A Departing Wink from Ms. Rosa Jean Davis

The day I turned 27, I was all lined up to begrudgingly work a double ‘till 6 in the morning.

My general manager, Synthia, was in charge of the schedule and she distinctly disliked me; but I did my job well and never missed a shift, so she never had “just cause” to cut me loose.

For several years, I worked the cook’s line atthe local 24/7 diner called Lenny’s Diner and it was steady enough work without having to cover other people's shifts. Their latest re-hire, Nathan, had apparently fallen hard off the wagon the night before and by the morning of my birthday, he was in a jail cell about 6 blocks away, presumably sleeping it off.

While he was being booked, he used his one call the night before to call the diner and explain that he was about to be on a ‘24-hour hold’ there at the jail and that he wasn’t quitting by not showing up for his next shift – he just wasn’t gonna be able to make it.

I had answered the phone when he called, and I could hear drunken tears in his voice as he asked to speak to Synthia. All the managers loved Nathan for his humor, his charisma, his charm, and his manners; and for the sheer fact that there was so much history there. He had worked at Lenny’s, on-and-off, for the better part of a decade; straight through an exhaustingly bitter divorce from his wife as well as the death of his brother in a car accident a few years back.

There was an inner circle there at Lenny's that were practically familial with each other and he was one of the central figures in that circle, for sure.

I never felt like I was in the family at all though.

So, with Nathan in lock-up, his shift was settled onto my shoulders and just like that I was gonna be working a double on my birthday.

However, I never went into work that evening.

I never even went in for my last paycheck.

You see, as fate woulf have it, shortly after waking up the morning, as I was sipping my coffee in my robe and perusing the classified section of the paper for a different restaurant job, there was a knock on the front door.

I set my newspaper down on the counter and went into the foyer to see who it was.

A large framed man with a bad toupee stood on the front porch sweating subtly in the morning sun.

“Mr. Darius Sampson?” he asked with a grin and a slight Southern accent.

“Who’s asking?” I replied calmly and a litlle groggily.

“I’m Mr. Bellefontaine from the Law Offices of Rogers, Patterson, and Associates. We are managing the estate of Rosaline Jean Davis. It was her wishes that, upon her death, I give you this package and notify you that you were named as a beneficiary in her last will and testament… It is a sizeable sum of money, Mr. Sampson.”

“Wait, wait, wait… who’s Rosaline Jean Davis?”

“You might remember her better as Ms. Rosa Davis from the psychology department at Brenner University.”

“Hold on… Ms. Rosa passed away?” I said. The attorney nodded his head slightly. And then after a few moments of raw silence I asked, “What happened?”

“I’ve been instructed to be very select with what information I give to you,” he replied. “It was her wishes that you direct your curiosities to the package.”

As he said this, he handed me what was clearly a book wrapped in brown parchment paper and tied with a string.

“The estate is still being settled,” he continued. “But here’s my card. If you haven’t heard from us in a week, give us a call. Good Day to you Mr. Sampson.”

And with that he turned away and walked down the steps of the porch and onto the sidewalk, leaving me with a look of shock and confusion so strong that I could feel it on my own face.

After a moment, I mumbled, “Thanks… Good day to you,” and turned back into the house closing the door behind me and looking down at the book in fascination.

I remember she went by "Ms. Rosa" and I would see her several days a week each of the three semesters that I took before dropping out. She taught ‘General Psychology’ my first semester, ‘The psychology of Death and Dying’ my second semester, and ‘The Psychology of Human Sexuality’ my third semester.

I sat down on the sofa in my living room, with early shades of daylight coming in through the windows as the package rested in my lap. I sat there and just stared at it for a long minute.

Then, I elected to finesse the string off of it and gently unwrap it. What was revealed was a black book with no writing of any kind on its cover or on its spine. As soon as I had even begun to open the cover an envelope fell out onto my lap. I set the book down on the sofa beside me and picked up the envelope.

It had my name spelled out in graceful calligraphic style and was unsealed, but folded shut. I pulled out the note within rather slowly. As I unfolded the paper, I found about a dozen hundred dollar bills and as I picked them up, small dried rose petals fell from between them to the floor beside my feet.

In exquisite handwriting the note read:

“Now that I have your attention, please read this slowly.

You have intrigued me for all these years.

I have a confession to make.

On that last night that you and I met up for coffee - when I tried to talk you out of dropping out - a small journal of yours fell out of your bag as you were leaving; and I know I should have given it back to you immediately, but I had such a crush and so much curiosity about you that it overwhelmed me.

I took it home and read it all the way through before bed.

I was hooked.

You may never know how much reading that journal helped me. I was going through some really dark times and it really helped me see things more clearly and to be reminded that we are all are on our own journey; and that while we are all in the same storm, we each captain different ships. We have to be good to ourselves and one another.

I’ve been so shy about my interest in you all these years for both obvious and abstruse reasons, but now if you’re reading this, then death has obviously relieved me of all the interpersonal social pressures of being human, so it’s clearly time for you to have this as your own.

This is the sketch pad and journal that I had been working on in case we ever met up again. I started it years ago and had considered many times looking you up and mailing it to you, once I was finished, but never did.

I’m sorry I was too shy to give this to you while I was still alive.”

I spent the next hour and a half slowly going through the small black book page-by-page, cover-to-cover. On the last page was a quote from Jim Morrison that said,

“…we live, we die, and Death not ends it…”

Followed closely by:

“Now, sweet man,

Go forth in Love, Light, and Laughter.

Seek out all the happiness that money can buy,

But never change who you are.”

All of it written in a red brush pen, with thick, slick brush strokes of a firmly focused hand.

I closed the book mindfully, pulled my phone out of my robe pocket and called into the diner and quit on the spot.

My life has never been the same and I haven’t needed to work in a restaurant ever since.

I will forever live in gratitude and amazement of the departing wink that Ms. Rosa gave to me on her way out of this life.