Res Nullius

Brent almost didn’t see the notebook at first. It was obscured by an old romance novel, tucked away in a corner of the small book exchange at 7th and Pine.

He almost left with an old favorite, The Prince of Tides, but he couldn’t bring himself to make the swap. The book he brought, some hackneyed crime novel from an author whose name he’d already forgotten, was bad. Worse, it was dull, and it felt disrespectful to exchange it for something so grand.

Instead, he decided to roll the dice. He scanned the small shelves, finding little of interest: a science textbook, a couple of self-help books, a guitar tablature for Nirvana’s Nevermind. Brent thumbed through that one, and couldn’t help but notice In Bloom was incorrect. He sighed and put it back in its spot.

The notebook caught his eye because of how out of place it was. It looked…personal. Did someone forget it here? It was beautiful, a weighty black notebook with ornate gold lettering on the front. “Res Nullius” was etched into the cover. Peculiar, Brent thought.

He started to open it, but a knock on the door of the exchange (which was really just a repurposed phone booth) startled him. There was really only room for one at a time, and apparently he had overstayed his welcome. A young girl opened the door, poking her head in from the cold.

“Are you almost done mister? It’s freezing out here,” she said, blowing a misty breath to prove it.

“Yeah, sorry,” Brent replied. “Just looking through, almost done.”

“Go browse at the library, daaamn. It’s cold out here,” she repeated. “I’m coming in, you can stay or go for all I care.”

She entered the booth, cramming against Brent as he clutched the notebook to his chest.

“No, that’s alright, I’ll just be on my way,” he said, scooting past her. “Good luck.”

Brent was exhausted, he really just wanted to be home. Thursday night at the bar was always tough. It was dollar draft night, which always brought out the college crew. Usually he would be staying late, trying to make all the money he could, but tonight he was too tired to care.

He practically fell into his apartment with a mix of relief and exhaustion. He was only twenty-nine years old, too young to feel like this. He picked up his mail from the floor, student loans and a bill for his appendectomy from two years ago. He almost wished they would have just let him die, the fees would have been more manageable.

After a shower, he poured a glass of whiskey and settled into bed. He scrolled his daily feed, the outrage and ugliness of social media washing over him like a mudbath. He tossed the phone onto his bed in semi-disgust. It wasn’t good for his mental health, he decided. He went to reach for the light, but saw the black notebook, sitting on his bedside where he had tossed it earlier.

He opened it, began peeking through. It definitely wasn’t a book, or a story of any kind at least. He…wasn’t sure what it was, actually. It was hand-written, whatever it was, the penmanship elegant and clear. It looked well-used, but not old. He started reading from the beginning.

1/2/99

1st Rubber Ducky W, Indigo Heart P, Call of the Sea S

2nd Frederick’s Fire W, Cross My Heart P, Bubblegum S

3rd Cousin Sal W, Weary Pilgrim P, Denver On My Mind S

4th Mighty Pen W, Flash Man P, Into The Ether S

5th Watch It Buster W, Menthol Maniac P, Big Banjo S

6th Rope-A-Dope W, Switch Hitter P, Leather Chief S

7th Sunny Vista W, Three’s A Pair P, Sockhound S

8th Winter’s Wind W, Held In Escrow P, Lost Keys S

He looked blankly at the words. He understood, on a base level, what they were, the language they were in. He recognized the characters, the distinct words they formed, but he had no idea what he was looking at. He flipped through the pages, and saw more of the same. The dates moved in chronological order, but it seemed almost random at first. A couple of days in a row, then a few days off, and so on.

He flipped to the end, and saw it ended with tomorrow’s date. There was also an entry for today. It looked similar to all the other ones, basically nonsense, but the following line caught his eye:

7th Daddy Time W, Federal Felony P, Lucky Uncle Jack S

Something was teasing the edge of his memory. He thought back. Two guys at the bar, a couple of middle-aged jagoffs who’d had too much to drink before they’d even arrived. They had been toasting to that: Daddy Time. He remembered thinking how strange it was. Now it was in a book he had randomly brought home.

Brent put the notebook down and grabbed his phone. He brought up his browser search bar and typed “Daddy Time” into it. His browser returned a number of entries, which of course, turned out to be all pornographic. That was about right.

