Memorandum Book

When the old man stole me I remember thinking: At least I have my memorandum book. It was in the hanging pouch on the left side of my wheelchair, with some pens and raisins. In the right pouch was my new copy of David Copperfield. My old copy got ripped apart by shitheads.

My memorandum book is two hundred unruled pages. I filled up most of them before I was stolen, so I’m fitting things in where I can, writing everything down that I can.

The old man . . . The first time he talked was along the road with the roses. He bent over and his beard brushed the top of my head. I reached up to shoo the fly but felt his dry beard.

He could be talking about himself, his own life. Or remembering something. Sometimes I mix up things that happened to me and things that happened to David Copperfield. It’ll be hard, writing my autobiography.

I’m not sure he’s talking to me but I’m writing the words down. I’m a slow writer but he speaks slowly.

I’m the old man’s biographer, too.

I’m scared to death.

He’s coming back.