Little Black Book

I read a book once in which the author explained the importance of keeping your brain active. Apparently, our brains are lazy. Take that, Dad. I’m biologically wired to be lazy.

One way to combat the laziness of the brain is to alter a minor element of your daily life. Basically, break up the routine that your brain is so used to navigating that it coasts by without paying much attention. This minor change will then force your brain to wake up and take notice and, as a result, build new pathways for information to travel; thereby, increasing your mind’s ability to store information.

I don’t remember the name of the book or the author or even when I read it. Guess I should have turned upside-down a few more picture frames or moved the shampoo to a different corner of the shower every now and then to increase my mental abilities. But, on one of the few dusty, narrow trails etching their way through my gray matter, snippets of that book apparently lay among the dry leaves and pebbles.

It emerged after I plopped down in my office chair in front of my gaming system, polishing off the diet coke that had come with my number five from Wacko Taco Truck where a couple friends and I enjoyed carnitas street tacos and argued over the pronunciation of “Wacko.” I tapped the screen of my iPhone, allowed the face recognition software to register my tired eyes and three-day stubble, swiped up, and then froze for a moment. I had become paralyzed at the sight of a little black box in the lower right-hand corner of my screen. If you’ve ever seen the “there’s two kinds of people” memes--the ones that show a neat, organized iPhone screen with folders and proper titles next to an iPhone screen with apps in no discernible order and a multitude of notifications waiting to be viewed--well, yeah...I’m the former. So, when my brain and thumb set out to coast to Twitter like they’d done countless times before, the appearance of this app--one that none of us: not my brain, my thumb, nor I, had ever seen--stopped us all in our tracks.

It was the photo of my parents standing next to me at graduation upended on my desk.

It was my hair-face-hand-body wash/moisturizer in the soap tray instead of the rack hanging from the showerhead.

Little Black Book

The app was a straight black box with a set of three slightly-less-dark vertical ridges down the right-hand side. While most, if not all apps, were simple squares, this one had a small black ribbon that emerged from the lower left-hand corner. As the paralysis of seeing a stranger among very familiar faces slackened, I couldn’t help but nod at this unique app design. I didn’t even know they had the capability.

What’s next? Triangle apps? Moving pictures on your home screen? Technology, man…

Anyway, I tapped it. Maybe an app I’d downloaded went rogue during an update or something, A wanderer, escaping the confines of my well-organized cages.

My screen filled with a simple ruled notebook filled with names, addresses and phone numbers in blue script.

Brian - 1456 Jefferson St - (665) 375-4630

Corinne - 4333 Michigan Ave - (668) 326-6500

I looked at the screen like it had said something crazy. I flipped my thumb up the screen and watched the blue blur come to a slow stop. The names continued: Claire, Corrine, Debra, Dick, Greg, Hannah… I flipped a few more times and only made it to the names that began with S. I placed my thumb on the scroll bar at the right-hand side and dragged it back to the top of the list.

There didn’t seem to be any functions. There was no menu or information. I tapped the middle of the screen. Swiped every which way. My brow furrowed so low I thought my eyebrows would tickle my retina, I swiped to the app store.

“Little Black Book,” I typed into the app store. The drop-down populated with versions of the name but nothing verbatim.

Swipe, swipe, tap, back to the app.

Okay, I thought as I sucked at the dregs of diet coke too shallow for the straw to reach. I closed my eyes, flipped my thumb upward on the screen, stopped the scrolling and tapped once.

When I opened my eyes, the verification option sat at the bottom of my screen.

Call (668) 946-6370

The number was across from the name Karen. I recognized her address--the street name, at least--as being near the comic book store. How far was I willing to go with this?

I tapped the button and placed the phone to my ear.

It rang once. Twice. Thr--

There was a click. A man’s voice said “Two o’clock,” and the line went dead. I sat, my eyes searching for nothing in particular. An explanation, maybe. Or simply waiting for more.

I looked at the screen. The clock in the corner read 1:35. The address was only fifteen minutes away by bike.

I had to see this through.

I tossed the empty cup in the garbage bin under my desk and snatched my jacket from the back of my chair on my way out the door.

Eleven adrenaline-fueled minutes later, I sat on my bike at the corner of Washington St, with my eyes on the third house down the road on the left. I would like to say that my mind was racing with possibilities, but I’m not that imaginative and I had absolutely no idea what to expect. As a black SUV turned onto the street in the direction I was looking, I glanced at my phone.

Two o’clock.

The SUV slowed to a crawl in front of the house and dropped a black duffle bag out the window. As the tires barked from the driver's over-zealous exit, I walked my bike backward behind the ivy climbing the fence on the corner. The SUV didn’t even slow down as it barrelled past the STOP sign, veered left into the intersection and hurried away from me.

I watched it go and suddenly wished I’d have gotten the license plate. Was there even a plate? I walked my bike back to the corner and looked up the street at the bag. I looked for the SUV but it was gone. Back to the bag.

Looking around, I placed my feet on the pedals and eased past the house trying to look unsuspicious as I cased the joint out of the corner of my eye. I pedaled to the intersection where the SUV had come from and turned around. This time I pedaled hard and skidded to a stop right next to the bag. My bike on its side as I crouched down and unzipped the black canvas. The house was up on a hill, but there was a short brick wall where the law met the sidewalk, placing the grass a couple of feet above the sidewalk. I felt like I was hidden enough as long as I hurried. I yanked the bag open.

Money.

I froze. I’d never seen money like this before. There were short stacks in...plastic wrap? Enough to fill the bag. I stuck my hand in shuffled them around, wondering how much could be in there. I wished the stacks were labeled with the amount so I could do some quick math but no luck. Just stacks and stacks and--

Something solid.

I’d never held a gun before; so, how did I know what it was? Maybe it was the sound my knuckles made against the plastic handle. Maybe it just made sense, considering… I didn’t want to, but I looked around for any witnesses and when there were none, I closed my hand around it and pulled it out, slowly. There it was. An actual gun.

I looked up again, this time almost hoping for someone. I didn’t know if I was worried someone would see or praying someone would help. I looked up at the house. The mailbox was directly above me. The house number was there in black and gold stickers. They were dull and chipped from the elements, but readable. Above them were letters. K. Miller.

Karen.

Oh. So, this is what panic feels like.

I dropped the gun in, left the bag unzipped and jumped on my bike. It only took me seven minutes to get home.

I lept from my bike and let it roll until it collapsed in the grass. I burst through the door and fell against it, struggling to breathe.

The app. I had to erase any and all evidence of this situation. I fumbled my phone from my pocket, tapped the screen and swiped up immediately. I didn’t know if it was the fear in my face or the sweat on my brow but the face recognition didn’t work and the notification that was on the screen inched slightly upward before settling in the middle of the screen under the time.

At the left of the notification was a little black box. There were three ridges down the right-hand side of it and a small ribbon sticking out of the bottom left-hand corner. Like an old friend at a high school reunion, the face recognition must have come to the realization that it did actually know me, after all. The lock at the top of the screen popped open and the notification revealed itself.

There was only one line of text, three pieces of information separated by dashes. I recognized the first as my name, the second as my address, and the third as my phone number, as I also recognized the bark of the tires on the asphalt outside.