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EyeNote

A Moleskine Contest Entry

By Birdie RabbitPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
1
created by Birdie Rabbit using Canva.

“Vending Machine, Duke.” Wyatt tightened his grip against the plastic bridge handle on the dog’s harness and allowed Duke to guide him forward.

Duke led, his long tongue panting, and Wyatt’s sneaker-bottom scuffs the only echo inside the empty school corridor. Wyatt shuffled in a less than confident stride behind Duke’s wagging tail; last time they’d attempted Vending Machine, Wyatt ended up on the other end of the school, Duke hopelessly leading him in circles.

Duke slowed, his panting stopped, and his tongue lapping up into his mouth. Wyatt felt the fabric of his puff blazer smear against a smooth, tall surface. The sound like the static prickle of an old television screen.

The handle in his hand relieved its pressure, and the teen let it rest at his side as Duke’s breath slowed and swiped across his leg. Wyatt turned himself to the item his jacket had scrapped against and fumbled both hands out for it. His fingertips began smudging the non-porous surface. He smiled and let his right hand glide to cold metal, where he found a plate of square buttons.

“Alright!” He cheered and swatted out until Duke’s snout nudged his fingers to let him know he was there to pat, and Wyatt did. Right up Duke’s browbone, “Good boy, Duke!”

He felt the harness handle brush his thigh as Duke shifted to sitting.

“Lay down,” Wyatt commanded and felt the handle drop lower, brushing the fabric of his pants down by his shin now, “good dog.”

He brushed the buttons on the machine with his forefinger, his middle finger coming in after it to stroke as well. Home sweet vending machine.

Wyatt fumbled his hand against his back jean pocket. He retrieved his small billfold, his mouth watering at the thought of the food coiled before him. Wyatt slapped open the leather in his palm and streaked his left hand through its cloth pocket, two bills greeting his touch. He pulled at them. Feeling their papery weight crushed in his fingers. The thin rectangular objects’ wool lacings caught each small groove of his handprint as he worked the bills through them. Their frame folded over one finger and beneath the other. They were both exceptionally crisp.

He pinched the wallet in his armpit to hold it in place as his left hand passed off one of the bills to his right hand. They were different currency values—the one in his left twisting through his fingers with almost entirely cotton sensations while the one in his right threatened a paper cut.

Keeping the wallet pinched in his armpit, he sent a hand to his back pocket again, grabbing for his phone now. The circular home button greeting his thumb as he pressed hard at it and brought the smartphone to his lips. The phone beeped to announce that it was ready for his command.

“EyeNote.” He said, then felt the buzz of the phone against the tips of his outstretched fingers on its back while it loaded, processing the command.

“I’m sorry. Which app would you—”

He cut it off, “EyeNote.” He spoke closer to the butt of the phone, his voice irritated.

The phone dinged twice to let him know he had successfully deployed the app.

He brought his left hand forward in front of the phone and stretched his palm out, so the bill sat flat in its center.

The phone blared, “one dollar, front.”

Wyatt beamed as he crumpled the one into his fist and fingered the phone back into his pocket, a free hand now to retrieve the wallet from his pit. He jammed the bill from his right hand back into its pocket and joined his wallet with his phone.

“See, why can’t you do that, Duke?” He spoke against the vending machine glass, the warmth of his breath bouncing back at him.

Both hands stretched out the dollar bill in his grasp until each crumple was smooth again. Then, they worked up to the machine, his pinkies crawling out for the grooved mouth of the bill acceptor. Its corners bit at his touch, and he danced his fingers over it to gauge the length of its opening. With his stomach knocking harder now for a snack, he threaded the corners of the bill into the machine. The machine sang a metallic note as it gripped the bill and sucked it slowly out of Wyatt’s hold.

He flipped his right hand down to the buttons of the metal box and pressed happily. Their position memorized. The machine processed then began a deeper metallic song from the inside, the brittle sound of a bag being crinkled by a metal swirling bar. Then a drop into the hollow pocket of the machine that Wyatt followed with his body. His arm now deep into the metal bottom of the machine to retrieve the bag.

As he stood, a small hand grazed his shoulder.

“Hey, Wyatt, it’s Mrs. Buckweld.” The hand on his shoulder dropped to her side with a tiny slap.

Wyatt turned in the direction of her voice, “Duke, sit up.” The dog obeyed, and Wyatt grasped the bag of chips in both hands to pop it open.

“What are you doing here so late?”

“Training Duke,” Wyatt swung his hand towards the vending machine, striking its glass happily, “first new command down.”

Mrs. Buckweld’s voice hummed between pinched lips with amusement, “so you taught your dog vending machine first, over all other options.”

Wyatt flashed a smile before popping a chip into his mouth.

“Can you teach him ‘Miss Buckweld’s classroom’?”

Wyatt’s hardly thought, “no.” He licked the chip salt from his fingers.

“Wyatt, you know you still have to take that test I handed out on Monday.”

“But Mrs. Buckweld… I’m blind.”

“You’re blind,” she confirmed, “and it’s Thursday. So... your test is past due.”

Wyatt flipped another chip in his mouth to mask his smirk, “okay, well. I’ll take the test later.”

