On the drives home I didn’t only experience revelations about the workings of life. I also jotted down stories and messages on the notepad I kept inside my carry case.
In fact, the notepad included something like an early will and testament on the page that followed the lists of “Quid Pro Quos” and “Money” (this last one written in a code that substituted vowels for numbers).
My will was called “The Future.” In it I divided my worldly goods among the people I knew. It was full of blots because, as my feelings for those individuals waxed or waned, I switched around what they would inherit. The modifications were made every day and basically depended on who I’d shared the past few hours with.
If I’d spent the afternoon with D, when night came, I bequeathed him my Kermit the Frog brooch and 150 pesos.
If, on the other hand, I’d spent the previous hours with S, I added to his list—which already included pliers, brand-name Kramp—50 pesos, and the same brooch that, meanwhile, I erased from D’s list, as well as subtracting 50 pesos.
I had lists for my mother, the photographer, and a few others.
My feelings were fickle and shifting. But I didn’t care about that; what I really cared about was the work that went into rewriting, erasing, and rewriting my will each night. So, in an effort to save myself some toil, I asked D when the future would arrive.
“Tomorrow morning,” he responded.
And, since he looked so sure, I made the most of the situation and asked what the future was, exactly.
“Tomorrow morning,” he responded once more.