Little black book

Garage sales seem to be exclusively american, I guess the english version is a car boot sale but I think I prefer garage sales, its a more personal way of shopping through someone else's rubbish, toot, heirlooms might be a bit much. In England you would be mortified to open up the side of your house and wait for passing strangers to come wandering in and finger through your old belongings which regardless of the years they've  gathered dust you still have an affection for. 
No, much better to get to a school car park at 5am on a chilly sunday morning and stand with fifty other people trying to make a few quid to buy more rubbish, toot and heirlooms to most likely sell at another one again in 10 years time. But here in the U S of A the natural pride of Americans really comes out when you pull up, step onto the strangers lawn, walk up to the little table like I am now and.
“Hi, what you spotted? I got some great stuff here.”  says the overweight, sweaty man sitting in his lawn chair like it's a throne, hawaiian shirt and lime green cargo shorts adding a burst of colour to the hot dusty day. 
“Hi, oh yes I can see” I reply politely whilst really thinking what a load of old crap. 
“A brit?” he says in surprise. I’m used to it. They don’t get many brits down here.
“Yes, what gave it away..” I smile and he laughs.
“You mean apart from the accent?" I nod. "Well unlike the rest,” he puts a hand to the side of his mouth as if to hide the response that he says without lowering his voice, “unlike the rest of these punters you look really uncomfortable coming onto a strangers property.” A wry smile and put on English accent when he said punters makes me chuckle a little, I anxiously glance around at the one other person milling about on the lawn but they seem not to have noticed the man's mild insult. 
Please misunderstand me, I love the American way, the confidence, the friendliness and god given talent of all Americans to tell their life story like a John Wayne movie is what brought me over here. But like many, my American dream has not yet materialized and so I left the city and took myself to where it was hot, sticky and mosquitos could drain a small dog to try and get a change of scenery and new experience, new inspiration. 
“So what brought you out this way mate?” There’s that english accent from the man again on the word mate.
“Just passing through if i’m honest.” I carry on looking at the different items on the table, an assortment of buttons on a sewing kit, some DVD’s none of which I recognise the title of, a stack of well used looking playboys from the 1980’s eww, an old pen knife and stack of Tom Clancy novels with a little black book in the middle which has no title on the spine, I’m guessing probably an old diary or notebook.
“You look tired mate.” He says.
“Thanks.” I chuckle.
“Now, now I don’t mean nothing by it, I can just pick these things up.” can you? “And you’re giving me a I just hopped in my car and got the hell out of there vibe; about 3 weeks ago I might add.. Am I right?” Okay Mr. Hawaiian shirt guy maybe you got something here.
“I look that bad do I.” I try to keep my face from smiling but he catches it the slight rise at the corners of my lips.
“Nah but you're young, you're in a banger of a car and obviously not your average tourist cause, well cause you're out here.” He looks around the dusty road and lets out a bit of sigh. “I always thought I wanted to get out from where I grew up, which is here by the way. I drove my car from here to Canada and back just trying to figure out what I was looking for and let me tell you I never found it, in the end I had to write it down and that is what I made it happen.” 
Here we go the classic, I came back to my hometown, wrote a list of dreams, pulled up my bootstraps and made myself the man I am today yadayadayada. I take a quick glance at his property and realise that actually he might be quite something.
 He’s got the nicest house on the block, originally a 3 bed two story structure like the others on the road but he's extended to the side to give him at least an extra 2 bedrooms, 2 nice cars, a classic sixty-nine camaro and new G-Wagon and then his wife walks out damn the day just got hotter. 
The man is waffling on but I’m not hearing a word, I'm too entranced by the blonde bombshell walking across the lawn in a red dress and apron that wouldn’t look out of place on 1950s pinup girl poster, her hair is perfectly fashioned in victory rolls, her blue eyes sparkle like sapphires and her figure the perfect hourglass. She reaches us and puts a hand on the overweight sweaty man who takes the glass of lemonade, no doubt homemade and her kiss on the cheek with a big grin; I snap back to the conversation at his chuckle and she turns and leaves.
