The Found Journal

I have a secret.

It had taken hours of sitting before Jeffrey had finally opened the pocket sized leather bound journal and flipped through it to the final page. The entry was dated, just yesterday the possession of The Secret had been confided in blue ink, though neither the identity of the possessor nor the content of The Secret itself was apparent.

He stared down at the four cursive words for a long moment, squinting as if they were disappearing into the distance and he might lose sight of them at any moment. Sighing heavily he closed his eyes, and leaned back in his wooden chair, causing it to scrape loudly against the floor. The movement caused the small journal to snap shut in front of him, once again obscuring its content from him.

He had found the journal abandoned on the bus as he had boarded this morning, en route to his favorite coffee shop. His beady hazel eyes had landed upon the small book, sitting neatly in the center of the blue seat. It had almost been calling to him, begging him to pick it up, to take it with him. But he had felt wrong doing so, as if he were invading someone’s life, the type of feeling that a small child might get just before shoplifting a candy bar.

So he had stood for a moment, simply staring down, caught in an unexpected dilemma. Finally, after what had seemed like hours had passed by, he became irrationally fearful that the driver was staring at him and might think him crazy, so he had acted upon his first impulse and shoved it into his jacket pocket. The journal felt heavy, as if he were carrying a bar of gold and his jacket now seemed to hang more heavily on his right shoulder with the unexpected weight.

Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling that if he had left it, it would simply be picked up and discarded once the bus had reached its final destination. The thought had seemed unbearable to him, the small book simply forgotten by a careless owner, tragically confined to the rubbish heap, never to be seen again. The idea filled him with a deep sadness, the same type of sadness that one might feel when alone in the middle of the night and thinking of long missed opportunities.

Strangely, the thought of looking through it for a name, a phone number or an address had come only after he had already shoved the journal into his bulky blue jacket. When the thought did come to him, a grin spread across his cracked face, obscured behind short grey hairs.

Now, he was no longer a thief, no longer intruding into someone’s private life. No, now he was a hero to whomever he would reunite the book with. They would have been beside themselves, tearing apart their purse, backpack or briefcase, desperate for the journal and the secrets contained within and cursing themselves for being so careless. But, when Jeffrey arrived at their front door, or called them, they would be so thankful, so relieved that he would forever have a place in their heart.

They might even offer him some kind of reward, reaching into an old black wallet or battered purse and removing some crisp bills to hand over to him. But he would refuse. Always chivalrous, he would smile, close his eyes and slowly shake his head. Then, he would simply turn around and return from whence he came, leaving the journal’s owner to forever tell the tale of the strange, yet kind, man who had reunited them with their most prized possession. He would reunite that stranger with their very memories and most precious thoughts. He would reunite them with themselves.

Thus he had contented himself for the short nine block bus ride to the coffee shop. It had been difficult to suppress the urge to open the journal right then and there on the bus and identify its rightful owner. But, like a child on Christmas Eve, simply staring at the unopened presents, he waited and just imagined what might be contained within.

When he arrived, he eagerly ordered his latte with soy milk, dropped a tiny bit of sugar and cinnamon in and took his usual seat in the corner, near the back.

He took one sip of coffee, wrinkling his nose and curling his dry lips as his tongue burned. Then, methodically he removed his black hat and jacket, ignoring the surety that his hair was a tangled mess. Then he sat, smiled and opened the journal, taking a deep breath as he did so, taking in the scent of burnt milk, coffee beans and baked goods that hovered around him.

Quickly, the smile vanished and his heart sank as he scanned the inside cover, his eyes moving up and down quickly. There indeed was a place for a person’s name and contact information, printed in faint ink by the creator of the book. But The Author had left it blank. Fending off panic, Jeffrey thought that perhaps The Author, always the eccentric, had simply written their name elsewhere.

But it was not on the back cover either. The book was about three quarters of the way filled, the same cursive scrawl occupying every page, dates written neatly at the top of each entry, the colour of the ink shifting from blue to black, even a few in red and green. Here and there little doodles of dogs, birds, trees and cars. He found himself unable to read the entries, instead simply scanning his way through them, the battered pages flapping beneath his dry fingertips.

