Money Talks

It was an average day in Los Angeles. I was walking to my bus stop and had enough respect for the seat of my pants and general sense of wherewithal not to sit down. Besides, Sir Moons-A-Lot usually stands up from a suspicious-at-best puddle to get on the bus that comes before mine. I have learned to always think twice before taking it easy.

Until that day, I guess. That day, there was no sign of Sir Moons-A-Lot of Lady Smells-Like-Beer. Even Junkie Johnnie decided to shoot up somewhere else that night. Bus riding is usually a medieval experience, but it was a little less so as I waited for my 5:47pm sardine-can to roll my way. But as the metal monster took its sweet time getting to me, the minutes ticked on and ticked me off. Finally, at 6:03, a miraculously empty-looking bus rolls up. Edwin is driving as usual. We have spent enough time with lightning quick pleasantries (as the sign clearly states not to talk to the bus driver) to develop an understanding by now that a nice nod is sufficient for being kind to one another on rough, average days like this one. He nodded a little more stiffly than usual, and I chalk it up to trouble with the Missus (or the Mister, I’m terrible at guessing, and what difference does it make to me?). He’s a silver haired sweetheart who looks as out of place as I do on a Metro bus, being waif thin with a face out of an oil painting. This kindred-spirits-out-of-place connection makes the daily ugh-I-hate-this struggle a little less real.

Somehow, I not only have room to walk down the rickety black plastic walkway, but I have my choice of seats. The maybe two other times this has happened, in addition to the time to which I am referring, I choose the outer seat of the pair that is situated closest to the back door of the bus. I did the math of deciding if the slacks I was wearing were dirty enough to launder after a sit in what is basically a bus stop bench but “indoors,” decided I also didn’t want to put Edwin through the awkwardness of standing for the full 45 minutes I’d be riding with him, and I plunked myself down.

I put on my headphones and pretend I’m the main character of an epic saga of some sort, occasionally opening my eyes to remember, alas, I am but a lowly normal person living an entirely predictable life. My left hand splayed out to the seat next to me, and it brushes against something. I snap out of my reverie, assuming I’ve touched something gross, because this is a bus, and to my surprise, it isn’t a tract telling me to find the Savior I already met as a small child nor is it a bus schedule with a wad of gum square in the middle of the carefully folded list of endless numbers and times.

No. It is a small black book, stout but thick, and bound like a novel. It, however, was a surprisingly hefty diary, quite nice actually; it was one of those types of journals that I’ve always thought were too fancy to besmirch with the audacity that can be my thoughts at any given moment. The upper right-hand corner was gently frayed with some use, and I begin Sherlock Holmes-ing the hell out of this small book. The very first page was torn out quite sloppily, the remnants of an introduction left to be but one small squiggle. The page after that was blank, as well as the following 2 pages. On page 4, aggressive cursive letters were written starting in the upper right-hand corner and working downward at a diagonal. The first lines were simple: I’m ruining everything for you, and I wish to God that I cared.

+++

I continued reading, though there wasn’t much to say for it. Each page included a new day’s troubles and triumphs, all sloppily written. From my years of fanatic studying of graphological pseudo-science, I determined this was likely a man’s journal. The grammatical structure later convinced me further the longer I read. There was the general expression of regret and forlorn longing to an unnamed daughter throughout the pages that made me scoff because for all of this suffering, he had done nothing to even write legibly, much less find her and make the peace he seemed to seek. For such unkempt words, though, the pages felt sumptuous. No remorse came over me as I suddenly pored into this poor soul’s privacy. This is what happens when you leave things unattended.

My stop was coming up before I could flip through just how much more there was to read, and I reached for the rope and pulled. I tucked the little black book into my bag and exited with a small wave. Edwin just looked at me, a little forlorn. I thought nothing of it. I wish I had.

+++

Later that night, after a few glasses of a cheap petite sirrah, I started looking at the book more closely. It had been sequestered upon my little rickety table that housed my mail and keys since it was “bus.” The germy-ness seemed to melt away with a little alcohol and carbohydrates.

I was drawn to fixate on that upper right-hand corner of the cover. I don’t know what it is about me, but whenever there’s a frayed end, I tend to pull. This cover was no different. The pseudo-leather/plastic rolled easily under my fingers, curling away from whatever particleboard backing supported the rest of the binding. It came away far too easily in fact, and square in the middle was, writ large but much more neatly than the subsequent pages, “3-6-9 Ok, fine.” I looked over the whole of the book again and realized there were likely at least 300 pages here. I turned to good ole 3-6-9. In the middle of that page was stuck a small, neatly folded piece of paper. Plucking it out like a surgeon, or so I felt, I unfolded the small square and my jaw dropped.