He typed the entire line in instead, and the results that came back shocked him (though decidedly less graphic). They were…local. The first result was a horse racing blog from his town, showing the results of today’s race. They matched what the notebook had. He clicked on the full results, and compared them against the notebook. They all matched perfectly.

Another half hour of research confirmed the previous dozen entries were also correct. Clearly some horse racing enthusiast had left his notebook at the exchange, and Brent had grabbed it. Whoever it was, they were likely very upset. Years of work had clearly gone into this.

Brent thought for a second, then flipped back to the end of the notebook. It had results for tomorrow written down. He checked the website again, and there it was. The notebook had results, or predictions he supposed, for tomorrow’s races.

This was strange. It was all written in ink, over a decade of correct results. And this person already had tomorrow filled out? It didn’t make any sense. He thumbed through the notebook for a while longer, but

he was stumped as to what it meant, or what to do. He was tired, he could ponder this mystery more tomorrow.

The next day he awoke, and his mind immediately went back to the notebook. He had the day off today, and had already decided how he was going to spent it. He hadn’t been to his local horse track in some time, but maybe it was time for a visit.

He really didn’t have any funds to be gambling, but come on he told himself, how could he not check this out? If nothing else, he deserved a beer and a day at the track. He half expected a camera crew to accost him at some point, the victim of some elaborate prank.

He walked with a confidence he did not feel to the betting station, and placed a two dollar bet on the first race: Signal and Sound to win. He settled just outside the doors as post time approached, too anxious to sit. The smell of light beer and desperation hung like a cloud around him, or maybe that was just the cigar smoke.

The gun went off, and the horses began their charge. He watched as Signal and Sound took an early lead, only to fall behind as the pack rounded the first corner. As they rounded the turn though, the leader started flagging and Signal and Sound took a late run.

Brent was on his feet as the horses neared the finish line, joining his own jubilation with the raucous cheering of the crowd. The horses passed by him in a blur, and then it was done. Signal and Sound was the winner, followed by Toy Drummer and Galaxy Brain Ben.

The notebook was right. He cashed out his winning ticket, thirteen dollars, and immediately bet it all on the second race. He bought himself another beer, and the notebook brought another win. And another, and another. There were only five races today, and after four he was up quite a bit…and a little tipsy to boot.

He made the decision then and there. He bet almost all he had, leaving himself enough for a Reuben and a rum and cola. By this point, he had no doubt he was going to win, but he was getting worried the track would bust him for cheating. He wasn’t quite sure if he was cheating, really. It wasn’t exactly fair, but it wasn’t as though he had done anything nefarious.

Of course, his horse (the adorably named Cheesesteak) won. He numbly collected his winning: exactly twenty thousand dollars. His hands shook as he accepted it, shoving it wildly into his pocket. He felt surreal and totally detached from himself.

He slipped through the facility as quickly as possible, keenly aware of the huge amount of cash he had on him. He kept thinking this was somehow not real, that this bubble would somehow pop at any second. But he safely made it back inside his apartment, slumping against the door in immense relief. He counted the money again. It was all there, all twenty thousand dollars.

He could completely pay off his surgery. He could give a little for his student loans. He was definitely getting a bottle of the best Scotch he could find around here. Knowing this town it still wouldn’t be a great one, but it would be good enough.

He laid in bed for a while, the cash splayed out next to him. That was something he had always wanted to do. He thumbed idly through the notebook, then turned to the end again. Today was the last day. Nothing else was written.

He put the notebook down, pursing his lips as he looked at the cover. “Res Nullius”. He thought about it for a second, mulling things over. It didn’t take long. Somehow, he felt like he knew what he was supposed to do.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A few nights later, a young couple entered the book exchange. It was their first date, and he was feeling a little nervous. He still wasn’t sure where he was even going to take her to dinner. After sorting through the books, he picked up a small black notebook that seemed rather out of place.

“What about this one?” He asked her, holding it up for her to see.

“What is it?” She asked him, mindlessly leafing through what appeared to be a series of frontier novels.

He opened it up, flipping through it slowly. “Looks like recipes,” he said.

“Can you cook?” She asked him.

“Actually, I can,” he said. His eye found a recipe for spaghetti Bolognese, one of his favorite dishes. He’d never actually made it before. “Do you like spaghetti?”

“Actually, I do,” she said. She smiled at him. He smiled back. He offered his arm, and she took it as they exited into the night. No need to find a place for dinner at least. He tucked the notebook under his arm. He had a good feeling about this.