My journal is slim and black

My journal is slim and black and has many blank white pages. I have used a black pen throughout. It starts on July 29th, 1989, with two entries describing my goals and plans for the following summer. It continues in fits and starts, trying on different voices, sometimes the ink scratching across an entire page, sometimes only one or two paragraphs of lower case print and crossed-out sentences.

One page, maybe a third of the way through, has nothing but the word "red" written over and over again, upside down, sideways, twelve times in all.

More starts and stops follow. More commentary to myself. There are several attempted love poems, the beginning of a fantastic love story, something about a dream-girl come to life, a half-remembered dream about the conflict between a lake that falls in love with a man and the woman who tries to break the spell with magic pennies.

I'm reading the pages closely, now, because I know that I'm reaching the end of this book. There is one complete short short story here, one entry prior to the last one. I don't know where it came from: the handwriting is mine, but much, much neater and more controlled than the other stories. I remember writing it, of course, but I have no idea where the idea came from. Perhaps I'd grown tired of the many failed love stories and poems.

Whatever the case, the tone of this story marks a drastic change in my journal. A week or so after writing this story, my journal ends abruptly with one last non-fiction entry, dated 19 Feb 1990. The story is very short. I've transcribed it, here, exactly as it was written:

You're sitting on a bus, right. It's hot in the summer -- night. White car lights stream past. You're clean. Real clean, okay. You've got your fresh pressed business suit on. It's probably a dark grey, maybe ultra thin pin stripes; so thin you can hardly tell that they're there, except that the salesman said they were. You've got your red silk power tie and your Italian leather shoes. There's a solid leather briefcase in your lap that your wife gave you two Christmases ago, wrapped in left-over funny papers. She did it so you wouldn't get too serious at work, just like the Flinstones lunch box from your last birthday. Oh, you're clean all right. From the gel-pressed hair, to the fresh clean shave (you shaved at work, too, to ensure the smooth chin) and the suit and tie and shoes. You smell of crisp aftershave, of summer afternoons spent in air-conditioning, not on the sweaty street.

You are riding the bus, Mr. Clean.

You do this because it saves both time and money. The family only really needs one car, and since a bus runs right past your office, and right down the street from your nice blue house, you decided to commute. Your wife takes the car to and from her job, down in the valley. You ride the bus. 6:37 AM it leaves the corner; 4:45 is usually when you take it back, from the Park and Ride just across the street from your high shiny metal glass office building.

Tonight you're late. Mr. Punctual, Mr. Clean, Mr. See-My-Nice-Clothes. A client called and asked for the files or the invoice or the whatever it was that you were supposed to have finished yesterday. Yesterday was your anniversary, how sweet, and took the day off you did, forgetting about the report, or the thesis, or whatever. So you worked late and the sun fell behind a row of glass buildings. You shut the blinds in your office so that you could see better. Bent over a long mahogany desk and finished your work with nothing more than a thin line of sweat forming on your forehead. Called the Missus earlier and said you'd miss dinner, so sorry.

And now, at this very moment, you're rocking slowly back and forth on a city bus, your eyes dripping down with fatigue.

The man who sits next to you, suddenly, is wild eyed and heavy. He has a loose white sweat tee-shirt hanging from his chest. His breathing is labored. You shift in your seat, uncomfortable, of course, moving closer to the window. The man wipes sweat from his hair forearms. His jeans are tattered and dirty. He sits next to you, staring straight ahead, chewing on a piece of gum between heavy breaths. His hands are folded neatly in his lap.

Do you believe in God, he asks.

Pardon, you say, turning to look at him. His chin is covered with fine black stubble; his adam's apple bobbing bobs up and down with each chew. His face still points to the front of the bus. He makes no movement, makes no response, and for a minute you think you mistook him. You look around the bus, putting one elbow on the seat behind you to see the back of the bus. There are two hispanic kids on one of the side seats, an elderly woman folding her newspaper, and four girls taking up the entire back seat.

The bus is empty.

The man next to you is now breathing softly. He runs a pudgy left hand through his hair, straightening it a bit.

You believe in God? he says again, quickly. This time he turns to face you. His jaw is solid and tight. Green eyes reckless in the night. You open your mouth to speak.

Neither do I, he says, sliding the long knife between your ribs. You clutch your shirt, hands like sieves, feeling the blood pour through. The metal of the knife touches your fingers. Wild eyed green eyed licks his sweaty lips, turns the blade so that you feel it scrape your ribs.

Ah, you say. Ah, shoot...

The man puts a roll in your mouth and pushes the knife deeper into your stomach. The blade cuts the insides of your fingers as you struggle to hold your insides inside. The man smiles. You begin to gag and your suitcase falls to the ground, popping open with the force.

As your eyes begin to close, and tiny, star-like things cloud your vision, you notice a thermos rolling down the floor. It has a picture of Fred Flintstone hitting chasing Barney Rubble. Fred carries a large club. Dino chases behind both of them, a caption saying "Yip yip." For some reason, you laugh, spitting up a thick red lump. The thermos rolls under your seat, and the darkness is complete summer night comes down around your ears.