The Book Box

The frustration took hold of me, tensing up my whole body, so to shake it off I had to get outside. I grabbed my hat and my house key, checked my beard in the hall mirror, noticed my bloodshot eyes, took off down the front walk, and promptly forgot if I had locked the door or not. So, I trotted back up the walk and up the porch steps to check. I had. This was another point of proof that I needed to clear my head.

I turned left on my street heading for the beauty that lives just two blocks over. I hung a right at the first intersection, then a left at the next one. Then, I stopped to breathe and take in the view: the whispering trees, or that’s what I call them, shading the street like a glorious green canopy for a mile ahead.

Trees grow toward sunlight, so over the years the trees on either side of this road have extended their branches and leaves toward the center of the road where the sunlight is strongest. This has created a green roof for drivers and walkers, like me. I like to think of it as a secret garden, though it’s unfortunately not my secret to keep. I believe the trees hold secrets, and the leaves lean in to whisper them to each other.

Maybe that’s the story I should write, I thought. No. How many words could I type about trees?

I put the thought in my pocket and kept walking toward my second favorite place: Tiny Park. That is the actual name, and it’s just as quaint as it sounds. One vast tree blankets the park with its leaves’ shadow, creating a perfect reading nook on the one black bench. A small fenced section of grass is designated For Dogs. And right in the center of the park, next to the drinking fountain, is my favorite thing of all. The Book Box.

It’s a wooden box on a wooden stand whose red paint is chipping. With yellow paint, in cursive lettering, someone had painted The Book Box: Give a Book, Take a Book. A tiny library in a tiny park. A reader’s dream, a writer’s escape.

That day I didn’t think to take a book with me when I left the house, so I didn’t intend to take home a book from the box, maybe just sit on the bench and read a few pages then put it back. As I turned into the park, I saw that I would have to wait my turn. A woman with a chestnut colored braid was standing at The Book Box, browsing the choices, her long, pastel pink dress and a loose strand of hair both dancing in the wind. She was beautiful.

I caught myself staring, so I needed to make a move. I looked at the bench, then at the drinking fountain next to her, then chickened out and walked over to the bench. I could have just gotten a sip of water like any normal person would do, but I might have choked or dribbled some down the front of my shirt. I couldn’t risk it. I sat and stared in her direction but not directly at her. I tried to look like I was deep in thought. Well I was deep in thought.

Who is she? Which type of book will she pick? Could we read it together, maybe start a book club for two? I bet she has a great laugh.

I’ve always been shy around women. I think I’m fairly good looking, but as soon as I open my mouth to introduce myself or pay a compliment, the words jumble into nonsense, and I apologize and walk away. This has happened an embarrassing amount of times. I feel much more comfortable in front of my keyboard or pen and paper.

Then, it hit me. My love story never seems work out in real life, but on paper, it can journey wherever I want it to. I can be as confident and charming as I want to be. That is the story I needed to write. And even if it’s not exactly what my agent wanted, I needed to do it for me.

As much as I wanted to meet the woman at Tiny Park, I decided I had to get home immediately. If Fate would do its job, we would meet again.

I got home and started feverishly typing. My hands began to sweat. I had to take mini breaks to stretch my fingers and pop my knuckles.

***

The story started with a man seeing a woman at a Book Box. He wasn’t brave enough to speak to her that day, but he got the idea to leave her a note in the box for the next time she would return.

“For the woman in the pink dress with chestnut hair…” his note began.

He hoped no other bookworms would match that description, that they would leave the note for its intended receiver. He would watch from the edges of the park to see if he could spot her finding the note for the first time. He would be funny and kind in his writing and plead for her to write him back. They would not have to meet, but simply exchange notes through the box. This would escalate into exchanging books then commentary on those books, all via writing. They would eventually share their favorite things and their fears, feeling vulnerable yet trusting each other.

One day they would accidentally reach the park at the same time. They would stare at each other for far too long, the Book Box creating a barrier between them. Finally, the woman would get brave enough to ask, “Is it you?” He would pull a final note from his pocket and hand it to her. She would cry without reading it, and they would lock hands across the top of the box the way the trees lock leaves across the canopy over the street.

***

When I finished writing the story, I felt a tear trickle down my cheek and settle into my beard. As satisfying as it is to escape into a story, I knew my life wasn’t like that story at all. But I wanted it to be.

The next morning, I had trouble discerning reality from fantasy. I decided to be courageous. I took a pen and paper and started to draft an introductory note, attempting to be as clever and friendly as possible. I checked the clock and waited. A bit before the same hour I went to park yesterday, I left the house with the note in my pocket. I walked faster that time, not paying as much attention to the trees. I was hoping she would come back to the park, but not until after I had left.

I arrived at an empty park and bee lined for The Book Box. I opened the wooden door and flipped through the choices. I found one that I had read before and enjoyed and crossed my fingers it would be something she would like too. I tucked the note in the middle of the book so that it was sticking up and obvious. I leaned the book inside the box just so.

Then, I hovered at the edge of the park, out of sight, and waited.

After nearly an hour of waiting, I had to face reality and head home. I would have to let Fate take over. What am I thinking anyway, escaping from the safety of my keyboard where anything is possible?

I waited two more days before going back to the park. I didn’t want to find nothing in the box, or maybe worse, my note, untouched.

When I finally went back to the park, a dog inside the fenced area barked at me, and the dog owner took to shushing him. I stood in front of the box and took a deep breath. I told myself it didn’t matter what happened, that I still had my writing and one day I would find love. I opened the door and saw that the book I had chosen was still in there. My heart sank a little, but when I picked up the book, I saw a piece of paper taped to another book in the box. I snatched it off and unfolded it.

“Dear Fellow Bookworm,

I am the woman with the chestnut hair and the pink dress, and I got your note…”

She continued to introduce herself and respond to the comments in my note. I fist pumped the air and hollered. The dog and its owner both looked at me, and I waved the note in the air and grinned at them. They turned and left the park.

I grabbed the book she had chosen, tucked her note inside, shut the door, and turned around. There, under the vast Tiny Park tree, was the woman. Same hair, different dress dancing in the wind. She waved. I held my breath.

She walked up to me and reached out her hand. “Hi,” she said and shook my hand. “I thought we could meet in real life. I’ve seen you here before, and I was hoping it was you. The note—” she trailed off, and her eyes watered.

“H-Hi,” I stammered. “I’m—This—” I looked down, not sure what to say, and saw that we were still holding hands. I looked up, her eyes met mine, and we both smiled.