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Strangers

On the train alone at midnight

By Kelly AndersonPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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Photo by Kelly Anderson

On the train alone at midnight, I found Johnny Brown’s notebook. It was underneath the seat across from mine, forgotten like a gum wrapper. I know you should never touch things on the subway, let alone on the grimy floor. But I felt compelled to at least see what it was.

It was probably carrying a few infectious diseases, but it was a nice journal. Black leather, smooth to touch, a little elastic band to keep it closed. Maybe I could use it if it was empty. I flipped the notebook open.

Oh, wow. The inside jacket was entirely covered in inky squiggles, doodles, and letters. In a printed box was the name ‘Johnny Brown’ written in neat, thin script. Below that was an address and phone number as if this Johnny Brown really expected a stranger to return a dirty notebook to him.

I flipped through the pages as the train jolted and sped on. Pages and pages filled with slanted, hurried words. This was a full-blown diary.

I miss her, I caught. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I couldn’t believe I had stumbled into a stranger’s inner private life—how painfully earnest it was. I held the journal with two hands in my gloves as I walked off the station platform, down the sidewalk, and upstairs back home, skimming through the pages in the dark.

I was always picking up random pieces of paper that tumbled down the street, hoping for something good—a love note perhaps, or a morbid poem. But usually, they were only wind-blown shopping lists or work memos I didn’t understand. Never anything this juicy.

Back in the apartment, lights off. Roommates must have gone to sleep. I slipped into my bedroom, Christmas lights glowing, and threw myself across the bed, shoes still on. I turned to page one.

It’s been two months, Johnny Brown, whoever he was, had written. But I still think of her every day. More like every hour. It’s pathetic. I tried to stop drinking and smoking to see if that would help, then switched back to drinking and smoking more. Maybe if I write it out it will go away. I didn’t say Merry Christmas to her and neither did she. No text on New Year’s Eve. So I guess that’s it.

I felt something welling in my throat. I almost wondered—could it be? But no, this guy was named Johnny Brown. And Erik and I broke up after Christmas, not before. But I remembered no message on my birthday, no message on Valentine’s Day, and realizing the same thing—it was over.

Johnny had drawn geometric shapes below the entry and a sketch of women’s lips. The single word fuck written in the lower right corner. I turned to the next page.

Aaron’s asking if I’m going to renew the lease in April and I just don’t know. I don’t really have a reason to be here anymore, I guess, but where else would I go? I need to figure out my life.

Get a new apartment

See friends more

Workout more

Write more

Go to Europe

I wondered how old Johnny was. He could be a college student, in his twenties, or who knows, maybe his thirties. Was he missing an ex-girlfriend, an ex-wife? Maybe they weren’t officially dating and the relationship simply faded away. Or perhaps they lived together and she packed her things through screams and tears. I flipped through the pages, trying to piece it together. There were more to-do lists, some just as ambitious, some more specific like, Drop off parking permit paperwork.

I went on a date tonight...He wrote. I guess you could call it that. She was really cute, but I’m not sure how I feel. I think if I let myself, I could get really obsessed and have high hopes. But I don’t want to be a fool again. I think I’ll just wait and see. If I see her again. We got sushi and walked around by the water. It was nice. But kind of reminded me of Emily.

I lay in bed with the journal beside me, reached behind my head, and yanked out the lights’ plug. In the dark I thought of Johnny, trying to imagine a young guy scribbling away in a coffee shop or at his desk, drinking a beer or glass of wine. I wondered if he was attractive. He must have been decent-looking to go on a date with a cute girl. I turned the light back on and flipped ahead to see if they went on another date. They did, but he was still unsure of how they both felt.

That’s when I noticed there was an envelope built into the back cover of the journal. I checked my alarm clock across the room. 1:17. Damn it. I had to wake up in five hours. It took all my restraint to close the book and try to settle into sleep, still wondering about this Johnny person until nearly two.

I brought the journal with me to work, planning to read it on my lunch break. I forgot about it for most of my shift, joking with coworkers, sighing as I re-made a picky customer’s latte. At eleven I escaped to the break room with a sandwich and black coffee, ready to read today’s story. I broke it open while I chewed, curled up in a chair with my knees up. Oh, right. The envelope.

I opened the envelope compartment and hesitated. I considered that it could be empty—or contain something personal, like an ID. Was this too far? I was already reading this man’s secret world. Was this wrong of me to look through? What the hell, I thought, pulling out slips of paper. He’s the one that left it on the train.

There were a few crisp, unfolded ten-dollar bills. Sweet, I thought. But then—was this real? I shifted the pieces of paper back and forth, reading over and over until I realized what it was. A checkbook, only a few checks left, but a few indeed, with the same inky, narrow handwriting adding and subtracting totals in the balance sheets. And it appeared Johnny Brown had $20,000 in his bank account, and I had complete access to it.

