Call of the Black Book

There was something always so mysterious about a little black book.

When I was young I would see them in movies clutched by fashionable women in a classic dress with chic Bulova Swiss wristwatches as the notebooks accessory and not the other way around.

They were a statement to be made, but what did they say inside the leather-bound pages? Were there appointments, or perhaps musings of their owner's innermost thoughts and philosophies?

No matter how many times I asked my parents for a black leather notebook I instead received a brightly colored, neon spiral-bound version that was popularized among my generation. Later they thought they were the best for getting me a bright pink one with a lock.

It's not that I was ungrateful, it just wasn’t what I asked for.

Didn’t they understand the black leather was like a blank page itself?

A canvas where anything was possible?

By the time I was of an age to buy my own black leather book it was the era of technology. I had converted and almost forgotten it. I was plugged in, busy trying to pay my bills, not musing in books as I wished.

It wasn’t a glamorous job like the many professions the youth come to L.A. for. I just worked in an internet cafe that doubled as an art studio where people sold paintings, and an impromptu yoga studio when the patrons got stiff and someone wanted to make an extra buck.

I was a barista, but I wanted to be something more. I wanted to write. Seemed like the dream was shared by nearly everyone in the internet cafe.

One day, sometime after a short blog rant on the subject of this childhood disappointment about the notebook my parents never bought me, a courier hand-delivered a mysterious brown paper wrapped parcel to my workplace.

Who gets parcels anymore? Let alone wrapped in brown paper?

I looked it over and found no card or note. My eyes scanned the room as the courier left quickly to his next errand. Vaguely concerned it was some kind of prank for hits on social media, I frowned and waited a moment for a person with a phone trained on me.

When none came I nervously went to unwrap the paper finding a well of depth to greet my eyes.

Strange as it may seem, but holding my most cherished childhood desire at the age of twenty-four felt surreal. Perhaps it was the circumstance of the situation, but it felt entirely out of left field. There had been no message as to the source of this strange but intimately personal gift.

Opening it, I hoped for a message… but there I found it blank.

Being at work, I could not dwell on the mystery of the item. It was a busy shift and I was hip-checked by my coworker to get a green tea out to the tables, but soon I was back to the book laying on the back counter nestled in the brown paper it had been wrapped in.

A few asked who it was from, but I had no answer and stood with my arms crossed.

Eventually dismissing it, I slipped it into my locker for the day going about my morning. However, on my break I pulled it out with my coffee and my bagel.

Despite moving to L.A., I had not become a full convert. I still consumed carbs, cheese, and coffee. I was a writer, not a model or actor. I did not need to fit in a size two, let alone a size ten.

Opening the book I took my pen and found myself involuntarily smiling at the crisp first page. Soaking in the moment I thought of when I was young, I flipped back to the front cover and the beautiful black leather. My hand smoothed against the surface as if it were a touchstone. A friend that I was meeting for the first time, but had a long delay in desired acquaintance.

Reopening again with a sigh, I penned in my name and dated it. Then in large letters, I wrote ‘MUSINGS’.

On the following page I wrote my first entry, telling my story of longing for a little black book much like I did in the blog post weeks before.

Desiring to explain how this mysterious book had come into my possession. I wanted to express clearer than I had previously, that I owned better understanding at the root of the childhood wish, which was for the imagined inspiration that lay within the pages of those beguiling blank inky-black covers.

I had just barely finished writing my initials, concluding the first entry when there was a drama in the back and I was forced to abandon my coffee, bagel, and my new book at the table. Unable to get back to get the rest of my lunch or my book for almost an hour, I came to find my things had all been cleared.

My heart raced as I thought of the book.

“Easy come, easy go,” I started to think as tears entered my eyes. Hopelessly, I looked around to find the book had made its way down the bank of tables. Almost in a trance, I came to where it lay, next to a man.

He looked focused on his work, only sparing me a glance as I picked it up.

Relieved, I took it to the back and opened the notebook only to find my entry had been joined by two more.

Blinking, I found a wave of irritation overcome me as I thought of my brand new book being violated by strangers, but then I found my eyes reading the entry that followed my own.

