The Black Notebook

The Black Notebook

By N. Harold Donley

“ NO! WAIT! THAT’S MY CAR!”

Running out of the corner cafe into the cold rain, I watched my little red station wagon disappear around the corner on the tow truck. I stood there for a moment, in the middle of the street, cars skirting around me.

It was gone.

Great. Perfect.

What a ton of crap the last 24 hours had been.

Stepping back onto the sidewalk, I reflected on all that had happened, as the rain pelted me.

Yesterday morning, while I was in the shower, the water suddenly shut off. Toweling off the soap still clinging to me, I ran out to my front yard to see the city pickup hurriedly drive away (they don’t hang around to discuss your cut off, if they can help it).

I was fortunate, though, a neighbor saw my plight and let me come over to her house to finish my shower.

Returning home that evening, from a day of limited success at fund raising for our little theatre company, I notice…the house was dark.

On my door was a notice from the electric company, a service cut-off for non-payment. I pulled the notice off the door, leaving an adhesive residue I’d have to clean off later. I walked into my dark living room, still in my coat and scarf, and sat on an ottoman.

Then, I just began to cry.

It seemed so right, so …well, noble…when I did it. For the second month in a row, I did not pay myself so our actors and director could receive their monthly payment. We were just a little off the mark, so I was convinced I could make it up and pay myself. But, a recession was on and all these well-endowed endowments and corporate giving programs were just “…tightening their belts” as one of their minions had told me.

So, I just sat there and cried, in the dark of my living room.

The next morning, I drove my little wagon to the corner cafe and a kind waitress friend poured me a cup. I was sitting at one of the “common tables," where anybody could sit next to anyone else when a guy I know burst through the door, “Hey, isn’t that your car?”

***

So, here was the rest of the story…you try to do good, you try to do the right thing and life could give a damn. It’s true, what they say, “No good deed goes unrewarded.”

My waitress friend refilled my coffee, and leaned over to touch my hand, “Sorry, Hon. This one’s on me.”

I managed a smile, and a glance into her kind eyes, “Thank you. You are too kind.”

As she walked away I noticed it.

A little black notebook, the size of diary or appointment book.

It was sitting in the middle of the table, between my place and the man at the end of the table.

“That yours?” I asked the man. He was dressed almost entirely in black, wearing a black wool overcoat, the kind gentlemen wear, with a loosened scarf, as he sipped his coffee.

“Yes.”was all he said softly. Sipping some more coffee, he continued, “Quite the morning for you, my young friend.”

“You can say that again,” I sighed.

“I guess you’ll have to get your car out of impound now,” he continued, “never a pleasant process.”

“True.”

“Oh, you’ve done it before?”

I smiled, almost smirking, “Unfortunately, it is not, as they say, ‘My first rodeo.'”

“Sorry.”

“Oh,” I found myself wanting to talk, “it would not be so bad if my water and electricity had not been cut off yesterday. It never rains but it pours.”

He reached over and picked up the notebook, opening it and taking out a pen from the spine, “Not to pry, but, are you homeless, friend?”

I laughed a snorting laugh, “No, friend. I’m not homeless…I’m in the Arts!”

He smiled. It was a confident smile, as if he understood the irony. “Not much support for the arts in this recession, huh?”

“No, sir,” I commented, “they tell us…’You’re not a priority.’”

“Yet, people need you…don’t they…in these times?”

“Sure, our theatre, which I manage, actually performs right here in this cafe, among other places here in town. Our shows are standing room only. People love us. But, these good folks are not the ones who write the big checks. Most of them are struggling to get by themselves.”

“Why do it then?”, he had started writing in the notebook.

“You a reporter?”

“No, just a poor memory, I like to write things down.” He look up over his wire rim glasses,”Do you mind?”

“No, that’s fine.”

“Why then?” He asked again.

“Oh, yeah, well…” I took another sip, “…for them.” I gestured toward the room full of people having breakfast and coffee. “We believe theatre, and the arts, are meant for everyone, not just the elites. And, we believe actors, directors and other artists are professionals who should be paid. Not some token meal in exchange for a performance, that’s servitude not professionalism, but real folding money that they can pay the rent with.”

“But,” he said, cupping his coffee, “Doesn’t that extend to management?”

“Theoretically,” I lowered my eyes, “most of our actors have done plenty of projects where management got paid, and often paid well, while they were expected to work for free…for ‘exposure.'”

“ ‘Exposure,'" the man in black repeated.

“I’ll tell you, buddy, ‘exposure’ doesn’t pay the rent…or the utilities…or even the towing fees," I said, “so, we all get paid the same, management and artists. And, in times like these, when things get tight…”

“Sometimes you go without?”

