The Little Black Book

Since Covid hit back in March I’d been out of work. Not that working in retail is much of a career, but it was just enough to keep my eyes up. It was a night out with Stephan on a Friday. It was the annoying drama of coworkers to keep life interesting. Most of all it was the freedom of driving. Selling my car had been one of the low points of my life, but that had long since faded into the grey monotony of waking up at 5:45 everyday to sit at the bus stop, looking like Bernie sanders, waiting for the old deserted looking hunk of metal to take me on my ride of shame to the unemployment center. This was now my daily rhythm, like a steady marching beat, never faltering. That is, until December 1, 2021.

I went to slide in my seat, as always, and bumped into a medium size duffel bag and a little black moleskin journal. I fought off an irrational indignation that somebody had parked their belongings in my spot. In a sense my daily bus routine was one of the few things in my life that felt like it belonged to me. And some idiot had left their bag in my spot. But who?

My eyes did a quick scan of the area but came up empty. Fifteen minutes I sat there as alone as always these past few months. Curiosity quickly replaced animosity as it became clear that the items were most likely abandoned. Why the mysterious little black book? What if it’s a bomb? That last thought hit me with a shudder. Of course they would assume the poor black man last seen at the scene planted it. That was it. I had to know my fate. I slowly unzipped the edge: just enough to peak in.

What was inside caused me to jump back like the bag was indeed explosive and turned my mind into a popcorn bag of thoughts. Who keeps that much cash in a duffel bag? Should I take it to the police? They would probably just say I stole it. It has to be dirty money. What other explanation could there be? I should just leave it. Go about my business.

But, I could put a downpayment on a car and go to college with that money. I could become a nurse: fight back against this damn virus that has taken so much from people I know and love.

Is this life I’ve got now even worth living?

Now, you must know that momma raised me right. She told me to respect myself and others. Never to take what doesn’t belong to me. But, I’d been living an honest life. In high school I did all my homework, regardless of how difficult it was with Dyslexia. I was at church with her every Sunday. I sang in the choir! But here I sat on this bus bench. My momma tried not to show it, but I know she didn’t look at me with the same respect she once did. I was her unemployed bum of a son. A failure. Now, with this money...my thoughts trailed off as the bus came into view.

It was now or never. I did a quick scan of the area, picked up the bag and the little black notebook and did a speed walk back to my apartment that would have made my old PE teacher Mary proud.

8 hours later: it was on the table, I was curled up in the corner, and my eyes were on the door. My muscles seemed incapable of firing, but my mind made up the slack. I had to know who the money belonged to and where it came from, so I muscled up the courage to grab the little black book, slide my fingers along the front cover and let my eyes rest on the first page, which was written in in large, fancy letters.

My dearest Devon,

Merry Christmas ! I am sure that you know by now that I love you and want to know you fully. I have a proposition for you: a joint journal. You will record your thoughts for one month, then I will record mine, so that we can see completely into our hearts and souls. These pages will be filled with dreams, moments of achievement (of which I am sure that you will have many), deepest dissapointments, and, hopefully, with love.

How could some sappy, romantic journal have anything to do with a duffel bag full of money? I wondered aloud.

The pages were unlined but the next words looked as if they were typed with Times New Roman font in perfectly straight, parallel rows.

December 30, 2020

It was Maria’s request that we keep this journal, and I intend to marry her, so I might as well get started on “happy wife, happy life” by doing what she says. It hit me the second that she gave me this little black book that there wasn’t anything that I didn’t want to share with her: including my entire life. I will propose tonight, at midnight, as we watch the fireworks through the window of what I hope will soon be our home. Since it is her turn to write in the journal next, I will slide it over open to the next page and let her read the proposal.

December 31, 2020

Maria, you asked me to write this joint journal with me, because you want to know what's on my mind and in my heart, so you should know that both are fully consumed by you. As long as I am with you, I will be the happiest man on earth. I want us to build a life together. I even love you enough to go with Rainbow for the name of our first son (although I am still hoping you are joking). Maria, will you marry me?

Yes! Maria had written back as her response.

There were droplet size water stains on the page, as if she was crying tears of joy.

January 1, 2020

The last few days have been a blur. I still hardly believe it's real: we are engaged! I love the way you look at me as if you were looking through me, I love the way we just look at eachother and knowingly smirk everytime my mom says something we think is ridiculous, I love that you are passionate about your job and ambitious, although I do wish we could spend more time together. I want to see the world with you. Have a family with you. Sometimes I want to stay in bed all day with you.