It was too invasive, he thought, to read any of the entries. Who was he, a mere interloper, to gaze upon the inner most thoughts of this unknown entity? The thought occurred to him, desperate in his desire to be the saviour, that perhaps the identity of the rightful owner of the journal was contained somewhere within. But could he really read the entire book simply to learn to whom it should be returned?

And how might the owner take it? He would no longer be the heroic savior, the knight in shining armour, that much was certain. Now he would only be that tall, lanky oddball who had read through half of some poor person’s journal, learning their most intimate secrets and thoughts, and then tracked that person down.

Total creep.

He would be lucky if they didn’t call the cops on him right then and there.

Feeling dejected, beaten down and a complete failure, he tossed the journal aside, booted up his laptop and began the process of frittering away his day. He checked his email, and when he found nothing of interest, he logged onto social media and began aimlessly scrolling through his news feed.

An endless cycle of travel photos, unsolicited information regarding babies and holier than thou all knowing political editorials bombarded him, leaving him feeling numb and even more of a failure.

How were all of these people, some of whom he had once known so well, able to do things so extraordinary? Here they were, backpacking in Peru, raising the next Beethoven and possessing intelligence so great that they simply had to tell all others how they ought to act. All the while, these intrepid travelers, master parents and all knowing politicos had left him, poor old Jeffrey, alone in the coffee shop, unable to even return a journal to its owner. Alone and unable to even bring himself to read a single entry, terrified to get to know The Author in even the most simple of ways.

So he had stewed.

Finally, after a particularly brutal combo of a long winded post lamenting the foolishness of ex-coal miners in West Virginia, a photo of a smiling couple in front of the Taj Mahal and a video of an eight year old’s rendition of Ode to Joy on the piano, he could take it no longer.

His hands shaking, he reached for the journal and opened it for the second time. This time, it was not a benevolent fact finding mission. This time, he was sailing into uncharted territory, this time he was openly breaching the wall’s of another human being’s mental fortress. Good or bad, smart or foolish, sad or happy, all would be laid bare before him.

And thus, he had opened it up to the final page that contained writing and read those words.

I have a secret.

That was all. The words crushed what little was left of Jeffrey’s spirit as he read them over and over again, hoping that somehow he might have missed something obvious, the meaning behind them. But nothing had revealed itself. That was all there was, written at the top of the page, mocking him.

It was as if The Author had left the book intentionally for him to find, with a cryptic, mysterious message at the end, knowing how it would torment a soul like Jeffrey’s. How it would leave him wondering more and more. How it could drive him mad, desperate to know The Author and what The Secret was.

He sighed and shut his eyes in frustration. His shoulders felt tense, so he rolled them. His heart beat quickly so he did two rounds of box breathing. His mouth tasted rotten, so he took a sip of coffee and winced when he was met with a bit of wet cinnamon.

His day ruined, he hurriedly packed up his laptop, and put on his coat. As he stood he considered for a moment leaving the journal there on the table. Maybe it could ruin someone else’s day the way that it had his.

But he couldn’t bring himself to visit such cruelty onto another.

So he brought it with him.

-

Once alone, back in his small one room basement apartment, he paced about feeling restless and frustrated. A burning sensation emanated from deep in his heart and seemed to spread throughout his entire body as he again scrolled social media, yielding the same results as earlier. Only now he couldn’t help but think that anyone whose blogs he read, whose photos he gazed upon or whose videos ate away the remainder of his day, were The Author. It was one of them who had The Secret that they had refused to share with him.

A cold, lonely dinner of ramen noodles followed. His apartment was silent save for the sound of his chewing and the spoon scraping across the cheap red plastic bowl.

-

That night, he dreamt that he was wandering through a dark forest that quickly became a dark city and then a dark beach. Centipedes scurried out of the way as he moved forward, a general sense of unease and confusion about him. The feeling that you’re travelling though a place you know well to a location you’ve never been, and suddenly think that you may have missed your turn. Around him, indecipherable whispers grew increasingly desperate. Louder and louder, he began to recognize voices.

His third grade teacher.

His ex-girlfriend from sophomore year of college

The guy who worked the night shift at the Subway he used to stop at on his way home from work.

His uncle that had died earlier that year.

Gina the bartender.

They quickly became a roar around him, but he still could not understand them.

And then he awoke.

His eyes were dry and burned. His mouth tasted of ash and sleep. He looked at his phone. 3:23 AM. Despite the hour, he knew that returning to sleep was impossible.