I looked up to see him staring right into me.

“Yes, sir, sometimes, like now, I’m one of the corners we cut…after what most of them have been through, it seems only fair. We are all only one paycheck away from…whatever.”

The man in black closed his notebook, returning the pen to the spine.

“Thank you, young man. I have enjoyed our talk.” He offered me his hand, “I hope things get better. You, and your actors, are doing good.”

With that, he stood up, tightened his scarf around his neck and left the corner cafe.

Later that day, a dear friend, who had heard about my situation, loaned me enough to pay my electric bill while I figured out how I would get my car back before it was auctioned off. When I walked home that night, at least I came home to the lights on, although I had no idea how I would repay my friend.

The next morning, as I was entering the corner cafe, my waitress friend motioned me over.

“He left that for you.” She motioned to an empty booth, then quickly added, “The Man in Black, you told me about.”

In the center of the table was the little black notebook.

As I sat down, staring at the notebook, my friend brought me coffee. I continued to stare through my first cup.

As she refilled my cup, I reached out and unsnapped the clasp.

Opening it, I found two envelopes. Surprisingly, my name was on both envelopes. As I lifted the flap on one of the envelopes, I noticed there was something written on the first page of the notebook.

I began to read.

***

Thank you again for our conversation, my young friend.

As I said, you and your associates are doing good. There is an old saying, “…as you have done onto one of the least…”.

You should not be the corner that is cut, anymore than your actors should be.

Enclosed in this notebook you will find two envelopes. Within those envelopes are individual checks, made out to you (I found your name in a newspaper article), in the amount of $10,000. One check is dated today, the other check dated for January 1.

In total, there is $20,000.

When I was a young man in the 50s there was a television show called “The Millionaire," where a mysterious millionaire gave $1 Million to unsuspecting beneficiaries. Well, I’m no millionaire, but when I came into an unexpected inheritance a few years back I determined to do something similar. I thought I might focus my philanthropy on individuals, people who need, and deserve, a break.

Then I discovered a little known IRS regulation, that allows anyone to give anyone else up to $10,000 a year, tax free to the recipient. That is why you have two checks. I have $20,000 to give, so I split your gift into two payments in two different tax years. So, just to be clear, you do not owe any federal taxes on these gifts…they are yours…totally.

Now, from our discussions, I know you will be tempted to donate all or a portion of this to your theatre. While it is yours to do with as you wish, I would counsel against it. This gift is for you. It is yours because YOU ARE THE INSTRUMENT, the means, by which your fellows receive their compensation.

So be good to yourself. Keep the money.

You deserve it.

The Man in Black.

P.S. Perhaps, someday, you can pay this modest investment forward to someone else.

***

I just sat there for the longest time…to be honest, I’m not sure how long, staring at those checks.

Never in my life had I seen my name on a check for this much money.

It was a singular act of generosity. It was not some token, not some scrap thrown … it was strategic…intended to provide unrestricted support at a critical juncture…to me.

Looking around the cafe I found myself seeing things differently.

There was my friend, the waitress, whose simple act of buying my coffee was the precise compassionate act I needed yesterday. There in the corner booth was my neighbor who had taken me into her house to allow me to finish showering. And, finally, I thought of my dear friend who stepped up to loan me the money to pay my electric bill, even though her budget was as tight as mine.

I was surrounded by philanthropists.

Surprisingly, they would never see themselves as such. Everyday people who show the simple kindness, compassion and, yes, empathy that rings true.

These people and the Man in Black had found me worthy of their philanthropy, which was, in fact, their justice.

In that moment I decided.

Yes, I would honor the Man in Black’s gift. I would use it to stabilize my life so I could be more effective in making sure my artists were supported, and, along the way, I would give back to each of these generous individuals who had “saved me” over the last 24 hours.

I placed the checks back in their respective envelopes, returning them to the little black notebook and closing it.

I lay it in front of my coffee cup and simply cupped my hands over it…

“Thank You.”, I whispered.

***

Forty years have passed since that morning at the corner cafe.

I sit in my office, with a view from my window of cardinals flitting around a boxwood tree just outside. My desk is strewn with proposals for any one of the many arts organizations I serve, each employing their own array of actors, visual artists, musicians, writers, and others. My life has been a testimony to finding funding for artists so they, in turn, could serve the public through their works.

It has been a good life, a satisfying life of service.

My eyes glance over to the corner of my desk at something that is always there, always reminding me to be grateful. It’s a little tattered now, corners bent and cracked, but, it has traveled with me from office to office over the decades.

A little black notebook.