Processing

It's Friday night, and Slator gazes out the window of his penthouse, a glass of red wine in his hand. He takes a swig of his wine, sighs, and turns away from the view, retreating to the leather armchair in the corner.

"Let's get this over with," he mutters, trading his glass of wine for the small black notebook and hefty fountain pen resting on the table next to him. Slator pulls out his smartphone and deftly taps through menus to access his bank account. This action is simply a formality; Slator already knows how much money he earned this week.

"Fifteen," Slator mumbles, locking his phone and turning his attention back to the notebook. His fingers slide to an ornate bookmark in the top of the notebook; Slator’s only modification to the book, added when he had accrued more pages than he cared to flip through to find his place. With one hand, he pops open the fountain pen, casts the cap carelessly onto his lap, and swiftly scrawls fifteen Xs in the notebook. As the ink dries, the Xs blend in with the countless other Xs on the page next to it, now indistinguishable from the rest.

Slator promptly puts the notebook and pen away, the processing complete, and reclaims his wine glass. He acknowledges the fleeting feeling of accomplishment, but wonders if he should even maintain this ritual his mentor taught him any longer. Slator does not think of the notebook again.

---

Slator stands at the entrance to the family mausoleum, a black umbrella in his hand. He feels a vague desire to draw near and see where his uncle's ashes are being placed, but the large crowd of closer, more important family blocks his way.

"My uncle is dead," Slator tells himself. As he expected, the words bring him no emotion, and he feels nothing but the icy December wind across his face. Slator leaves the graveyard, unsure why he even came to begin with.

---

"I don't need his money," Slator tells his aunt, dressed in black, her boot wedged in his doorway. In his pocket, Slator’s phone echoed her request in countless texts and ignored voicemails.

"He knew you would say that," She replies, her cool gaze unwavering. "But he said he wants you to at least process it."

The words give Slator pause. He sighs in defeat.

"Fine.”

---

It's Friday night, and Slator sits in his armchair with the notebook and fountain pen in his lap. Slator has not yet processed the money.

He unlocks his phone and checks his bank account. Right under the regular deposit line for his paycheck, there is a new, smaller deposit for his inheritance.

"Only $20k?" Slator shrugs, and continues on his task.

Slator takes the pen in his hand and mindlessly marks fifteen Xs for his paycheck. As he places the pen at the top of the sixteenth X, his hand suddenly feels heavy. In his mind eye he can see the line item for the inheritance.

Is this all that's left? the thought pops into Slator's mind, spoken in the voice of his uncle as if from beyond the grave. Slator's hand shakes and he finds he cannot finish the X. He takes a deep breath to steady his hand, then returns to the task, scrawling a messy X in the notebook.

Even after the ink dries, the X stands out, unwilling to bend to the processing. Its lines are shaky, like the downward trajectory of a stock price crashing. In fact, it reminds Slator of the first few Xs he ever recorded in the notebook. He pages back and looks at the messy, careless crosses before him.

Slator's uncle gave him the notebook when he first started helping him learn the family business. It was not a notebook for notes or dreams, he said, but a tool to process money. He instructed Slator to draw an X in the book each time he earned $10,000.

Back then, Slator wrote each X with a disposable ballpoint pen. He could not add an X to the journal every week, either. Sometimes he could only add half the X, or the top corner of it. But now, he added so many Xs at a time that it was hardly a thought. It was just a routine. So why was it suddenly so hard to pen his uncle's Xs in the book?

Slator skips forward a few pages and appraises the Xs before him. It was one of these Xs that had caused him to sever ties with his uncle to begin with. Slator can no longer remember why they had a falling out, but he knew he was furious that his uncle thought he could still tell him what to do. The thought strikes Slator: that was the last time we spoke.

Slator turned his mind back to the task at hand, using his bookmark to return to the present. He carefully deposits another X next to the previous, shaky X, then caps his pen, closes the book, and sits back in his armchair.

For the first time, Slator did not feel a sense of gain at this small task.

Slator feels a profound sense of loss.