Now I appreciate a good love story as much as the next guy, and even secretly watched along with the Hallmark movies that my momma was always playing. But, there was a duffel bag of money sitting in my studio and I wanted to know why, so I flipped forward towards the end of the book

May 1, 2020

If there is one thing that working in the ER in the midst of this Covid mess has taught me, it's that life is short. I want to sift white sand through my fingers and spend the whole day watching the waves crash against the rocks. I want to find and reconnect with my biological father and see the other half of what makes me who I am.. I want to fight for equality and join every protest for the BLM. I want to go to Haiti and provide medical care for those who can’t afford it. Before I die, I need to really live.

June 1, 2020

I found your address today: 17821 Vine Street, Apt. 100, Los Angeles, CA 91356

I can’t believe you have now separated from my life so much that you have your own apartment. For what? Next month I will leave the journal on your steps and if you still care about me at all I hope that you will take your turn and write to me why you left. Write to me what I need to do to win you back.

Whoah, so much for a happy ending! Why did Maria leave him? They seemed so in love!

July 1, 2020

Why is it that everything either goes right or everything goes wrong, but there rarely any middle ground between. Since you left, Maria, I have thrown myself even more into my work (perhaps just to spite you, but mostly to distract myself) It turns out perhaps you did have a good reason for despising what I loved.

I scanned the ledger three times and I am sure of it. The transfers line up perfectly with My entire company is a front. I cannot continue working here, I cannot let them get away with this, but I’m dead if I come clean with what I know. I need you here with me. I continue to write in this journal in belief that one day you will read it. But, I suppose that it is for the best that you are safe, away from me.

What did he mean, it’s a front? Could this be a hint at the source of the money?

August 1,

Everything in me wanted to leave the journal, but I know for certain it is safer for you where you are. When I discovered where the money in the accounts I manage really came from I realized that I cannot stay silent. I am the kind of person that likes to live for comfort. But, live your life with conviction and have inspired me to do the same. I may never see you again, but I hope that you feel a sense of pride when you learn what I did.

November 1,

I hope to God that you listened to my voicemails, read my messages/emails, and followed my instructions. I hope to God that you picked up the money and are reading this now. No matter how long it's been since I’ve seen you, I still love you and I want to protect you. My boss will know that too, and I am afraid he’ll go after you. So, this is my final entry. I am going to take all of the blood money out of that phoney account and have left it, in this bag, to you. My report is filed, the evidence was thorough; the rest is up to the police.

He will not have any reason to come after if he knows I am dead. But, just in case, use this money to lie low. Sift the sand through your fingers and watch the waves roll in. Everything in me wanted to leave the journal on your steps in September, and to continue writing our story together. I leave it to you now to remember me by. The rest of the pages are yours, write a good story in honor of me.

I did a quick Google search “Devon death” praying that I wouldn’t see what popped up as the first result. Sure enough, “Man videotapes himself jumping off the Golden Gate” is what they titled the article. It was posted today. Let me get this straight. The man is a workaholic, so his fiance leaves him. Then he discovers that his company was involved in illegal activities, so he created a case against them, and killed himself in a public way to prevent them from going after the woman he loved. The woman who left him just months before! The dude may have had some problems, but he gave his life in pursuit of doing the right thing in the end.

Is there really one right thing though? He left that money for her, but she never showed up. She will never miss it, because she clearly doesn’t know about it. But, what if they go after her? She will need that money to escape.

I did a Google search of the name Maria and the address provided in the previous entry. My eyes nearly popped out of my head as they scanned an obituary. Maria died of cancer back in September! She must have known she was terminally ill. That’s why she wanted him to give up his job and spend her last days with her doing everything she always wanted to do. Maybe she thought it would be easier for him if he didn’t know? If only she knew what he was about to do in order to protect her, three months after her death!

That money cost Devon his relationship and his life. Whoever, the money really belongs to is clearly not a forgiving person. What if they come after me? Money can’t buy you happiness, but it could buy me college and a career. It could buy me a car and maybe help me find my own partner to share a journal with. It could buy me snorkel lessons in Bali whenever this pandemic comes to an end. With Maria’s words ringing through my head like a melody “Before I die, I want to really live”, and Devon’s words blending in like a harmony, “The rest of the pages are yours, write a good story in honor of me,” I walked towards the door.