So he arose, drank some lukewarm water and used the bathroom.

And then inexplicably made his way to the journal and began to leaf through it, doing his best to decipher the handwriting within.

-

Over the next several days, the journal steadily became an obsession. The handwriting was difficult but he began to decipher it. He recognized the way the loops of the lower case Ls would never reach the top of the line. He recognized the way the words receive and separate were always spelled incorrectly. He noticed that the handwriting became sloppier when confiding sadness, perhaps The Author’s final attempt at disguising these deep feelings.

No longer did he consider finding The Author. That hope had long ago been crushed. Now driving him was a strange desperation to find The Secret. The frustration had melted away to determination. Certainly, he had everything he needed in front of him to solve this strange mystery. He had The Author’s entire life and innermost thoughts here at his disposal. He was in a position to know the person better than anyone else in the world, even their most intimate partners, closest friends and their own family.

So he read. And read. And read. And then he reread it.

He learned of Stephanie, The Author’s lazy coworker that always dumped work on her right before leaving for the day. 4:15 PM spreadsheets dropped in her inbox. Reports forwarded with mere hours to go before they were due. And when accountability came, when their supervisor Jen came to their shared cubicle, Stephanie always seemed to be absent. Or find a way to deflect her poor performance onto someone else.

He learned of her father’s alcohol problem and the angst that it caused. Certainly, The Author’s father had never been abusive but had drank throughout her entire life. The way the older generations coped with the depression brought on by the never ending monotony of modern life. If only the man would seek therapy, The Author lamented. But she knew that would never happen.

He learned of a series of dates. An endless parade of unremarkable men with important sounding jobs that did nothing. Some of the stories were funny. Some were sad. Some were genuinely scary.

He learned of The Author’s old cat Pretzel, struggling with diabetes and the fears of what her life might be without the faithful companion. Jeffrey couldn’t help but imagine a black and white cat with a blue collar and bell that would jingle musically every time he jumped onto The Author’s red sofa (it was always red) or when it scampered across her hard wood floor to the food dish.

He had speculated about what The Secret might be. Maybe Stephanie was finally getting fired. Maybe her father had finally attended a meeting and had told only The Author. Maybe her friend Michael was finally about to propose to his long time partner Ben. God knows they’ve been together long enough. Maybe her flighty ex-roommate from six years ago that had run off to Seattle was pregnant.

An endless list of maybes and what ifs. Some of them were deeply upsetting. Maybe The Author had been diagnosed with cancer. Maybe that ex-roommate’s brother had committed suicide. Maybe her friend Emma, long a sweet person and object of deep concern, was in an abusive relationship.

But Jeffrey liked to think that The Secret was something wonderful. The thought of The Author having to undergo some unforeseen tragedy alone was more than he could bear. So while he lay in bed, he liked to imagine that The Author had won a small fortune. Not millions, but enough to be comfortable for the rest of her life. Never one to flaunt, she had decided to keep her new found wealth hidden.

Maybe she had finally met someone that she felt was the elusive “One.” The endless cavalcade of the sad, pathetic and frightening people that the internet had to offer had finally yielded the kind, intelligent and funny person of which she had always dreamt.

The possibilities were endless.

-

Jeffrey didn’t know how long he had been in possession of the journal when the realization finally dawned on him. He was back in his corner seat at this favourite coffee shop, drinking his soy milk latte with a little bit of sugar and cinnamon. His computer was open in front of him, the journal faithfully on the scratched up table beside, a now faithful companion.

He hadn’t even been reading it, or even considering it when his eyes drifted from the brightness of his screen to the small book. And then it hit him. The epiphany.

He would never know The Secret.

He had read the journal cover to cover multiple times. At times, he felt like he knew The Author more intimately than he knew himself. But he would never know this one thing. This deepest secret, kept even from him.

The thought settled on him and he considered that The Author’s life had continued without the journal. Was Stephanie still impossible? Was Pretzel doing okay? How was her father? He would never get answers to these questions, just as he would never learn The Secret. All he had was this briefest of snapshots into The Author’s life, the summary of a stranger that could be anyone anywhere at anytime.

He signed deeply, and then slowly packed up his laptop, finished the last sip of soy latte, again winced when he was met with wet cinnamon and left the coffee shop, the journal alone on the table for another to find.