It was a check. For $20,000. With the Pay to the Order of line completely blank.

Twenty. Thousand. Dollars. All I had to do was write my name in the blank.

I was drunk enough to first start mentally paying off debts and other bills. I was $10K in until it hit me that this was beyond suspicious. I start looking around me as if the specter that put this book in my path had somehow followed me home while distancing myself from the book momentarily. I pick it back up again and resumed the story. After the first 100, I hit a point of 15 mysteriously blank pages. I toss it aside again, and I overshot the table and hit the lamp instead. It goes crashing to the floor as swear words stream from my lips. The naked bulb of the light makes contact with the pages, and black marks start to flood the pages. I worry that I need to find my who-knows-where-it-is fire extinguisher until I see that nothing was on fire. The heat from the bulb made ink on those pages appear which hurtled me back to grade school using lemon juice to create invisible ink. The pages were delicate enough to have hidden the texture at first glance. My drunk self deftly managed to safely light a candle, and I began slowly and patiently waiting for the acid to finally chew through the paper’s fibers and thankfully, the message was writ large and crystal clear: “I LOVE YOU.”

Skeeved out as all get-out, I started looking over my shoulder again, actually somewhat expecting the perpetrator to appear. No ghosts came from the ether. I replaced the folded check where I found it and went to bed.

+++

When I woke up, head pounding, I stumbled back to the book. It rested where I had left it. I slipped the book back into my purse, late as usual for my morning bus. It was Edwin again, which was out of place, but I couldn’t manage to clock it.

On smoke breaks at work, rather than smoke, I would run my lighter under the rest of the pages. Nothing else appeared until page 14. One lone, large letter appeared. E. After that, the messy writing resumed, though the slightest bit neater.

+++

5:47pm arrived and brought with it the usual rush hour behemoth. I managed somehow to scramble and run onto the bus, only to find a stranger driving instead. He didn’t look my way, even after I said thanks. What was going on?

No seats were open, and I was pressed up against a kid in a beanie with headphones blaring intense heavy metal and a small, round woman who inched closer to me each time I tried to maintain a sense of personal space.

By the time I was three stops from my house, I made it to the final page and found the neatest writing in the whole book in the form of a letter. It read

“Dearest and Only Daughter,

I don’t even know your name. I haven’t been able to find you. I’ve been calling you Mary in this book as a placeholder, since that was my mother, your grandmother’s name. I have followed every trace of a lead I could. I found a private investigator, and I’m thinking I may have found you at long last. I hope this isn’t an intrusion on your life. I don’t even know if you want to meet me and know me, especially after reading my other ramblings.

The check enclosed is for you. While it doesn’t make up for my absence or anything of that sort, I’m hoping it can help bridge the gap between us.

Yours,

Edwin”

It all hit me at once: of course. I don’t know where Edwin got this kind of money working for the metro, and I don’t know if I cared. I made a point to check the mirrors to make absolutely sure I hadn’t missed him up front, but no, it most certainly wasn’t him.

+++

The bus came the next morning, and it was Perla driving, which means I actually have a chance of being on time to work. The day could not have passed more slowly as I waited for 5:47pm. The doors opened, as I was ready to try and break all the rules and see if my hunch was right.

But, no. He wasn’t there. Instead, it was Marshall, the weekends guy. I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out, “Why are you driving today?” He said, “Oh, you didn’t hear. Edwin passed away last night. I’m the new 5:47 guy now. Not my cuppa joe but ya know when a vet like that goes, you take what ya get, right?”

My stare could not have been more far away in that moment. I hadn’t cashed the check yet. I needed information. At least now I knew who I was looking for and what to do next. That’s more than can be said for most of my life.

+++

Edwin Rogers was 82 when he died of natural causes, according to the coroner's report. He had no family, other than me per a curiosity-induced DNA test. He left a modest estate that was able to cover the funeral expenses not covered by the military in which he had served for 20 years. He referenced the blank check in his will, and I was able to cash it. What I wouldn't give to hand him that back and have a chat with him. Money talks, but the dead tell no tales. The stories between the smudgy writing will be lost to me now, but at least I have the little black book.