The Little Black Book

It was a summer day, much like any other. The sun awoke the birds at approximately the same time I managed to fall asleep, and today that just happened to piss me off. The wrong side of the bed had been upending me for weeks now, and something about today felt like the final straw. I couldn’t help but grunt, “Forget it!” to myself, as I got back out of bed to distract myself with something useless.

Today was one of my rare days off work. I normally spend days like these recouping the parts of me lost to cheap labor, but since I was already awake, I had more time than I knew what to do with. Blessed with this unearned luxury, and fueled by my neighboring bird’s chipper attitude, I thought it best to go outside and see what they’re so damn happy about. Turns out I didn’t find it there. Although getting some sun and fresh air was nice, something about that golden hour just didn’t seem fair. Where’s my cut of this shine? I can’t even realistically afford to sit here and watch it. It's messed up. But only I could see the sunrise and feel bitter. Realizing this and smirking at the sky, the thought, “I need to be better,” began playing in the background. Surprisingly, it went well with the bird’s tune.

I had heard time and time again about the power of manifestation and how the World rewards you if you give it focus. I thought that maybe I could will into being my own golden reality or unlock some untamed splendor. I closed my eyes, aimed at the sky, and pleaded for a better me, or at least some better opportunities. When I opened my eyes though, all I saw were bird droppings landing on my shoulder. I took it as a cruel joke, or a swift no; either way, I stormed right on back inside.

After changing my clothes and spewing my expletives, I found some balance while resting on the couch. Although I was dead tired, I couldn’t mute the sound of the chirping, “Be better.” Looking around the room for a distraction, my eyes caught a gaze they hadn’t seen in some time—something I had been avoiding. My little black book.

This book is really more of a journal. Figuring its contents had always been a pure expression of me. I had always wanted to be a writer. These empty pages have brought so much joy, or at least they did when I had something to say. Lately however, we haven’t shared much time at all. The rationale, “I have just been too busy,” came to mind as I began to look away—the same excuse I had used for months. But there was just something about today; I turned back and had to pick it up.

There was still a pen inside marking a half-scribbled page; a story I had been writing about life through different stages and beauty through different phases—a testament to my better side. Rereading the words that I had mostly forgotten left me wanting more. There was something about today; I just had to write. The only problem was, my house had become so predictable. At this point, I could barely have a thought outside of my standard routine. I needed to find a change of scenery.

I decided to travel a little down the road to the local pond. There was a perfectly shaded park bench that I thought would be right for the job. There it was, just as I remembered. I sat down and began to write. The story flowed freely from my pen as if I had never put it down at all. What must’ve been hours had passed and fortunately I found zero distractions; that is, until Mr. Man showed up. Or at least that’s what he called himself. He was a vocal, plus-sized man, who was presently very kind. An obviously older person, who was perhaps in one of his final stages of life. He moseyed on over, shuffling with every step of his midday trek, and politely asked if he could join me for a moment on the bench while he caught his breath. This is when he introduced himself.

Mr. Man was quick to divulge many details about his life and about his daughter that he was excited to have just visited. In only minutes, I was surprised to know more about Mr. Man than I seemingly knew about myself. Although somewhat shell-shocked by the experience, I was pleased because I had never met someone so open and happy before. It was refreshing. So refreshing, in fact, that it broke me out of my shell completely. He asked me about my journal and I told him about my writings. He was so engaged, I read my entire story to him. Without a moment's hesitation, he spouted praise and inspiring compliments—which from a stranger feels more real; it feels genuine. But in the middle of his admiration, he stopped himself short and told me to wait right where I was. Confused, I went along with it and continued writing as he shuffled back the way he came. What must have been an hour later, Mr. Man came back like he had promised, sat back down next to me, and handed me a stack of twenty-thousand dollars cash.

Flabbergasted, I tried to refuse. How could I accept money from this elderly stranger? I couldn’t. But then he explained his reasoning. He was very sick. He never said how much longer he had, but he implied it wasn’t much. He explained that ever since he had gotten his diagnosis, there was no need for his life savings—and that he was paying it forward to those he thought deserved it. He told me that he was happy to have met me here today because he had planned on stopping his midday walks the day before, as the pain was just too great. But there was just something about today that made him want one more.

I tried to thank him, but he wouldn’t hear it. He was too busy directing me to chase after my dreams and pay it forward myself. Then, almost as quickly as he came, Mr. Man was gone; never to be heard from again. Armed with his donation and parting wisdom, I couldn’t help but think about how this moment was the start of the rest of my life—provided by Mr. Man himself. Had I somehow manifested this or was this meant to be? I do not know. But the birds started chirping again, and they sure did seem happy about it.