"What is this?"
"What does it look like, Bobby?"
"Please, Sas," he said with a tone of frustration. "How many times have I--"
"It's a composition notebook ... ROBERT ... is that better?" She slid it before him, leaned in closer, and reminded him, "And my name is Sally, if you're going to be an ass."
He didn't respond, knowing he'd been rude. He looked the worn notebook over closer and said, "Okay, SALLY ... why are you giving me a used composition notebook?"
He opened it and found it filled with her writing ... and FILLED was the correct word. She, like he, was the type of person who rarely wrote on the back side of a sheet of paper, and yet every page of the book was written on, front and back; and the margins contained lines that were written vertically, sometimes even rounding the corners or intruding between the previously written text on the normal, wide ruled lines.
"Bob- Robert," she corrected, disappointed that reaching 21 had changed him from the fun loving, buddy to his present, "grown up" self. "I ... I can't explain it ... and you wouldn't believe me if I did anyway..."
"What is up with you?"
She glanced around for eavesdroppers and, finding none, said, "Go home. Write something you can't imagine would happen. A fantasy ... or a news story you always wanted to see come true. Write it as if a piece of fiction. Just write it down ... then ... slide the notebook under your pillow and go to sleep. And the next day ... it'll happen"
Bob stared at her for a moment, expecting more. When it didn't come, he asked, "Did you start smoking pot again...? You know, just because the legalized recreational use this past election--"
"DO it!" she snapped. She chuckled, surprised at herself, checked for prying ears again, then leaned in close. "I'm serious, Bobby. What ever you write in that book will come true."
"Oh ... kay," he said, his tone dismissive and doubtful. "Done."
She stared at him for a moment, searching his face for signs that he understood and believed her. She wasn't sure; these days, with all that had happened to her -- happened around her -- she wasn't sure of much. She stood tall, smiled to him, turned to leave, then stopped suddenly and turned back. "Oh ... and by the way. You need to be very ... and I mean VERY specific in what you write. It ... the book ... it has a way of interpreting your words the way it wants to. Fair warning."
Again his response was, "Oh ... kay."
He was already in bed with the lights out when he remember Sally's comp' notebook. He signed, knowing it would be cold tramping through the apartment to his backpack in his birthday suit sleeping attire. Crazy as his childhood friend and now college school mate had seemed, Bob knew she would act even crazier tomorrow if he didn't show up with a few words scribbled in what ever spot of empty paper he could find inside the word-packed journal.
He leaped out of bed, scurried through the apartment to retrieve the book, then hurried back to his electric blanket, giving out a loud brrrrrr that scared the crap out of the cat. He snatched a pen from the night stand, opened the composition notebook ...
And found it totally empty ... absolutely devoid of any words ... no sign of the hand writing that he'd seen earlier and grown up with all through their grammar school years. His first thought was that she was messing with his head, that she'd switched the books when he wasn't looking. But ... the worn cover had the exact same wear and tear, the same scribbles and phone numbers and geometric doo dads drawn or scratched into the surface.
Besides, she hadn't been near his book or his pack since giving him the journal. It was most definitely the same book. He just ... he just couldn't explain the absence of text in it now.
It was late. He dismissed the trickery -- it had to be fun and games, somehow -- and put pen to paper, thinking for a moment. Of course, he thought, writing:
"I want to win the lottery."
Bob closed the book, then remembered Sally's comment about writing fiction. He opened the book again, drew a line through his text, and wrote:
"He looked at the ticket and realized that he had six of the seven numbers. He'd won. He'd won the lottery. He was rich. He would never have to work again, EVER."
Bob proofread his words, closed the book, slid it under his pillow, and went to sleep. |