Tommie Lyn

A Note in a Bottle

Friendship can be found through the most unlikely avenues.

 

Sam came running when he heard the can opener. He rubbed against Warren's legs, looking up expectantly. Warren dumped the can of tuna-flavored cat food into Sam's dish and set it on the floor by the water bowl.

 

"There you go," he said, stroking Sam gently. He was glad to have someone to talk to. If Sam had not been there, Warren would have talked to himself. Which didn't bother him.

 

Sometimes, a person just has to vocalize, he told himself, whether or not somebody’s there to hear it.

 

He picked up the fast food bag and Coke he'd set on the counter a few minutes earlier. He meandered into the sparsely furnished living room and sat down on the threadbare recliner. He set the bag on the scarred end table and picked up the remote. It was time for the local news.

 

He ate his burger and fries while he watched.

 

Nothing interesting. Just the same stories as yesterday, he thought. Robberies, murders, and rapes, with only the details, like names and locations, different.

 

After he finished eating, he wadded up the fast food wrappers and threw them away. He washed the grease off his hands and picked up the small stack of mail he'd brought in from the mailbox. He stood by the trash can so he could throw away the circulars and other mail addressed to "Occupant."

 

A tingle ran down his spine.

 

It was small, white and nondescript. Except for the return address. London, UK. He tried to quell his rising excitement that made his hands tremble as he looked it over, front and back. He didn't know anyone in the UK. And this was definitely a personal letter, the address written by hand. Surely it was in answer to the note in one of his bottles.

 

"Just think of the possibilities, Sam," he said. "What if it's from someone who'd like an American pen pal?"

 

Yes, having a pen pal would be great. Even if it was someone so far away. A friend. Or, maybe, more than a friend.

 

The bottles hadn't been his idea. The fellows at work had teased him into doing it. Leroy told them about a newspaper story he'd read about a couple who'd met because one of them put a note in a bottle, threw it into the ocean and the other found it.

 

“How wonderful!” Warren said before he realized his mistake.

 

"Nah, nobody's gonna take the trouble to write. Ten dollars to a donut hole it wouldn't even be found," said Chester. "I don't believe that story. Gotta be made up."

 

Warren said, quietly, "I believe it."

 

There were four empty plastic Coke bottles sitting on the lunch table.

 

"Hey, looky here. We got us some bottles. Warren, why don't you throw ‘em in the bay and we'll see if you're right?" Lenny chimed in.

 

So they goaded him into putting a note with his name and address into each of the empty bottles. When they returned to work on the dock, he threw them into the water. Warren made a silent wish as each bottle left his hand, wishing that it might bring him a special someone, just like the couple in the news story.

 

Finally, he couldn't wait any longer, savoring the possibilities of who had gotten one of his bottles. If, that is, this was in answer to one of his notes. But it had to be, he argued with himself. He carefully peeled the flap open and took out the single sheet of paper.

 

It said: "I found your bottle on Bigbury-on-Sea Beach while on holiday, taking a walk, trying to enjoy the beauties of nature. I don’t know why you thought you must throw a bottle in the ocean, but I can tell you that what you actually did was litter my beach and spoil my walk. Why do you Americans think you can just go, willy nilly, making messes someone else will have to clean up?" It was signed, "Neville Higginbotham."

 

"What?" He stared at the paper. Then he put it down. He'd had such high hopes...

 

"Oh, well," he said, and went to the living room to watch television, as he did every evening.

 

The next morning, he took the letter with him when he went to work. He wanted to show the fellows that he'd been right, that someone did get one of the bottles. But he decided not to let them know how disappointed he was at the response he received. That afternoon after work, he went with the fellows for their daily beer at a nearby tavern. While they were having their first beer, he pulled the letter out of his jacket pocket.

 

"I got an answer to the note in one of the bottles," he said, holding up the envelope.

 

Leroy, who was sitting beside him, grabbed it and pulled the letter out of the envelope. He read it out loud. The fellows all whooped and laughed. Leroy read it again, louder, in a prissy voice.

 

"But I was right," Warren said. "Somebody found it."

 

"Excuse me," a woman said. "I couldn't help overhearing."

 

They all looked around at the mousy, middle-aged woman who'd spoken.

 

"My name is Mabel Jones and I'm a freelance writer, and, well, I was wondering if I could ask a few questions? From what I heard, I think this might make a good human interest story."

 

They shuffled around to make room for her, and Chester grabbed a chair from a nearby table.

 

She took a seat and pulled a small tablet and pen from her purse. "Ok, would you tell me the whole story, all that happened?"

 

Leroy cleared his throat. "Ok. It's like this. I read in the paper about some people meeting because one of them threw a bottle with a note in it into the ocean. Warren here," he gestured toward Warren with his thumb, "made up notes and put ‘em in bottles and threw ‘em in the water. And he got a letter from somebody that found one of ‘em--" He was interrupted by laughter, which he joined.

 

She turned her attention to Warren. "Would you mind telling me more about it?"

 

"I wouldn't mind," Warren said.

 

"Yeah, he wouldn't mind at all," Chester said, winking at Leroy. The fellows all laughed.

 

*    *    * 

 

Mabel looked around the table, and, judging that a private interview would be more productive, asked Warren, "Would you mind joining me at my table? This won't take long."

 

Warren blushed, grinned sheepishly and rose from his chair, accompanying Mabel to her nearby table.

 

When she'd asked all the questions she could think of, she thought she'd better bring the interview to a close. But she hated to do that. She had enjoyed talking to this big, gentle man and hated for this time to end. All that was waiting for her in her third floor apartment was Felix, her cat. And loneliness.

 

*    *    *

 

Warren took a deep breath and mustered the courage to ask, "You had any supper yet?"

 

"No, not yet," Mabel replied.

 

"How about a bite to eat at the diner down the street?"

 

"That'd be nice," she said, glad that she wouldn't have to go home, alone again, just now.

 

Warren grinned. He didn't know if this could be considered a date, but, here he was, going to eat supper with someone else, not alone. Maybe the note in the bottle had brought him someone after all.