Shortcut Through the Flowers

They say every person has a story. A story each person gets to write as they make their way through life. And each one of those stories is but a page in one book that links all of us together.

But what if it was more than just a tired cliché meant to encourage the masses to follow their dreams? What if the book was real? And what if your page of the book, your story, was able to be changed, but not by you? By someone else entirely? Someone you’ve never even met?

Harold Jenkins wasn’t the sort of person you would ever look twice at. He was unassuming. Plain. Slightly- balding. Always in plain grey suits that were just never quite in fashion. But Harold didn’t care to turn heads. He didn’t try to be the head of the bank where he worked. He just wanted to be where he could be with people, even if they never gave him a second thought.

Then he would go home to his fourth floor, one bedroom studio apartment where the cable was always out and the lights had a tendency to flicker. Outside the cracked window of his apartment an endless soundtrack played: dog bark, police siren, yelling, and back to dog bark.

None of this mattered to Harold. He was content to throw his keys in the bowl by the door, pour a cold glass of water and then pull a small black notebook off the shelf before sitting down on his recliner. The book was tattered and worn, the ribbon bookmark long since gone but still Harold was always able to find a blank page.

Abigail Laurens

Harold wrote her name with simple script at the top of the page. He thought back to the frazzled woman with wisps of grey hair floating about her head. She had dropped her purse and in helping her, he found a picture of a young family. It led to the story of how she was estranged from her son over a misunderstanding. She missed him but felt it had been far too long and he wouldn’t listen to her anyway.

Under her name he wrote

Will call her son tomorrow. She will tell him she loves him and that their fight was never worth losing family.

Harold smiled. Without knowing his name, he couldn’t guarantee the son would let go of the fight but at least Abigail wouldn’t live with the regret of never even trying.

James Barren

The young man had been out of work for a while and his bank account was nearly empty. He came to the bank to withdraw just enough money for food for the week and had asked about the job opening. Harold found him an application and scheduled an interview for the following day. The young man’s confidence was shattered by months of being out of work. Harold knew just how to fix that.

Will be confident and nail his job interview

Harold rarely saw people again after he wrote them down in his book but with James, he might get the rare chance to see how the book’s magic played out. Harold went to bed that night wondering just who he would get to help tomorrow.

Harold was annoyed. The day been unusually slow so he didn’t have a name to put in his book tonight. He had also forgotten his lunch and so was particularly hungry and grumpy. He pulled his coat closer around himself as the breeze felt even colder on an empty stomach.

“Feed the flowers sir?”

Harold turned toward the voice and saw a young woman slumped in the dirty alleyway between the old philly sandwich shop and the travel agency that was only open four days a week.

The woman was dirty and wrapped in a coat that was meant for much larger man. It was covered in half hazardly sewn pockets. Her face was gaunt and pale. Her hair stringy and knotted. After living in the city for ten years he knew exactly what was wrong with her. Luckily all he needed was a name and her life could start to get better.

“Hey there,” he said gently using a tone similar to that of someone trying to make friends with a stray cat. “are you hungry? What’s your name? We can go get you something to eat together.”

The girl shook her head and Harold noticed the rest of her body was trembling as well. “No. Just the flowers. Mommy says if we feed the flowers, they will bloom but the food just looks like dirt.”

Harold nodded. She sounded like a little girl. Obviously, her mind was somewhere else.

“What does your mommy call you?”

“Ch Ch Cherry Bear because I love cherries and I carry my b b bear everywhere.”

Her skin was taking on a garish hue and her speech was failing her. He just needed a name! Pulling out his phone he called 911 and gave the address while holding her upright against his body.

He finished the call and noticed the blue tinges around her fingers.

“Come on. Listen to me. I can get you better. I can get you someplace warm and comfortable. You just have to tell me your name! Please!”

“I picked blue flower seeds. Daddy liked blue. You smell like daddy. Like fresh money like daddy. Are you daddy?”

She was out of it, too out of it to give him a name. He started rummaging through the multitude of pockets. If she had an ID, he could still save her. He would save her. His mind saw the page in the book and the words he would write

She gets better at the hospital. She goes to rehab. She stops using drugs. She finds her family.

It wasn’t Shakespeare but it also wouldn’t be a tragedy.

“I miss daddy. Are you daddy? Do you still love me daddy?”