“You see what I mean.” 
“Sorry I err… it must be the heat.” I feel my cheeks go red. 
“That’s not it but sure thing mate.” He chuckles again and then looks down at my hand which has landed on the corner of the little black book. “Ah, that book has served me well.” He looked back at his wife. "Very well I think you need it more than me."
I look down and see my fingers have slid the book from underneath the pile it's in, its worn with creases down its thin spine, the edges of the cover are slightly turned up.
“I’ll take a dollar for it.”
“What?” I say, perplexed, still trying to work out how this book ended up in my hands and why I would want it.
“Do you have a dollar?” The man is serious, the smile not matching the intense look in his eyes.
“Yes.”
“Then give it to me, quickly! Before I change my mind.” He doesn’t shout but there is an urgency in his voice that hasn’t been there for the rest of the conversation, I fumble in my pocket with my free hand and pull out a dollar, probably one of my last ones which he practically snatches from me. “Done!” He says triumphantly.
“Okay so what have I just bought?” 
“Somewhere to write down your dreams."
“So a diary.” 
“No, not a journal as such more of a vision book. Not far off a damn genie in a bottle.”
“It’s empty.” I say bemused flicking through it.
“Is it.” he shrugs. “Have a good day.” The man gives a closed lip smile, pulls himself up from his chair and walks over to a couple of kids looking at old action figures laid out on a blanket on the grass before I can question him further. I return to my beat up old car, its my flatmates and I climb in thanking myself for leaving the windows open before driving down the road.

The afternoon is one of those never ending ones where it feels like the sun is never going to go down, the heat waves rise from the street and I can feel my clothes sticking to me, having the window down is doing nothing so I decide to stop and go into a park. I grab a coke from a stall and find a bench with the little black book in my hand. 
Across from me is a gardener, middle aged and balding mowing the lawn, pulling a pen from my pocket I open the little black book and jot the first thing down that comes to my mind. Which happens to be that old diet coke advert where the girls roll a can of coke down the hill, the gardener then opens the coke being sprayed by the liquid inside that has fizzed up and then removes his shirt to show the girls a six pack to which of course they all stop giggling and start biting their bottom lift; I write the premise of the advert and think sex does sell when I gance at my most recent purchase.
I lift my head up and the gardener who seems much more attractive than at first glance is popping open the top of a diet coke and I already know whats going to happen. It sprays with much more force than you would have thought possible  soaking his shirt through. I laugh and it feels strange, almost involuntary, he smirks in that sexy way only attractive people can pull off and looks right at me lifting his shirt above his head to show the washboard abs of a model ouch I’ve actually bit my lip what the f…
So that was a strange coincidence and impossible, I try to shake it off but I’ll admit it's thrown me, wouldn’t it you? I go back to the diary in front of me and continue to let my mind wander. And who wanders in but Sheryl, this bitch never gave me my book deal. She told me she loved the idea, the characters and looked forward to putting an english voice out into the american public because and I quote “like the accent dear we just go mad for anything from across the pond.” Then after I spent 6 months writing and all my savings on a hellhole of a flat and go to her with my book she just lights another one of her skinny cigarettes, reads a chapter and says “sorry dear it’s just not got that punch we’re looking for.” 
GOD I WISH I’D JUST BEEN GIVEN THAT BOOK DEAL, I write in big angry letters. My phone buzzes in my pocket making me jump, I take out my phone and its Sheryl no way. 
“Hi, who is this?” I say answering it in an abrupt tone hoping she knows I’m being very passive aggressive.
“It's me dear.” I hear her suck on a cigarette and remain silent. “Sheryl, you know your publisher, editor and confidant.”
“Oh” I say this with no emotion in my voice whatsoever. “How can I help?”
“No no no dear this time it's me helping you, like always.” This cow doesn’t even realise she’s the reason I’ve driven halfway across the country.  “Get yourself some champagne in because I spoke to the partners at the publishers and you got the deal.”
