The True Colours of Black

I am not a deceitful person. I don’t lie, or cheat, or steal. I never take more than I need, and I give whatever I can spare. At least, that’s who I am now.

There are moments in our lives that act as beacons, marking the time and place that something fundamental changes within a person. I’m not talking about small stuff, like a new haircut or trading your phone for the newer model. I don’t mean the temporary behavioural shift that accompanies yet another New Years Resolution either (be real Susan, we all know you sit in your car and read a crappy romance novel when you’re supposed to be ‘at the gym’).

I mean the real deal – the transformation of an individual, the split in their foundation, the distortion of ideals, that which makes someone who they are.

I used to be so dishonest, until two years ago. Hand to God, I swear the little black book just dropped out of the sky while I had stopped to tie my shoelace.

---

Walking out of the pawn shop, I pocketed the cash given to me for the gold ring I’d just sold to the owner. He didn’t care where the ring had come from, as it clearly hadn’t been mine to begin with. His only concern was that it was real gold and worth more than he paid me for it.

I, however, felt a bit bad about this one. My usual marks were the Suits that carried briefcases, their smart phones glued to their ear while they barked orders to the unlucky soul on the other end. The Suits were too arrogant and self-involved to realise I had pocketed their Rolex or pinched their wallet while they distractedly waved their hands to direct me to whatever simple landmark I had interrupted them for.

I felt no guilt when I was stealing from them. My life was no picnic – I was broke, working a back-breaking, dead-end job 12 hours a day for less than minimum wage, with more overdue bills than I could manage. Every cent I earned was pre-spent and I had nothing to show for it. Stealing from the Suits felt almost justifiable in a way. I mean, they have luxury cars and take luxury holidays and lounge around their luxury properties, sipping on their high-end cocktails and changing out of their $3,000 ‘office’ suit to their $2,000 ‘relaxing’ suit. They probably don’t even notice when I steal right off them on the street. It doesn’t hurt that I am very good at it, too.

The lady with the ring, though, she had been an innocent. I’d broken my own Rule Number One when I took it from her – never steal from someone who doesn’t look like they can afford it. This lady was older, old enough to need a walking frame. I’d seen her around from time to time, so I knew roughly where she was headed. The little man on the pole was flashing red, and she was still crossing the street at the pace of a snail, so I’d run to help her.

I never intended to take her ring, but I guess I was just so used to pickpocketing that the action was virtually subconscious. I gripped her shoulder lightly with one hand and held the other up to signal to the traffic. While she had been busy thanking me, I’d quickly slipped the golden band off her ring finger and palmed it, said goodbye with a smile, and then walked away. Rule Number Two was to never, ever look back at the mark, and I broke that rule too. I had watched her over my shoulder as I turned the corner and, for the first time, I felt guilty about what I had done.

I didn’t like feeling like that though, and so with the money for the ring weighing heavily in my pocket and in my stomach, I started walking back to my apartment.

The rain came first, heavy and unforgiving, entirely unexpected in the middle of summer. I wasn’t prepared for the downpour and so I was saturated, the cold seeping right down to my bones. A car going in the opposite direction drove straight through a giant puddle, splashing me from head to toe with dirty, murky water. Finally, the lace on my worn-out sneaker came loose, causing me to trip and pitch forward, landing on my hands and knees, scraping the skin where it made contact with the concrete.

Great, I thought, sitting back on my other heel so I could retie my shoe, just great. What else could possibly go wrong?

The book hit me in the head with a thud, knocking me off balance and leaving me sitting on the soaked footpath. It was a small, black, leather-bound book, tied shut with a red ribbon and finished off with a bow. Half a minute passed as I just stared at it, dumbfounded, watching the drops of rain bounce off the cover before I reached to pick it up.

I held it tucked under my arm as I ran under the shelter of a doorway on the side of the road. I glanced around, looking for the person it belonged to, but seeing no one. Tilting my head back and squinting through the rain, I peered up at the balconies on the buildings above me, but still couldn’t see anyone. I did the next logical thing and untied the red bow.

