Little Black Book

A suited man and a sick man met in a hospital room. The excitement from the suited man was evident, a large smile beaming on his face as the two shook hands and greeted each other.

“How would you like twenty thousand dollars?” the suited man asked.

“Yes, obviously.” The sick man said in return. “I could enjoy the rest of my life in some comfort, but the real question is ‘what would I give for that level of money?’. Hypothetically, I would give quite a lot, but I really don’t have much to give anymore.”

The suited man smiled sympathetically and nodded knowingly. “Not even time.”

The words stung, but the dying man smiled back melancholically. “Not even time…” he repeated.

“However, I am willing to buy that time from you.” The suited man continued, pulling out a small black notebook from his pocket. “All you have to do is follow the instructions in this book for the rest of your life.”

The dying man leaned back in his hospital bed, confused. “Is this a real offer?”

The suited man nodded. “Very real.”

“The rest of my life?” The dying man asked, smiling at the irony of the question and shaking his head. “Depending on who you ask, I only have a matter of months, and I want to spend it with my family.”

“I know” The suited man said. “And that is why the time you have left is so valuable and priced so high. The instructions in this book do not prevent you spending time with your family; if anything some of them require you to spend time with them. There is nothing illegal in this, there should not be anything morally objectionable, and the bureaucracy is kept to a minimum.” The suited man shook the black book slightly as he said this, moving it tantalisingly in the air.

The dying man looked at the book more closely. It was about the size of his hand, bound in a black cloth. The pages were starting yellow, battered at the corners, and with smaller folded up pieces of paper threatening to fall out if held too loosely. An elastic strip of fabric ran vertically down the face, holding the pages together.

“Twenty thousand? And, what do you get out of this?” The dying man asked.

The suited man smiled, and in opening his mouth to speak he stopped, turned away, and had a short coughing fit. He brought a stained white handkerchief to his lips, and it returned to his pocket slightly redder than it was before. “Nothing, or rather I have already gotten it.” His eyes twinkled slightly and the dying man realised the suited man was dying too. The dying man’s eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of sympathy and pity.

The suited man, who was closer to death than the dying man, waved his hand and shook his head. “Don’t feel sorry for me!” he said, almost laughing. “Trust me and accept this offer. It was the best way to spend the rest of my life.”

He stood up and placed the book on the bed, next to the dying man. “Have a read, and I will be back in an hour to hear your answer. I have even less time than you, so I can’t wait for too long.” The two dying men smiled at each other before the suited man left the room, leaving the other to his reading and thoughts.

Two weeks later, both men wore suits. The first lay in his coffin, and the second sat at the back of the room, listening to the stories being shared about the dead man’s life. One such story detailed the man’s journey through Vietnam where he had missed his connecting train and was stuck for a day in a random town. It was not a place for tourists but for local workers, so there was not much to do except eat, drink, and socialise with strangers, culminating in them staying for a full week with the family of a man they met at a bar.

The dying man opened the little black book about two thirds of the way through to find the last entry he wrote a few days earlier. Beneath ‘eat scorpion’ he wrote ‘live with strangers in a random town’ then paused to think of where he would like to go. ‘South America’ he wrote, adding a question mark as he was undecided.

A day later he was on a flight to France. The ribbon pulled taut through the centre of the book marked the page of current objectives; visit the top of the Eiffel tower and a vineyard tour. The flight itself was a repeat objective, and he skipped back towards the first few pages and added an extra tick to ‘fly first class’.

He read through the completed objectives, eyes flicking through for the hundredth time, etching them into his memory. The list was comprehensive, covering everything from hedonistic and gluttonous desire to purely altruistic giving. He reread the line ‘buy everyone lunch, anonymously’, to which he had already added a tick to the many ticks from previous owners.

He was the fifth. The dead man was the fourth. The first was an eccentric billionaire whose final words were “Why not?”

The fifth looked over at his brother and nieces across the aisle. They were watching some animated movie together, fixated on the screen, eating snacks. Smiles on their faces. His own faded, thinking of their next birthdays, eight and nine months away.

A few hours later he was drinking an espresso he was not sure he enjoyed and sitting in a café looking over Paris. He ticked off ‘Coffee with view of Eiffel Tower’, leaned back in his chair and continued with his homework. He read through a list of candidates to be the sixth.

A man with two daughters. Inoperable brain tumour.

A doctor, her wife a teacher, only married for two months. Leukaemia.

A teenager, singer. Motor Neurone Disease.

The dying man’s contract did not need him to select the next beneficiary until his condition worsened, but he wanted to practice making his decision. He did not want to leave it to the lawyers to choose should he die too soon. He did not want to hesitate when the time came.

He sat alone in a restaurant, his brother and his family currently in an amusement park the dying man sent them to. He was not allowed to give them gifts or money nor could they inherit anything he received with the little black book. He was only allowed to give them experiences. Memories. So that is what he gave them. That is what he would leave them. He ticked off ‘triple Michelin star restaurant’.

He ate silently, sipping his expensive wine he did not have the palette to appreciate, and read through his homework.

A woman, mid-thirties, dog groomer. Inoperable cancer.

A man, mid-thirties, baker. Inoperable cancer.

A woman, mid-thirties, financial advisor. Inoperable cancer.

In his hotel room he closed his laptop and sat in his bed, staring at the news on the large screen nearby. He did not understand French but always wanted to learn. Or Spanish, maybe.

He closed his eyes without turning off the television.

Not too much later, the dying man positioned his wheelchair next to the sick woman’s bed. She was smiling sympathetically. He was smiling at her too, a mixture of nostalgia and melancholy flooded his mind.

“How would you like twenty thousand dollars?” the dying man asked.

“Umm…” The woman looked confused.

The dying man and the dying woman paused, him staring at her, her eyes awkwardly darting between him and the door. “Here… read this.” He said finally, and passed her the little black book. He turned around and started to move away. The mechanical whirring of the electric wheelchair brought the sounds of hospital machinery into the room.

He knocked on the door as he reached it and a nurse opened the door from the outside. The dying man looked back at the woman who stared at the little black book. A stack of legal documents sat on the bedside table next to a vase of flowers.

“Don’t think too much.” The dying man said.