The Little Black Book

What do you do with a little black book that has $20,000? Rachel looked down at the book in her hand, her eyes darted around the street. A pink envelope sat neatly inside the creamy pages of the book, filled with crisp, new bills.

She looked furtively around for the books’ owner but saw nobody.

There was a café across the street, a couple sat by the window. Had they seen her pick it up? Rachel got the sense of being guilty of a crime she had not committed.

Rachel couldn’t help but imagine how the book could change her life. And so, with one last turn, she stuffed it into her jacket and practically ran home where, perched on the kitchen table, she began looking at the book itself.

The book contained no clues – no name on the cover, no writing in its pages.

Who did it belong to? A kindhearted philanthropist? A drug deal gone wrong? A retiree cashing out their savings account?

Why was it on the street? Did someone leave it here or was it an accident?

As much as she wanted to believe that someone had left the book in the street for someone like her, she couldn’t help but think that if that was the case, they would have left a note.

Rachel lived in a one-bedroom low-rent apartment building with her parents. $20,000 would mean they could buy an actual dining room table or could pay off Rachel’s college debt. Her parents were getting older and they didn’t have a savings account for a potential medical emergency. They could put the money down on a car. The sudden and dizzying array of things that Rachel could do came crashing down on her.

And why shouldn’t she keep it? If someone had lost $20,000 and hadn’t immediately come rushing back for it – then didn’t that mean that they didn’t need the money as much as her? Why should she – who had struggled to make money all her life – give up this fantastic opportunity and give the money back to someone who might use it for something frivolous.

She put the book on her bed. A problem she would have to think about later, after work.

Even though she had vowed to think about it later, she caught herself daydreaming at the restaurant. This time not of dining tables or savings accounts – but of more extravagant things. She imagined taking her mom to the Bahamas, chilling in a hammock and gorging on conch and lobster. Of buying a flat screen TV. Going to the expensive restaurant down the street and not worrying about ordering the cheapest thing on the menu. She could travel to Vegas and double her money. The money became an imagined thing, a thing she didn’t have to be responsible with because it had come to her, after all, by chance.

On her way home that evening she caught herself passing Tiffany’s – a set of gleaming diamond teardrop earrings twinkled at her from the window.

She got home, excited, wanting to make sure that the book was, after all, still there. She rushed up the stairs and burst through the door. When she got inside her mother was waiting for her. Her hands were held over her face.

“Where did you get this?”

In her hand was the pink envelope, the money was on the table.

After she explained her story and after it became clear to her that Rachel was not in fact turning to a life of drug dealing as she had feared (“You would not be very good at it” as she said) she let out a long sigh of relief.

“Mom, we can finally pay off my loans or start a savings account! We could take a trip!”

She stopped when she recognized the smile on her mom’s face – it was her resigned smile. She put her hand on Rachel’s face.

“We cannot keep it”

The next day, Rachel went back to the street corner where she had found the book and tacked up a flier. It had a picture of the notebook and her phone number. “Is this yours?” asked the flier.

About a week later she got a call. She agreed to meet the woman in front of the café for the exchange.

As she waited outside for the owner, notebook in hand, she was aware that this would be her last chance to run with the money. But somehow she couldn’t move.

A woman turned the corner. They both looked at each other questioningly, Rachel held up the notebook and tilted her head. As the woman came closer, Rachel looked her up and down. She was dressed in an oversized black sweatshirt, a Louise Vuitton handbag, and tight white jeans.

When Rachel gave her the book she said, warmly and effusively “Thank you so, so much.”

She offered to buy her a coffee, but Rachel declined.

“Well again, thank you so much” she said again, feeling awkward now. She hesitated, reached into the envelope, and gave Rachel an $100 bill.

“Here” she said, “a finder’s fee.”

Rachel watched her walk off and let out a ragged sigh, pressing her fingers to her forehead for a moment. She supposed she should have been happy that she got at least $100 out of this. But, even though she had never really gained anything, somehow she felt that she had lost.