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Into the Wrong Hands

Good beginnings are found in the unexpected endings.

By Shae MasséPublished 3 years ago 5 min read
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Into the Wrong Hands
Photo by Connor James on Unsplash

The terse rhythm of my fingers tapping against the keyboard gained a friend when the rusted van pulled up to the drive-thru window. My eyes had returned to the computer screen before my brain processed what I saw. Behind the lit cigarette was a woman with long greyed hair tied back at the nape of her neck. Her skin looked splotchy and aged. Her neck hung noticeably.

Before the barista had to ask, the woman moved to turn down her radio. From the expected silence the sound of her voice rose unveiled. Powerful. Is she drunk? I thought to myself. Did she even go to sleep last night? I kept gazing around the metal edges of the display case with a curious smile on my face.

The childish woman continued to sing without projecting her voice as the baristas spoke to her. They pretended to be unaware of the cigarette smoke that was curling into the building. She answered warmly and as soon as they turned away from her, the woman’s song would pick back up effortlessly. She gave it her all, belting Whitney as she drove away. I wanna dance with somebooody! I wanna feel the heeeeeat!

My eyes fell back to my computer. Shit! I was five minutes behind schedule. I slapped my computer shut and slid it into its place. My books got jammed into the adjacent pockets and with one last glance over my shoulder I noticed my black Moleskine lying precariously on the edge of the bench. With a sigh of relief, I pick it up and aimed for the exit. Until tomorrow!

The thought - not of the woman, but of the way the baristas responded to her stuck with me through the afternoon. They didn’t stiffen at the imposition of her overbearing energy, nor did they cough at her passive-aggressively as I expected. Yet they didn’t feel pushed to take a more direct approach, either, to inform her that she had to put out the cigarette before entering their drive-thru.

It irked me at first, but I let it go. It didn’t hurt my day, I’d thought to myself with relief. It seemed to me that this woman was unaware that her surroundings were also others - and yet she seemed celebrated for it. The manager was drawn to the noise but his cultivated social mores helped him to refrain from performing the theatrics along with her.

The thought - not of the woman, but of the way the others made room for her stuck with me through the evening: As I massaged a thick layer of night cream on my face, paying extra attention to the skin of my neck, the image of her hung in my mind. The annoyance I’d felt surged through me when I had to play referee in another sibling dispute. It rose yet again like air bubbling up my esophagus as I perched on the edge of my bed that night.

The sound of my foot was what broke the silence. It slapped against the floor as I stood and silently I prayed that the sound of my something-like-an-epiphany wouldn't wake the kids this time. I walked carefully in hopes that God would understand the seriousness of my request.

“Where ya headed?” My husband asked fully aware of the answer. He knew me.

I twisted the light switch with the precision offered by muscle memory and fell into the deep divet of my chaise lounge. The idea ran unrestrained within the confines of my skull so I hurried to unleash it before the reigns slipped from my grasp. Creativity is skittish. A slight spook is all it takes for the thread of genius to sink back into obscurity.

I slid the elastic band off the cover with an expert hand and in one smooth motion the bookmark ribbon cut through the pages. There the book lay, open-faced, right where I left off. My thoughts came to a sudden halt at the sight of the blank pages. The wild horse chase was abandoned.

I’ve been using the journal for months, I’d reasoned with myself. There was only a hand full of empty pages left for me to fill, I’m sure of it. I wasn’t only sure. I was positive. I had reorganized the storage ten days prior, excited to retire the well-loved book into the brown box with all the others. It would finally be full. I could start anew again.

That night, as I flipped back through the pages of the journal to investigate, a loose piece of paper slid out the bottom of the book. It was a cheque valued at twenty thousand and paid to the order of nobody. Through my limp fingers, the thin sheet fell until it landed with finality in my lap.

I flipped to the front page where the cheque had been and a handwritten note was transcribed to the inside of the cover:

Good Beginnings.

I moved instinctively to confide in my husband. ‘No way!’ I heard him saying. ‘Good thing you found it, hun. That guy’s gotta be kicking himself! If it got into the wrong hands...’ he’d laugh. I stopped myself.

I picked up the cheque and placed it next to the note. My eyes searched back and forth between the two. The same ink was used. I tried to recall who had sat down at the table next to me throughout the morning. I filtered through bathroom breaks to pinpoint the last time I saw the benchseat empty, and how long before I found it suddenly… wasn’t.

My mind began to wander.

After a long glance at the blank line, I folded the slip into the back pocket of my Moleskine. I placed the marker in the center of the pages once again and shut the small black book inside a desk drawer. I flicked the light switch and hurried upstairs careful not to wake anyone.

humanity
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About the Creator

Shae Massé

I promise I’ll try to make at least one interesting statement per article.

shaemasse.medium.com

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