“Apologies... I saw this book and it seemed to invite me in. It was just left there on the table with a pen calling me”, it read in a delicate script. I wondered if it was a woman’s or a man’s hand. “I was diagnosed ADHD and everyone told me to shut up while a child because I was so hyperactive. As compensation, I grew silent and converted to expressing more prominently in written form. Harder to be silenced when you make no noise. Writing in those books became my superpower.”, the writer confessed leaving a gap in spacing, finishing with a final quote. “The depth of the well knows no bottom, limits, or ceilings. - MD”.

My eyes clouded as I realized how touching the confession had been that I moved to the second.

“I wanted a black book too, instead, I just had those Sherlock, flip ones.” this one wrote. The entry included some humorous quips about their life paired with desires and how they were going to make it out west. Signed simply with initials “-JP”.

Pressing the book to my nose I sniffed it as a thought formed in mind. The next day I put idea to practice by leaving the book simply on the table. I did not leave a sign or note inviting people. I just left it and hoped no one took it and wandered off. But just in case, at the end of every day, I would take pictures of the increasing entries.

It became a “thing” in the cafe. It wasn’t until it was halfway filled out that the manager asked about it.

“Hey, what’s the deal with the book?” he asked, looking over to a woman who had closed her computer and unplugged from her life for a moment, taking her turn to read or contribute to the book.

Pouring a coffee I laughed, “Oh, that?” I told him about the odd parcel, the random first entries, and how it went from there.

He nodded and smiled crookedly, “Have you seen the online reviews on this place lately?”

I shrugged and shook my head. “No.”

He nodded at the book. “It’s kinda’ a thing on there. You might want to take a peek.”

Reaching for my phone I googled the Cafe and pulled up reviews, finding it was hyped as an ‘it’ place to put your mark on the town. My black book was drawing people in by the droves, just to have a chance to take a page, maybe even two. More often it was short and sweet.

In between the short intimacies and sage advice within the anonymous journaling, there were drawings, beautiful landscapes. Perhaps scenes from where the artists were from. Other times there were doodles, of cute things and such that you could find in the corners of your homework as a kid.

Then one day, there was this woman who came into the shop. She wasn’t your normal clientele if you know what I mean. She was more the variety like I mentioned at the beginning of the story. Older, classic, Hollywood type. Little black dress once upon a time. Only today she was wearing beige.

“What can I get you?” I asked, noting she brought no laptop. Just a purse, which looked to be Louis Vuitton.

“A french press coffee, black,” her voice was like velvet. “and the little black book I have heard so much about,” she smiled.

I frowned, “Oh, it’s around here.” I looked for it among the group.

She took off her glasses, “I would very much like to read it.”

“You and the rest of L.A. it seems,” I replied with a snort. “I will go find it for you.”

I found it moments later with another young girl penning in her memoir it seemed to some of the final pages of the book. I went to get the french press coffee and started feeling nervous for some reason. Anxious the girl would finish quickly and perhaps leave a page for this mysterious woman to leave her mark. I craved to know what this Hollywood Diva had to say.

But the woman seemed more than patient and asked for a second cup when the girl was still writing after a time.

Finally, the girl put the book aside. I practically ran to grab it before another picked it up. Taking the notebook I approached the woman, handing it off. Somehow I felt like a student turning in an assignment long overdue.

“Thank you.” Her classic red lipstick immaculate.

She sat there all afternoon, seemingly engrossed in the thing. All my coworkers took notice.

Near closing, she closed the book and held it in her hands.

“Miss?”, without taking her eyes off it, she placed the book flat on the table.

I came close, “Yes?”

“This is your book, correct?” I could tell she already knew it was. I nodded anyway.

Her face took on a very businesslike expression “I would like to offer you twenty thousand dollars for this book, and the rights to fill up the last pages with my story.”

My jaw dropped to the floor. “But those are collective musings,” I stammered.

She nodded. “Freely shared,” and opened her checkbook.

The ink was barely dry on the check and cleared in the bank and I still did not know what had happened. I had no time to take the last pictures of the book.

I felt like I had no goodbye.

One day four months later, another courier arrived with a slightly larger paper parcel.

Opening it, I found a hardback white book with a picture of my little black book on the cover. The second a new blank little black book behind it.

Eagerly I opened the published book to read, “My second journey with the little black book started with a young internet cafe girls blog post and a brown paper package…”

My cheeks burned bright as I realized who was the original giver was.

Pressing my nose to smell the new little black Moleskine book, I felt butterflies.

What I found is that the little black book is for everyone, and many hear the call to it.