When I was in my early teens, I associated myself with a group of friends whom were, dull, shall I say? Not essentially stupid, but more easily impressed than others, as were most our age. Every day we’d go from spot to spot, outside of town. The small creek near the turnpike, and out behind a group of stores near the main road into our section. And more often than not, we would go into a small drugstore near the intersection. I recall grouping our money together one year to buy a small car magazine because of the beautiful, yet scantily clad woman on the front, that magazine would then turn to be something of a joke for us growing, up until around high school when we started growing apart.

One year though, we’d gotten word that a kid got in trouble for stealing a six pack of beer, the kid obviously wasn’t very bright. But, then again neither were we, so we decided to steal something as well. I was picked to do the nasty deed, I did not know what to steal or why I would do so, but they insisted.

We entered the store, all seven of us, only children then. And at the end of the escapade, only six children would leave the store.



We entered silently, not making eye contact with the cashier, whom was several years older than us. Because of the summer daylight coming in through the windows, some of the lights were turned off, giving a slight checkerboard appearance above us. We moved toward the end of the store, the others giving suggestions of what to steal, urging me to hurry.

I was happy with what I had, there was no use stealing anything, but I was under great amounts of pressure that day, pressure that could crush someone of my age.

I looked weakly around for something of interest to pocket, there was some taffy. No, the wrapper was to loud and would get me caught, how about a can of soda? No, not thirsty, then under a light that remained turned on, was a marble notebook. I inspected it closely, the black and white cover, the colors never mixing. The hard cover and tape bound spine. I held it in my hands quietly before slipping it into my shirt through the neck hole.

We moved with great purpose towards the entrance, still not making eye contact with the lanky cashier. The others gathered around me as though they were my “entourage” of sorts. We were close to the entrance now when, a deep voice rang out over our heads.

“Boys? Where you think you’re going with that?” Our heads sank into a depression, saddened that we were caught. A large figure came towards us, he was wearing a dress shirt with an orange tie, which seemed to clash with the white shirt but seemed appropriate somehow. The man was heavyset, bald and aging slightly. From behind him we saw the teen scanning a product, smiling and shaking his head, no doubt at us.

“Lemme’ see what you got there son.” He said kneeling down to my eye level, the others had ran out at this point, leaving me to my fate. He made no effort to stop them, knowing it was me he wanted.


I took out the notebook from my shirt, stretching the neck as I did so. He looked to the book, then back to me a good few times, then gave it back telling me to keep it. He gave me warnings, then told me in a stern voice.

“Keep it close to always remember-. -Always remember what you want to do with yourself, remember for those who cannot, and for those who will not. Use this notebook to fight the injustices and fight the ‘system’ as you see fit. Use it how you will, but always remember why you use it. Because someday, you won’t be paid to do it, less you be part of a dead profession.” I took the notebook from his hands that seemed to be two sizes too big for the man, I walked outside in a hurried fashion and met up with the others.



They looked to me bewildered, I held up the notebook above their heads, they looked up to it ,for now at least. Soon thought it was seen as a silly reminder of years past, of our history growing up. I would write in that notebook, as the man predicted, for many years before filling it with stories, poorly written mind you. Poems, which I grew tired of quickly, and thoughts and ideas, hopes and dreams. My own personal philosophy summed up in a hundred pages of tape bound paper.

Years would pass, seasons would change, but the notebook would always stay the same. Uncompromising in it’s own nature, simple yet defined, the words inside were naïve and ignorant, as it was that of a child’s. And yet, it had this beauty about it, one I would never truly understand until my health preceded my age. I would return to the writings inside of the marble notebook, to return to a more stable state of mind, to innocently allow my self consolation, that I was at one time, part of a profession.


Still alive, and wonderfully, hopelessly, Ignorant, in its eventual outcome.