Win-Win Reincarnation

The notebook was black, very slim, and compact enough to fit into the tiny zippered section of her shoulder bag; safely concealed but close at hand. Per the rules, she opens the notebook at random and reads “Butch Slutsky” on page 19. Nothing else is written. Nothing else is necessary. Age, gender, race, religion are unimportant. The girl reads the two words again. What type of individual would answer to such a moniker? She pictures a beefy arm gesticulating toward an empty horizon as a liquid twang expounds the merits of raw land in a western or southern state. An election campaign poster involving mirrored, aviator sunglasses also comes to mind. Surely “Butch” is a nickname? The girl thinks about parents in general, shakes her head, and sighs. As if the world wasn’t cruel enough.

But sometimes the world is kind, or at least capricious enough that continuing is worthwhile. The name on page 11 of the notebook, the sheer urbanity of “Rollo Adair”, had propelled her into an upscale casino. Four hours and $20,000 later, she was grateful to have broken from an existence that had become drudgery, despite providing rich fuel – three names in the time it usually took to find one – for the notebook. Now, regardless of how good it had been, page 11 was coming to an end.

There were several unwritten rules for using the notebook. In no particular order, the rules required: (1) Any name entered had to be that of a real person that she knew of, but had not personally met; (2) Selection of a name to be used must be random; (3) Once accepted, the name was crossed out so it could not be repeated; (4) The name and all it entailed had a shelf life of no less than six months and no more than two years.

The paramount rule of the notebook was the easiest to follow, but the hardest to describe. The girl simply knew a name was correct the moment she heard it. She then immediately transcribed it onto the next blank page of the current notebook. (That was another rule, a notebook had to be completed before another could be started.) She had been scrupulous in her observation of the rules, except for one time. “Bazael” (page 7 in the very first notebook) had lasted less than two months. The quasi-cult had proved to be overwhelming, if not life-threatening. After it was over, she’d made a rule that one-word names were not allowed in the notebook – ever. Even now, the girl wonders about loose ends and outstanding warrants.

She ponders extending the two-year rule. It is, after all, a private matter between herself and the notebook. But what was the point of the notebook and its rules if they are arbitrary? Her chameleon existence wasn’t esoteric performance art. For her, the knowledge, the feelings, the experiences – they all matter. Once, the girl had attempted to explain it to her parents. She’d called it win-win reincarnation; the life lessons without the mess of serial birth and death. At the time her parents had suggested a psychiatrist. Now they’d applaud the ways a London School of Economics-inspired brain could multiply a gaming windfall. Except, she hadn’t bothered to tell them.

For a moment the girl wonders what they would think of pronghorns, a Cajun restaurant, or the milky haze of stars in an unknown sky. She remembers the summer nights when her father would drive their little family home from getting ice cream. The sunset would fade into early darkness and as the lights came on in homes they passed she would imagine herself - mile after mile - inserted into the lives behind those windows.

Whatever the name has to teach, she’ll learn.

Abruptly, she crosses out “Butch Slutsky” on page 19, picks up her phone, and begins searching. New Hampshire or New Mexico doesn’t matter she decides, I’ll still need a hat.