In seventh grade someone stole his lucky bookmark.
The bookmark hadn’t brought him luck of any nature, but a librarian gave it to him, it had a frog stamped on it in pale blue ink, and he liked it.
He called it lucky, because he wanted people to think he was lucky, though his clothes and his complexion made kids his age think otherwise.
In high school, his science project met its demise in a car accident that wasn’t otherwise tragic.
His next science project was seeing how long one pudgy adolescent human could make sobbing noises after the liquid from their tear ducts dried up.
In adulthood he had hobbies, but he discarded them quickly, moving on to the next almost ruthlessly, bemoaning that jigsaw puzzles didn’t appreciate in value and that model rocketry attracted children with whom he didn’t wish to speak.
He ordered his groceries delivered, and ate in silence.
A knock at his door startled him into nearly choking. He answered the door red faced, and angry.
His delivery girl had disappeared, and his house was last on her route, before her car was abandoned nearby.
The police interrogated him, rudely, roughly, and he angered them by saying that the longer they wasted time on him, the less chance they had of finding her.
They searched his house, ransacked it, left it in disarray.
In one old trunk, lock broken, turned to its side, he found the book he was reading when his bookmark disappeared.
The girl was found, two days later, unharmed.
His relief butted up against the bitterness of I told you I was innocent.
Days later, a knock at the door. This time at least, his throat was empty.
The girl’s parents.
They wanted to thank all the neighbors who had spoken to the police, who had assisted.
Their gratitude was immense.
He assured them he had offered the police nothing of value.
The girl’s mother would not accept this as fact, though it was.
She insisted on a gift.
“I need nothing,” he said, rather curtly, though his home and his belongings would suggest otherwise.
The mother took his hand and repeated her offer.
He quietly asked her for a small rubber stamp in the shape of a frog, and a pad of pale blue ink.
***
I now want to sell Pale Blue Frog branded journals, bookmarks and other writing/reading ephemera on Etsy. Because I could use the luck 🍀 🐸
Shame on me for thinking it was him - and thank you for bringing gratitude and kindness this morning.