in, seemingly grasping at the train as it passed. The mist moved in and embraced the train as it eased in to a slow halt at the station.

The zombie-like commuters reanimated briefly as they shuffled closer to the platform.

No one exited the train.

This wasn’t unusual. Being a largely residential neighborhood, almost the whole working class demographic of Cedar Grove and the three stops prior generally migrated toward the city from 4.30 ‘till 8.30am each weekday.

The commuters boarded the train, took seats that granted least possibility for conversation, readjusted coats and beanies and cast eyes back to their devices.

A whistle blew and the train eased out of the station with a short, sharp ‘pip’ and an electronic whine. The movement brought a cool gust of wind behind it as it picked up speed, dragging in a blanket of mist that settled around end of the platform near the last bench seat. The skeletal silhouettes of the trees further back along the track now just a slightly darker black on a dark grey sky.

There were no stars. No moon. Just cold darkness stabbed by pools of cold light along the concrete platform.

It was 4.32am. The long-coated man sat alone on the platform.

The next train, his train, arrived in 12 minutes.

A cold gust of wind plucked at the corners of the brown coat and nipped at his already numbing cheeks. He tugged his scarf up, further obscuring his face and stood. Perhaps a walk along the platform might help warm him up.

His tall frame wobbled a little as he stretched his still limbs and blood began to recirculate. He slipped the little black Moleskine notebook down the side of his jacket to gain entry to the large square pocket adorning the coat. It was an ugly coat if he were to admit it. But no one cared enough to comment, least of all Johan.

Just as it was about to slide neatly into that large, ugly pocket, another gust of wind picked up and blew the tail of his scarf in the way.

The notebook fell. Johan’s breath caught in his throat. He reacted immediately, stepping forward to catch it, but his boot struck out at exactly the wrong second, kicking the notebook out and down to the rocky bed of the rail tracks a meter or so below.

Johan’s heart lurched.

After everything that had happened … the accident, the last hours of soul-destroying devastation, the hospital bills, the funeral and the absolute emptiness of what was once a vibrant home. He needed that commission or he’d be homeless in weeks.

He looked up and down the platform.

Not a soul.

Surely other people should be arriving at the station by now.

The next train was 11 minutes away. Something switched inside him. The self-protection instinct that stopped him leaning too far out over a balcony or touching a candle flame seemed to evaporate. His breath escaped his lips in a long, defeated breath.

“What have I got to lose,” he thought.

Johan jumped down onto the rocky space between the tracks below, pain shooting up into his cold feet and shins. He knelt immediately and felt around in the darkness for the notebook. Surely it was right here. The lights from the platform didn’t illuminate the area closest to the platform wall however. It was an impenetrable void of nothingness.

Johan reached into the wedge of pitch-black at the base of the wall. Anything could be in here … rats, garbage, broken glass, misshapen beasts from some unknown demonic origin waiting to grab an outstretched hand and pull him into the depths … but only ice-cold rocks met his fingers as he searched for the soft black surface of the notebook.

His stomach churned as the minutes passed.

Sweat started to drip from Johan’s forehead. He had searched maybe two meters of icy rocks in the swirling blackness and then … something.

It wasn’t the soft cover of the little black notebook. It was more solid, with the texture of waxed paper. Something about it made him pick it up. He sat back on his heels and held it up into the weak beam of light that divided the dimly lit space and the ominous, gut-churning wedge below.

It was a firmly wrapped rectangular block of … something. The waxed paper covering too intentionally folded and tucked to be garbage. It was too purposeful.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing!”

Startled, Johan slipped the tightly wrapped ‘something’ into that ugly oversized jacket pocket as the station attendant strode into view above.

“I dropped my notebook,” he said. “I have to find it. It’s the last thing my wife gave me before she passed away.”

“Get out of there now, the next train is minutes away!”

“Do you have a light?” Johan responded, seemingly much less concerned than the man who was starting to change color. His arms and legs comically spread as if he was a soccer goalie trying to protect his net.

Johan’s calm response seemed to jolt the man into action. He whipped out a belt torch and shone it down into the pit, expelling the darkness and revealing sharp rocks, candy bar wrappers, empty chip packets and … his notebook. It was pressed vertically against the wall of the platform as if it was trying to hide.

“Ha,” Johan blurted as he lunged at the notebook.

“Now get out of there!” spluttered the man, pointing his torch quite helpfully toward some close-fitting metal rungs that had been embedded into the concrete side, seemingly for just such an occasion.

Johan threw the Moleskine notebook up on the platform and about a meter and a half away from the edge and stumbled toward the metal rungs.

Out of the darkness the mechanical whining of the train engine and rhythmical chu-chunk, chu-chunk, chu-chunk came to him.

The sound brought with it an overwhelming sense of inevitability. Hopelessness swallowed him in an instant, slowed his feet and stole his strength. It seemed as if maybe he had been waiting for the sound ...

His legs felt leaden and stiff. His body weary and slow. Now at the metal rungs, it was as if he couldn’t lift his foot to the next rung, and didn’t have the strength to take the next step. It felt dream-like. He didn’t feel afraid anymore. Just utterly exhausted … down to his soul.

“MOVE!” yelled the man, his expression now held fear and anger in equal measures. His jowls now red and wobbling. He lunged forward and grabbed Johan’s ugly coat mid-way down his back and heaved with all his strength.

Johan lurched forward and landed on the platform, belly down, glasses spinning off under the bench-seat, legs still dangling out over the void.

The train’s lights flooded the scene.

The deafening ‘tooooooooot’ and screeching of metal on metal finally woke him from his frozen state of fear. Johan rolled to the side and tucked his legs in just as the first car screeched into the station.

Johan took a deep shuddering breath and sank his sweat-drenched forehead to the concrete. The sweat now ice cold on his face and neck, his heart beating wildly.

“You!” said the conductor breathlessly. “You’re coming with me.”

There was no arguing with that. This man had just saved his life. Johan got up slowly. Stiffly. His shins and thighs indicating painfully that there would be significant bruising to come. He retrieved his Moleskine notebook and glasses, under the scowling glare of the red-faced station attendant, and was ushered to the ticket office on legs made of jelly.

Faces now lined the lit train windows as he walked by. Suddenly reanimated, the commuters crammed together, peering out into the dark exterior to see what had happened.

The conductor shoved him into the ticket office then turned to confer urgently with the train driver and other staff who seemed to be all talking at once. Where were all these people ten minutes ago when he needed them?

Shaking, Johan slipped his precious Moleskine notebook down into his now dirty, ripped and still ugly oversized coat pocket … and felt the package.

He pulled it out and saw that one corner was ripped. The corner that was visible clearly showed a fifty dollar note.

His slightly dazed brain stared at it for a second, then he pulled the paper away a little further. The package was a tightly wrapped stack of fifty-dollar bills.

Johan counted ten out by running his thumbnail down the corner. Five hundred dollars in just the first millimeter. Doing a quick estimation based on the width of the stack, Johan sat back, staggered. There must be twenty thousand dollars here!

He started to giggle. It was not a normal sound in the least.

The conductor, train driver and other staff turned and stared, then backed slowly out of the room and closed the door.

Johan appreciated the solitude. It felt comforting somehow.

The End