I don’t know what I expected to find inside – perhaps it was someone’s schoolbook, or the first draft of their novel, or maybe just a notebook to doodle and write shopping lists. At the very least, I was hoping to find a name or phone number, but I didn’t see any of those things.

Remember when I said that there are moments that mark fundamental changes in people? Well, reading the first page of this random little black book was one of mine.

Stop letting life happen around you. There is more to life with what’s within you.

Following that was an address, a number, and a combination.

Confused, and a little disorientated to be honest, I typed the address into my phone and began walking.

It started to feel like I was in a movie; the sounds of the street had faded to background noise, each individual raindrop was discernible from the others, the people on the street seemed to be walking in slow motion, and I was suddenly incredibly self-aware. There might as well have been a voice-over narrating for the world to hear.

He didn’t know what was waiting for him at his destination, the narrator was saying, but what else could he do except keep going?

The address turned out to be home to a bay of public lockers. Searching through their numbers, I found the locker indicated in the black book, tucked away privately on the bottom row up the back. Crouching down, I typed in the combination, closed my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, and opened the door.

There, inside an otherwise empty space, was a large, sealed, thick envelope.

Cautiously, I reached inside and took the surprisingly weighty package. In one hand, I had the little black book and in the other, I had the unopened envelope.

Stop letting life happen around you.

The words repeated themselves over and over inside my mind while I sat there, trying to figure it all out.

Ah, screw it, I thought, I’ve already come this far.

I opened the envelope.

Eyes popping out of my head, I was grateful for the privacy I had, tucked away in the back corner of the locker bay. I pulled out the cash and flicked through the notes, counting. I estimated there had to be at least $20,000 in a variety of large and small notes contained within that envelope.

My head was pounding. This sort of stuff doesn’t just happen in real life, and if it did, it really doesn’t happen to me. I didn’t know what to do.

He had a choice to make now, the narrator was saying, and it certainly was not an easy choice to make. Does he take the $20,000 and use it to benefit his own life, or is this his pivotal moment?

I was up and running before my brain caught up with my feet. I sprinted back the way I had come; back through the pouring rain and the swimming pools that had appeared in the gutters, back across the road without waiting for the little red man to turn green, back through the throng of Suits barking orders through their phones, and right back through the doors of the pawn shop I had been in not even an hour before.

Doubled over, one hand clutching the stitch in my side, I heaved in deep breaths while the pawn shop owner just looked at me over the counter. He wasn’t too impressed I was dripping water all over his floor, that much I could tell through his snarl, but his whole attitude changed when I pulled out a wad of cash.

The rain had stopped as I left the shop, and now the sun was shining. With every step that I took towards the apartment building, my mind became clearer and a sense of calm settled over me.

I had to ask a few people, but I finally stood in front of apartment 413, hand raised to knock.

The little old lady opened the door and peered up at me. Just like that, the floodgates were opened, and the words rushed out of me. I couldn’t stop if I tried, the story spilling from me without hesitation, and the tears started. The whole time I spoke, the little old lady, who I finally knew as Mary, just stared at me, and when I began to sob, she reached up and rested her hand on my cheek. I fell apart as she led me inside her apartment, ushered me onto the couch and sat down beside me. I clung to her as she rocked me like a child, and she stroked my hair until I had cried myself out.

I reached into my pocket and handed her back her ring.

---

I would never be able to change the person I was, or take back the actions I had done, but that day was the first day of the rest of my life.

The conversation I’d had with Mary, after I had managed to pull myself together, helped me to see that I had allowed myself to become a bystander in my own life. I never put myself forward or gave myself any opportunity. I’d let life to happen around me, but not anymore.

I had used the rest of the money to pay Mary’s rent for the entire year, keeping only $100 to set myself up with groceries for the week. Each day I woke with a new sense of purpose, striving to make life happen for me. I found a new job that I loved, smiled at everyone I passed, and gave what little leftover I had every day to the first kid I passed on the street. I visited with Mary regularly, and we always shared a laugh and a story over a cup of coffee.

Two years had passed and I still had that little black book, tied shut with a red ribbon and finished with a bow, and every day I opened it and read the first line before turning to the next free page and writing.