The chips were pulled from his hands, “if you don’t take it by tomorrow, you’re getting an ‘F.’”

Wyatt dropped his head back, “fine,” he held his hand out for the bag that now crinkled somewhere out in front of him. “Lead the way, Miss Buck.”

She placed the bag back into his hand, and her lanyard bounced into the front of her as she spun.

Wyatt grappled for Duke’s lead and jiggled it by the handle, “follow,” he commanded, and the dog began to pace behind the soft tap of Mrs. Buckweld’s flats.

She had led him to her classroom and sat him at the computer wall and the only blind compatible keyboard, and gave him headsets. She’d also tapped at his shoulder and asked if he’d be alright if she ran to the teacher’s lounge. Wyatt had thumbed at his guide dog, “sure, I’ll be fine.”

And he had been until he had to pee.

Wyatt removed his headset, the woman voice that bored out his test still speaking as he dropped the headset to the table. He was lucky; Mrs. Buckweld had one of the only rooms in the building with a bathroom in it.

He stood, and the Velcro shift of Duke’s vest greeted him at his side, the harness bouncing over his hip.

“Stay, Duke. I can go to the bathroom on my own.”

Duke stayed.

“Good dog.”

Wyatt walked nimbly, letting his hand trail over each plastic chair that lined the computer wall. He knew the bathroom was at the end of it. He stretched his hands in front of him and slowly hobbled with his feet and fingers feeling out for any foreign objects. His ring finger on his left dragged against the bathroom door frame, and his whole body followed it. His hand easily found the cold thin doorknob in his palm. He pushed, and it went against him. Sturdy.

“Seriously?” He yanked at the handle again. Locked. He thumbed the face of it and felt the hollow lines of a keyhole.

Wyatt turned clockwise with the knowledge that Mrs. Buckweld’s desk was maybe five steps in front of him now. He began to move, slowly—hands hovering off his sides again, ready to catch himself if he fell.

Hardwood jammed into his thigh, and he cursed as he jerked forward against the corner piece of a wood top, his outstretched hand slamming hard into the top of what felt like Mrs. Buckweld’s lunch. The plate her food had once been on was empty now. Dry crumbs were sticking to him. He moved around the wood corner of the desk as he swiped the crumbs off his hand onto his jeans. His face scrunched as he did so. Then both hands began to search.

He heard the vest on Duke shift as he knocked over a wire texture, the sound of pens crashing, setting his teeth on edge, “Stay.” He demanded the dog through them.

He fumbled more, knocking a propped square object to its back then picking it back up—a picture by the feel of it. He dropped his hand over the lip of the desk and found a drawer, its handle wooden and oval. He slipped two fingers around it and pulled. He lowered his hand in slowly, careful of anything sharp that may lay inside the drawer.

It was empty down to the bottom where a textured leather surprised Wyatt. His hand paused at it, then stroked curiously. A Moleskine, perhaps. He removed it to check beneath for a key, tossing it to the desk then stilling again as it slapped the wood frame hard. Heavier than a little black book should.

He grasped out for it, awkwardly pulling it up in his hands, its weight feeling odd in his hold. He flipped it open and ran a hand over a page. He chilled with adrenaline at the cotton texture he felt. Just as crisp and subtle as the two rectangular textures he’d held at the vending machine. Money. His hand trailed further until it scraped against a plastic-like ridge. Smaller but still rectangle. Teeth cutting it out at the edge. Tape.

A bill taped to a Moleskine page. He felt the next page, money. The next, the following. All of them, taped with cash!

“Holy hell,” he shook his head.

His phone came out, and he got EyeNote open. He held the book out in front of him.

“One-hundred dollars. Front.”

He jumped a little at the sharp voice, then turned the jump into a hop of excitement as he scanned the next page.

“One-hundred dollars. Front.”

He couldn’t believe his luck—next page.

“One-hundred dollars. Front.”

He began to leaf his fingers over each page, counting as he went.

The first page that felt blank was page two-hundred-and-one.

His heart was hammering. Twenty-grand. He suddenly didn’t have to pee anymore. He continued to use EyeNote. Wildly flipping pages as the app attempted to keep up, choking over itself.

“One-Hundred dollars, fro— One- Hundred d— One H—, One H— One H—”

The door to the class creaked, and he dropped, his body colliding hard with the ground and his skin goosefleshed.

“Wyatt?” Mrs. Buckweld’s voice, “Wyatt, where are you?”

Wyatt bit his lip before belting, “Duke! Duke, come here, boy!” The urgency in his voice quivering with panic. God, you dumb dog, Wyatt thought as he pressed the Moleskine into his stomach, get to me before she does, please.

A snout pressed against his cheek.

Wyatt gasped, suddenly hyperaware of how sweaty he’d become as he groped the dog’s vest—finding an opening where the largest part of the vest covered Duke’s back. He jammed the little black book beneath it, feeling it work against Duke’s fur.

Wyatt praised against Duke’s floppy-ear. The book of money secure now by his pup.

“Wyatt, why are you on the floor?!” Her voice was unsuspecting.

He braced himself against Duke and stood with a sigh, “was looking for a key. Need to go to the bathroom.”

fiction
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About the Creator

Birdie Rabbit

New mom, old writer.

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