A Little Black Book

I’d been watching him all day. At first, with barely veiled contempt, then with a growing disbelief ending in wide-eyed shock. He was a nondescript man, with unmemorable stature and ambiguous features. His clothes were dirty, his shoes were torn and his large duffel bag was ripping at the seams. Even the notebook he took out and scribbled one line in after taking his seat on the park bench was unnoticeable at first glance; black, small, nondescript.

I was just enjoying the last drink of coffee when it started. The man wasn’t quite staggering, but his movements were suspect nonetheless, a slight pause before and after each step like he had to think every action through. Moving across the park with surety, he ended up in front of that black duffel bag, shiny gold watch flashing in the sun as he reached into his coat to pull out a thick leather wallet. My eyes opened wide as first one, than two, than three hundred dollar bills came out of it to be thrust forcefully into that black duffel bag. He stood there for one more second, before turning and moving away.

Scarcely had he left, before the next appeared, an elderly woman bedecked in jewels and designer items. The same glazed eyes and strange movement accompanied her walk, and the elegant dog beside her followed with obvious worry in its eyes. This time, from a bag that likely cost more than I’d owned the last six months, out came an even larger chunk of money to be daintily deposited into the bag before her. Then, brow furrowed like she couldn’t quite put her finger on what she’d just done, she turned and left, anxious pet whining beside her.

It didn’t stop there. One after the other they marched through the out-of-the-way park to give their offering to the man with the little black book. They had no real similarities, not in the color of their skin or the quality of their clothes, nor their sex or age. Yet every one, like a marionette poorly puppetted, stuttered into the park, left a sum of money, then left in the same manner.

I was late for the job I no longer had, and later for the job I needed to find, but somehow, I could not move on from the spectacle before me. My last coffee had long since gone cold, and I had yet to discern why it was happening. It could not be the man, he neither acknowledged those that paid tribute nor they he. Nor did I believe that the stained duffel bag, which now housed enough money see even across the park, could be the catalyst. It was as I turned it over and over in my mind that my eyes landed on that little black book, still open on his crossed legs.

From where I sat, I could just barely make out the black of scribbled ink, illegible and terribly, terribly intriguing. What could it hold? Answers to the phenomenon before me? Perhaps the name of the cause he gathered for? Or secrets of those that came and surrendered that thin paper that was so difficult to obtain and so very, very precious. I could not hazard a guess, but my curiosity grew inside me, a living thing.

The day passed and slowly, the comers dwindled. The last was a small child, no more than six years old, backpack still on her shoulders as she dropped in a few coins that echoed in the stillness. After that no more came and only I and the man with the little black book were left in the park. The marvel was over, but I could not find it in myself to leave. What would he do now that he had all that money to himself? The first thing I would do would be to buy a new cup of coffee. After that…

I startled in surprise as the man abruptly stood. Turning slightly, he closed the little black book, placing it on the bench he’d just occupied. Then, without a backward glance, he walked away. I gaped after his stuttering, strange steps until he was out of sight, eyes shooting back and forth between his dingy back and that duffle which was so full I could see the dollar bills sticking out of the unzipped top. Surely, he’d come back quickly.

But a minute passed.

Then an hour.

Soon it was dark. But still the bag sat there, coins from that last little girl shining in the glow of the streetlights and the glossy cover of that book glinting invitingly. Finally, I could resist no longer. Coffee splashed all over my faux leather heels as I lurched to my feet and strode over to the bench. My footsteps pounded like gunshots, an irrational fear that the ground would shatter to swallow me and that wonder before me whole making my breath come hard and fast.

I stood before that bag a long time before my hands finally shot forward to wrench it open and count the bounty within. By the time I had gotten through it, I was crumpled onto the filthy asphalt, staring in amazement at the twenty-thousand dollars before me. Shocked, wide eyes turned in increments to the only other thing left on the bench. As if laughing at me, the little black book gave a particularly bright shine in the passing headlights of a car.

Snapping to awareness, I glanced around fearfully, shakily zipping up the bag and clutching it to my chest. I turned to flee, but something stopped me. Slowly, I looked over my shoulder at the book, the memory of the single line the man wrote in it tugging my gaze. Almost before I knew what I was doing, it lay heavy in my grip.

A terrifying walk later, I had slammed the door to my apartment closed and locked the flimsy looking chain. After drawing closed every old, musty curtain in my apartment, I put the bag on my table next to my chilled coffee. The book stayed in my hand. Slowly I sat down, staring first at the bag that held everything I wanted before my eyes were drawn back to the book.

It sat comfortably in my hand, and, now that I was looking at it, it was clear to see it was in fact a notebook. Indeed nondescript, but surprisingly well-made considering the poor state of both the bag and the man himself. Again, I remembered the short scribble I had spied the man pen. Again, that curiosity rose in me, twin to some unknown fear.

Fingers trembling, I delicately took the front cover between my fingertips and peeled it open. Inside, on that first perfectly lined page, only one line was written. Neat and perfectly spaced, it made all the blood drain from my face as that little black notebook asked me just one question:

“What’s your price?”