The Mimic

Shelves spanned entire walls of the cramped bookstore, creating an illusion of more space than the tiny 8x10 room had to offer. Rows of interspersed titles and genres poked out at strange angles, and a thin layer of dust coated everything above eye level. That’s where I saw it.

Lodged between an encyclopedia sized hardcover and a stocky paperback, a thin black binding caught my eye. With no visible title, it was impossible to ascertain its contents without a peek inside.

“What are you?” I wondered out loud, pressing myself up onto the toes of well-worn converse sneakers to reach for the mysterious book. As my index finger hooked the corner of the binding, I flinched. Since when do books deliver shocks of that magnitude? I may as well be back in elementary school, scuffing my feet across the carpet and jabbing my finger at peers in the hopes of zapping everyone within reach.

Finger still tingling, I managed to tug the book free. It fell from its perch, and I grabbed for it awkwardly, barely grasping the edge of the cover. Paper fluttered open, revealing mostly blank pages, interspersed by a collection of doodles, cursive and print. I lowered myself to the flats of my feet, and flipped the book open toward the middle. It wasn’t a book at all, but a small black notebook. A used journal filled with what appeared to be more than one writer’s thoughts.

“Ah, I was wondering when somebody would find that.” The raspy voice of the shopkeeper startled me from my find.

“What is it?” I asked. Although, I couldn’t fathom it being more than some keepsake the used bookshop owner had kept over the years.

“It is a mimic.” He replied, a twinkle in his eye, “It reflects our wishes back at us.”

“A mimic…I don’t understand.” My eyes fell back to the unassuming notebook, closing it to examine the pristine black cover. The outer shell appeared new. In fact, it didn’t even share the sheen of dust its shelf mates had collected.

“Ah, but you wouldn’t.” His terse replies were making me uneasy. I glanced around the shop to find that we were the only two left inside. “It is difficult to explain. Perhaps, you would like to try it.”

“Buy a used journal? I don’t think so.” As the words left my mouth, I felt the flood of electricity hit my palm. I dropped the journal as another shock filtered into the tender skin of my fingertips. “Ow!”

The shopkeeper’s gaze never left mine. He didn’t bend to scoop up the fallen volume, but rather nodded toward it, as though urging me to do so. I did.

The journal felt warm to the touch, and I fumbled a bit as I reached to hand it to the shop keep.

“No, no.” He raised his hands, his bespectacled eyes not so twinkly and bright anymore. “I insist you take it home. Consider it a gift for your patronage.”

Despite my confusion, I felt a strong urge to be outside and away from this dusty box.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll just…I should go.”

The air outside was cold and clean. I inhaled until my lungs were full and tucked the little black book beneath my arm. Why had I taken the volume? Why was it even stored in a used bookshop? Surely, this didn’t count as a book.

I was halfway home when I noticed my favorite coffee shop coming up around the next corner. A hot cup of something would hit the spot and clear my head of the cobwebs it had collected at the dusty shop.

I ordered a large dark roast with a splash of cream and tucked myself into a booth. The journal plopped onto the padded bench beside me. Several sips into my coffee, I was already feeling better. My insides were warm, my outsides were warm, and all the little hairs on the back of my neck were settled neatly back into place. I decided now was as good a time as any to examine my freebie.

“Write. Have. See.” Were scratched onto the first page in deep black ink. I flipped the page to see that the next was written by a blue ballpoint. It said, “A house so big they get lost in it.” There was a small sketch of a house with an abundance of windows and doors.

I turned to the next page to see thick red ink, perhaps written with a marker. “She wants me so bad it hurts.” A poorly rendered drawing of a lady with her heart falling out onto the ground made me cringe as I took another sip of my coffee.

They were all like this. Each page a new message, another doodle. Finally, I reached the end of the ramblings and stared down at the blank page with curiosity. Every message seemed to be some strange desire. What would I ask for? I glanced around the coffee shop. The barista had a cup filled with pens on the counter. Should I write something?

“Can I borrow one of these for a moment?” I asked, as I neared the counter.

“Sure, no problem,” the young server answered with a smile. I took the pen back to my booth, turning it over between my fingers. It was black, fine tipped, but basic.

I pressed it to the page, unsure about what I would write. A feeling of electric energy washed up over my hand. This time, there was no shock.

“Money,” I wrote, and scratched the word out before I continued. “So much money, I don’t know what to do with it all.” I concluded. I set the pen down next to the journal, staring at my words for a moment, before rolling my eyes at my own gullibility.