Holy shit. How could this have happened? Was he freaking out? Surely Johnny already called his bank to report a missing checkbook. Or maybe he hadn’t yet…

If I wrote myself a check and cashed it, that money would be mine. If he hasn’t realized he lost it yet, I may only have hours or minutes to make it. Quickly, I filled out a check, writing my name as the recipient, carefully drawing Johnny’s signature in a similar fashion as the faint mark on the previous paper. I dashed out of the coffee shop, telling my coworker I’d be back in a minute.

The bank was only a few blocks away. I walked forcefully on the pavement, side-stepping slow shoppers and slushy puddles. A tall man walked towards me on the sidewalk, and for a moment our eyes connected. He had a scruffy beard, maroon beanie hanging low over thick eyebrows and bright blue eyes. Johnny?

Of course not, but he looked similar to how I’d imagine him. He passed by, oblivious to the check in my pocket, the stolen journal weighing down my backpack. There was the bank, the windows wide and room lit in harsh fluorescents. I sighed. Poor heartbroken, adrift Johnny was about to lose all his money. Could I really do that to him?

Anyone would do it. Someone much worse than me could have found the book and traded in the money in a heartbeat. I could donate some of the cash and put the rest towards another good cause: my student loans. I tried to imagine all the extra money I’d have each month without them. But my hands jittered, not from the cold, and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to speak a word at the bank.

I took out my phone and flipped to the inside jacket of the journal. Maybe if Johnny was a nasty, awful person, I’d feel justified in doing it. If he sounded like a nice person, I’d return the checkbook to him.

Carefully I dialed the number he had written on the inside cover. The call began, a solid ring. I thought I might throw up as I waited, the second ring. And then—someone answered. “Hello?”

It wasn’t what I’d expected. Low and soft, but an oddly optimistic voice to be answering an unknown number. “Hello?” he asked again.

“Oh, hi,” I squeaked. Then I hung up.

Shit, shit, shit. I couldn’t do it. Like a timid fool, I opened my messenger app and typed out a pathetic explanation. Hi, I wrote. Is this Johnny? I found your journal on the subway.

I sent it. I stared at the screen, waiting. Then I saw three little dots emerge, telling me that he was typing. It stopped. Then he was calling me.

Before I could panic I picked up the phone. “Hi?”

“Hey, it’s Johnny,” the voice said. “You found my journal?”

I tried to clear my throat and paced in a circle. “Hi, yeah. I have it.”

“Oh, awesome. Oh man, thank you so much. You, um. Could we meet up so I can grab it from you?”

“Sure, I guess,” I said. “I’m working today, though.”

“How about tonight?”

I hadn’t expected that; I was still planning to read the rest of his journal. “I have plans, actually.”

“Oh. Tomorrow? I can text you my address. Or I can come to you.”

“I don’t mind coming to you. Yeah, tomorrow is fine,” I said. Now I was actually going to meet this guy. And he still hadn’t said anything about the checkbook.

“Nice, thank you so, so much. You didn’t read any of it, did you?”

“Oh, no. No.”

“Good, good,” He laughed. “Can you please not? It’s so embarrassing.”

“You’re fine,” I said. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

We said goodbye, and I waited, staring at the bank and the distant figures moving inside while I waited for my heart to calm. He didn’t know about the money, and for now, he trusted me. I’d hold on to the check and decide what to do tomorrow.

That night, I lay across my bed on my stomach, a bowl of ice cream to my right and the notebook laid flat-open. I read through pages and pages of Johnny’s thoughts. He went on a few more dates with the new girl Cara but ultimately wasn’t over his ex. It tortured him. He made pros and cons lists, worrying relentlessly over the idea that he’ll always push people away as long as he misses Emily.

I just can’t stop thinking about it because it’s the only thing that makes it real. But I can’t even bear to think of the happy memories without breaking down. What’s the point of happy memories if they hurt? At the end of our lives, what’s even the point of our memories? What’s the point of meeting and caring about people? Sorry, that was depressing.

As the pages went on, he wrote a little less about it. He wrote a short passage about his last night with Cara. They stopped walking in the middle of a bridge and he told her that he didn’t think he was “feeling it.” She cried, and they hadn’t spoken since. He wrote little poems or song lyrics and drew pictures of buildings and trees. The last entry he wrote was dated the night before I found the notebook. I feel ready for a change, he said. But I’m not sure what.

Me too, I thought. And in the morning I drank my coffee, bundled up, and headed into the bright cold for Johnny’s apartment. If he was a jerk, I reasoned, I’d cash in the money. But he probably wouldn’t be. If he seemed rich, I thought, I’d take the check.

I found the address on a narrow brick building-lined street, fire escapes and dirty stoops. A mix of all people milling about on the curb, cigarette butts, and baby carriages. I looked up. Number 203. This was it. I pressed the button, and the door buzzed, unlocked. I walked into the lobby and I heard footsteps creaking down the stairs, rounding the corner. It was Johnny.

breakups
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About the Creator

Kelly Anderson

Kelly is a writer living in Cambridge, MA. She also loves making paper collages, going on extremely long walks, and is the co-host of the Another Bite of Twilight podcast.

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