The words were garbled but Harold could figure out what she was asking. She wanted her daddy.

“Of course, sweetheart. I am always here. I love you.” He found himself saying as he held her closer. His fingers kept searching pockets but each one was empty.

Her head started to slide down his shoulder as the ambulance arrived. He held her hand and spoke to her as the paramedics did their work.

“Tell me more about planting flowers with mom. How pretty are they going to be?”

“So pretty. I got blue for you daddy.”

Harold rode in the ambulance and no one questioned it. The hospital would find out her name and then he would go home and save her. She’d live a good life. He knew it. This was what the book was for. Helping people who couldn’t help themselves. She deserved a chance. She deserved to be saved. He would save her.

He stayed the night and they talked, mostly of memories from when she was little. Nurses took her fingerprints and he knew that was it. They would come back with a name. Even after she slipped into a coma, he stayed waiting for the name, asking every hour if they had an ID yet. Each time he grew more desperate, how hard was it to get a name! Just one stupid name was all that stood between this woman and a life of planting flowers in a garden instead of dying on the streets.

Loud beeps and rushing footsteps woke him up. He was pushed from the room by throng of rushing doctors and nurses on a hopeless mission. He found out he was late for work when the doctor announced the time. A long low tone stayed ringing in his ears as he left the hospital to a flow of useless platitudes. “I’m sorry Mr. Jenkins but at least you tried.”

He went home. He called into work. Showered. Grabbed the book. He flipped through the names. Dozens of names – hundreds. So many people helped with jobs, relationships, making decisions, finding a place to live – yet it was useless when it really mattered. A stupid worthless book. He went to bed and slept until the following morning. He went to work. But today he didn’t listen for names or problems. He just did his job. He just got through the day. He did the same the next day and the next.

On the third day there was a woman outside his apartment building. She was well dressed and looked quite solemn.

“Excuse me, but are you Mr. Jenkins?”

“Yes, Can I help you?” He said more out of habit than actual desire to help.

“The hospital told me you were the one who brought my daughter in and sat with her. I’d like you have this.”

She held out a piece of paper. Harold saw it was a check for $20,000. He choked on air and for a moment couldn’t even speak.

“I can’t…what is this even for?”

“It’s the reward money offered to anyone who found my daughter. She’s been missing for over a year now.”

“But I didn’t –“

She cut him off. “If it weren’t for you, I might never have known what happened to her. I’d be left wondering forever. And the nurses told me what you did for her, how you pretended to be her father.” The woman took a deep breath and fiddled with the straps on her purse. “Jonathan was a war reporter, always chasing that next big story. He was going to quit once we had our little girl but then money got tight and the offer was just too big….I told him we’d manage. That we wanted him more than the money, I thought I had convinced him but….” She tossed her hands up and offered a sad grimace. “He never returned. But that’s not what matters right now. You gave my daughter comfort and I want you to have this. You are a good man Mr. Jenkins. You deserve good things to happen to you too.”

The woman then left Harold holding the check. A dog barked. A police siren echoed. There was a shout and a scream as the neighbors fought again. But all Harold heard was a name Jonathan…reporter…

He dashed up the creaky steps, knowing not to touch the filthy handrail. Throwing open his door he ran to the shelf. He hands instinctively found the book and they franticly flipped through the pages till the slightly yellowed page with the name Jonathan Markle was at the top.

Jonathan Markle

Will take that job he’s unsure about and will do a great job.

Harold fell back into the chair. He had done it. He remembered the haggard man at the bank, looking at his empty balance sheet. He talked about a little girl. About a great opportunity but didn’t know if he should take it. How he was worried about being away from his daughter for three weeks. But he said it would be enough money to get them back on track, it would change everything.

It was Harold’s fault he took the job. Harold’s fault he never came home. Harold’s fault a little girl grew up without a father. He flipped through the pages at all the names…how many had been cursed instead of blessed by his stupid sentences. He had always thought he was doing good, helping others. But he was taking the easy way out, avoiding doing real work or really helping people.

He looked at the check in his hand…no more book. No more one sentence solutions. He took the money and created a foundation that helped those down on their luck. This time he saw them from beginning to end, he always knew how the stories ended. Even when they ended badly, he knew it was better to be by their side than controlling their lives with a single sentence in a book.