Bless You, Mr Plotkin

I know he was just a neighbor, but damn I’m going to miss old Mr. Plotkin. We weren’t friends in the text all day sense. We didn’t make plans to hang out or anything. But I brought in his newspaper and trash cans, and he left his light on until I was home. I’d bring him some of whatever I was baking that week, and he’d walk Sisko, when I couldn’t get home during the day. And we would chat. Nothing earth-shaking, but just….comforting, regular old chat. Sometimes he was the only person I’d exchange two words with for weeks.

I went to his funeral, because I kind of thought that no one would be there. It would be a shame if he went out alone, was my thinking. And I won’t run into anyone, so no big deal, right? WRONG. So very wrong. It was packed with the oddest assortment of people ever. Old, young, black, white, male, female, everything in between. I heard snatches of multiple languages as people squeezed in. But it was odd, because usually, people start catching up with each other. Funerals are one of those occasions, like weddings, where you see people you haven’t seen in ages. And even on a sad occasion, there is that chatter and buzz, you know? But it was clear that we didn’t know each other. The only connection was Mr. Plotkin. There was a eulogy, brief, and then a receiving line of sorts. And that was that.

Until two weeks later, when I received one of those padded envelopes in the mail. It held a brief letter, and a battered small black notebook.

Dear Ms. Diaz,

Mr Plotkin asked that this be sent to you, upon his death. He said it was dear to him, and he hoped it would be of help to you.

Eugene Levine, Esq.

Levine, Levine and Smith, Attorneys at Law

The notebook was a small 5 x 8 spiral bound thing. The cover was scuffed, one corner bent up. Inside were names, addresses, a few doodled drawings. I couldn’t figure out why he wanted me to have this. None of it meant anything to me. Still, I paged through, turning pages until I was about half way through. The last page with any writing on it had my name at the top. The rest of the page was just a list of three names and three addresses. No phone numbers, no emails. And no note, and no explanation.

I put the notebook on a shelf and went about my day. And my week. And then I had a nightmare, where I was lost and I had a map I couldn’t read. I woke up in a sweat. The next night was a repeat, but I was looking for something and couldn’t find it. I woke up with a terrible sense of loss. And a strong sense that I needed that notebook. Makes no sense, but I knew.

So, I did what any modern woman would do. I googled the first address. No phone number, but a nice neighborhood. I’d actually always dreamed of living there, but it was outside my price range, by a lot. On the Uber over, I wondered if I had lost my mind. This was not me. What the hell was I thinking?

We pulled up to a house. Well I’m sure the owner thought of it as a house. It leaned more toward mansion, or estate to me. I asked the driver to wait, mostly so I wouldn’t chicken out and run for home. The gates were open, but I figured I’d walk up, seemed less…presumptuous. They had a buzzer thing at the front door. “My name is Ms. Diaz and I’m looking for Mrs. Middlethorn”.

Click.

The door opened, and a very tiny, very old woman was standing there. “Oh good, you’re here!”

“Hello…wait, what?”

“Mr. Plotkin said you would be perfect, although I really did expect you yesterday, well never mind, come along.”

She shuffled ahead with the perfect confidence of a woman used to being listened to.

“You will have the carriage house out back. It connects by a covered walkway to the main house. I understand you have a small dog. That’s fine, but he best not dig up my daffodils. That’s understood, I hope. You have free run of the kitchen, and I do hope you’ll bake those scones Mr Plotkin told me about from time to time.”

“I am totally confused. Mr Plotkin left me a notebook with your name and address. But he didn’t say anything about moving in”

“I travel. And I’m old. We thought it best, he and I, if I had someone who lived on the grounds. No pay, but free room and board. All you have to do is be here, and check in on me from time to time when I’m home. I also have a sweet tooth, and he said you often shared the most delicious baked treats with him. It’s not a requirement, you understand, but well….”

An hour later, I had a new home.

And a few days later, I tried the 2nd address. This was a high rise, downtown. The name turned out to be a hiring manager at an up and coming tech company. He also was expecting me. Mr Plotkin had assured him I would make a perfect office manager.

An hour later, I had a new job.

I’m not the smartest woman, but I can recognize a pattern when I see one. I was really excited to check out that third name on the list. The notebook took me to a vacant property. The resident had moved out a few days ago. I was crushed. I had missed out on something, but what? What had Mr Plotkin wanted for me here?

I tried to shrug it off, and threw myself into my new life. I loved the carriage house and so did Sisko. He eyed the daffodils, but wasn’t digging. I baked pumpkin bread, and cranberry scones and a pie for Mrs Middlethorn. We chatted over tea and cemented our friendship over books.

My new job was interesting, and forced me to meet a whole new group of people. I am never going to be a social butterfly, but I was at least talking to people on occasion. I still missed Mr Plotkin though.

A month after moving out, I had to go back and do my final cleaning so I could get my security deposit back. I was juggling a box of cleaning supplies, a broom and dustpan while trying to open my door. “Are you Linda Diaz?” the voice came from somewhere behind me. I started to drop the box, juggled, then dropped the dustpan as I turned to see who it was.

The man standing in front of me was just good looking enough to remind me I was in raggedy sweats, with my hair tied messily in a scrunchy. My chucks had seen better days.

“Ummm, yes? I mean, YES, that’s me.”

“I’ve been trying to find you. Mr Plotkin said I should meet you here on Saturday. But he didn’t say which one, or what time. So I’ve been swinging by when I can.”

“Oh, the apartment is almost ready. When do you need to move?”

“I don’t. This will sound really crazy, but he left me…”

“A black notebook with a list of names.”

“Yes, and yours was the last one on it”

We sat down in my bare apartment and talked. And talked. I had gotten a dream place and a dream job. He had found a half sister he didn’t know he had, and a publisher for his first novel. What more did we need?

This time it didn’t take an hour. It took a year and a day. But Ben and I finally figured out what was missing. I didn’t tell Ben, but I knew he was The One when my notebook got a new page. Only one name on it, but apparently Rebecca Diaz-Miller is in our future.

I don’t know if our story has a moral. Except maybe this – take time to talk to your neighbors.