What was I expecting? It was just a used book. Some sort of wishing journal. I snapped it shut, sliding it away from myself, and picking up my coffee. Instead of tasting the warm dark brew I was accustomed to, however, my lips were met by the dry scratch of paper.

“What the…” I looked down at the cup, surprised to find the corner of a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill poking out from the mouthpiece. Squinting at the protrusion, I peeled back the lid of the coffee cup and tugged the note free. As the bill slid from the paper vessel, another appeared behind it. The cup fell to the table, several hundreds falling onto the beige laminate surface. I jumped up, backing away.

“Do you need some napkins?” Came a female voice from the sales counter. I looked over to see the barista’s concerned gaze on my table.

“No, I’m fine. I just…I’m fine.” My fingers reached for one of the banknotes but stopped short. Something about this felt wrong. I left the cup instead, and grabbed my jacket from the bench seat, not even bothering to shrug it on before rushing from the café.

“What was that?” I took a deep breathe, trying to calm the hammering heartbeat in my chest. This was some joke. It had to be. Somebody put the money in my cup when I went to get the pen. But why would someone abandon several hundreds of dollars for a joke? I didn’t want to know.

The chill in the air was deepening and I slipped my coat on to nullify it. Hoping I had remembered my gloves, I reached into my pocket. Instead of supple leather, my hands came out with fistfuls of cash. I stared down at the money in shock, glancing back toward the café window where the waitress was now wiping my table with a rag. The black book was sitting where I had left it near the window.

“This can’t be real.” I mumbled to myself, shoving the funds back into my jacket as I noticed the staring eyes of passersby.

The route home was rushed, and I kicked my shoes off hard as I entered my second-floor apartment. I grabbed the money back out of my coat pockets, slamming it down on the table in my hallway. I counted over a thousand dollars, before tossing the jacket to the floor.

The money looked real. I leaned closer and gingerly grasped one of the notes. It felt real. A thousand dollars was more than my rent. Could I keep this? Was it ethical? What are the rules on ethics when it comes to the mysterious appearance of money following an encounter with a magic book? I turned away from the cash laden end table and stared into my living room entryway. A vase on the far bookshelf caught my eye. There was something moving just at the rim.

Tentatively, I crossed the room, watching the movement in the vase as I neared it. The entire vessel seemed to be shivering now, as though something inside couldn’t be contained. I was only a foot away when the glass shattered, shards flying out and ricocheting off white walls. The money piled onto the floor, thousands of dollars flooding out over the blue and black carpet at my feet.

“What…” I felt my breathe catch in my throat.

How was this happening? It couldn’t possibly be part of a joke. Nobody had been in my apartment today. My body fell forward, landing on my knees amid the mess of colorful paper bills. My hands reached out, flexing with longing to touch the funds. This much money could change my life. I could finish school, travel, pay off some debt.

With a quick tally, I counted somewhere around $20,000 dollars. It had to be. Maybe more.

“The notebook.” I heard my voice leave my lips before I thought to say the words. The notebook did this. I wished it. Hadn’t I? I wrote, “So much money, I don’t know what to do with it all.” This was certainly more than I knew what to do with. I needed that journal back.

I found one sneaker near the kitchen, and the other under the hall table. Coat in hand, I bounded out the door and down the steps in search of my lost notebook. As I reached the café, I was surprised to find that the sign had changed. It no longer said, “Hot Spot Coffee and Treats”, but “Hair by Jenny-Lee”.

“How…” I stared in the shop window, baffled. Inside, I saw the waitress from earlier. She was taking a payment from a customer who was motioning to her hair. My eyes flashed to the girl’s nametag, It read, “Jenny-Lee”.

It was weeks later before I thought of the notebook again. My efforts to recover it were dismal. Jenny-Lee said the black book had disappeared moments after her salon took shape. We both searched the shop to no avail before I retuned home to my newfound fortune.

It was on my way to the airport for a Paris vacation that the small notebook crossed my mind again. My cab was passing the used bookstore I first found the notebook in, and I told the cabby to pull over for a moment. The shop was open, and a small bell rang overhead as I pushed through the door.

My eyes skimmed the shelves, but I saw no journal in sight. Behind the counter, at the end of the shop, the old shop keep eyed me with keen interest.

“Looking for anything in particular?” He asked.

“Actually, I was hoping to buy a little black notebook,” I replied, feeling my lips quirk in a smile. “Maybe one that mimics your deepest wishes.”

“Ah, sorry,” the man replied with a knowing smile of his own, “I’m fresh out.”