“What!” I nearly drop the phone.
“The deal. You got the deal, remember that marvellous book you wrote, we want it and we want you. $20,000 is already being wired to you and from the quality of your signal you’ll need to drive back to the city where you can spend it properly.”
“Uh yeah sure I’ll see you soon.” I’m in shock. I sound like she’s just told me a relative died, not been given the golden ticket. 
“Woooow,” sarcasm dripping from Sheryl’s lips, “I hope you’ve cheered up by the time you get here, ciao.” And she disconnects the call.
This cannot be happening, I mean its physically impossible that this has just happened. I look back down at the book and I’ve been doodling, apparently, whilst on the phone although I don’t remember moving my hands; I’ve drawn some sort of sports car maybe a porsche.
I get up quickly, the news settling in and a grin breaks out across my face from ear to ear, I look at the book and wonder if my luck changing has anything to do with it. No just coincidence, I've got to get back to the city. I run from the park dumping my coke in the bin and get back to the road and my car is gone, the reason to cheer turns to fear and a stone drops into my stomach; the car was my flatmates they’re going to kill me. I look up the row of parked cars and see a silver Porsche that must have pulled up whilst I was in the park. It's then that the car keys suddenly feel heavy in my pocket. I pull them out of my jeans and there it is a porsche logo embedded in the key. I laugh out loud and press the open button. The porsche flashes and makes that sexy sounding clunk of an expensive car ready for you to enter it. 
The fine leather feels good on my skin and the air-con is up so high my hair is blowing like I’m in a convertible, it purrs as I turn her key and roars as I tear down the street. The little black book is on the passenger seat, I pick it up when waiting at a red and write. Show me that money. And as if by, wait not just as if, by magic the glove compartment clicks open and glides down and resting in there wrapped in bands that say $5000 is four stacks of cash. I lift one of them out and smell it because that's what they do in the movies, it smells like nothing but it felt like I was invincible. 
I take a left when the light goes green and realise I’m at the end of the road with the garage sale on it so I put my foot down as I want to show Mr. Hawaiian shirt my new found fortune which I’m pretty sure he is to thank for. 
As I get close to the house I smell smoke and can hear shouting but can’t workout what is being said. His house comes into view and I can see the extension is ablaze, thick black smoke blowing across the road, I drive a little closer. 
Once almost parallel with the property I can see his stunning wife throwing bags into the back of the G-Wagon, the windows smashed and tyres slashed on the camaro, Mr. Hawaiin shirt is on his knees crying, pleading and she flips him the finger, gets in the G-wagon reversing so fast I think she’s going to hit me but she stops just in time and screeches off down the road. Mr Haiwaiin shirt comes running out into the middle of the road after her standing right in front of me calling out.
“Wait please! COME BACK!” 
He hasn’t seen me yet, I’m sweating even in the car aircon that has made it practically a fridge on wheels, he turns and looks me dead in the eye recognising me instantly even in the new car. He points his finger at me and I feel like a thief in a line up; they did it, they did it! That’s the one that stole everything. I glance at the little black book that lays on the dashboard and he looks at it too. Mr. Hawaiian shirt begins to run at my car shouting.
"Give it back!"
            I slam into reverse and then quickly spin the wheel to turn me 180 degrees in the road, this isn’t as smooth as the films and I go up the curb and onto the lawn. I slam down the accelerator again and speed off the lawn leaving mud skids behind me and all I can see is Mr. Hawaiian shirt running after my car one hand raised as if he’s going to be able to grab hold of the Porsches spoiler. But of course he can’t keep up with that gut and well I am in a sports car and soon he is nothing but a blip in the rearview mirror. 
I look at the book again and it feels as though everything around it is wavy like the heat waves that were coming off the hot street in front of me. My heart is racing so fast and hard I can hear it but the only thing I can think and I say out loud to the universe is.
"That's the best dollar I've ever spent.”