Harry shakes his head, sighing, as the man stalks back out of the bookstore. The door slams shut behind him. He checks his watch, and sees that he's been off the clock for the last twenty minutes, and should be long gone. He pulls his sweater on, bids adieu to Mrs. Ryan, and leaves, softly closing the door.
He inhales the fresh, chilly air, and closes his eyes. It smells like winter in the city. It smells like it'll be cold. His eyes open and he sees the neon lights on The Tavern. It's a derelict bar sitting on the corner of the block. He steps towards it, falters, and then continues.
He sits at the bar. "Just... an Amstel Light... please...." The bartender nods, and a few seconds later, there is a cold bottle of beer before him. He holds his nose over the mouth of the bottle, and inhales the crisp scent of his mother. "Ahh," he sighs, and sips deeply from the bottle.
His eyes light on a familiar-looking girl sitting alone in the corner. She scribbles furiously into a noteboook. He stares for a moment, understanding the need for solitude in a crowded place. "Bartender? Send the girl in the corner another of whatever she's having. Put it on my tab."
The girl seems startled when the bartender places another drink before her. Harry cannot hear their interaction but suddenly their eyes meet. He raises his drink to her, finishes it off, and leaves a five and a ten on the bar as he pads back out into the cold air. He wonders about goings-on downtown, and makes his way back to his apartment.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Earl
Harry browses through the books, brushing the dust off of a few particularly thickly coated volumes. His fingers linger on a tall leather-bound book with an unintelligible title. He squints through his glasses, trying to make out the words, and then finding it impossible, he pulls it from the shelves. His favorite thing about working at the bookstore is that he can, at any moment, sit down and read. He can open any book to any page and immerse himself within whatever story he finds there. Mrs. Ryan doesn’t mind. She is constantly hoping for the men her husband had promised her would come when they opened the bookstore. Every time the door opens she peers at the new customer, expecting each to be one of the men in their dark, expensive suits coming into her store to offer her thousands, perhaps even millions, for one of her rare editions. Every day, when it doesn’t happen, she consigns herself to wait another day, just one more.
Harry sinks into a squat, rocking his weight onto the balls of his feet. He opens the aged book and thumbs a dark stain that spreads across the title page, obscuring any title that might have been there. The stain is dark brown, almost black, and has nasty looking faded edges. Quickly, he removes his hand from the stain, feeling contaminated in some way.
He flips through a few pages, noting the thick paper was darker around the edges of the pages, as if the book had been dipped inadvertently in water. He notes also the handwriting. Dark ink has, over time, faded into a pale blue script. It seems to be a journal of some kind. Skimming a page halfway through the book, he picks out the words “war,” “blood,” “Death,” and then reads the last sentence on the page, which appears to be the end of one particular entry. “God has deserted us.”
He tucks the book under his arm and rises slowly, feeling the blood rush into his head and simultaneously, chills running down his spine. Unconsciously, he rubs his right temple with the fingertips of his right hand.
“Harold, dear,” calls Mrs. Ryan suddenly. “Harold? Could you come and give me a hand?”
“Of course. I’ll be right there,” he calls to her. As he makes his way from between the dusty shelves, he suddenly realizes the book is still tucked under his arm. Just to be rid of it, he settles it onto the corner table alongside with the small pile of books he will be taking home over the weekend.
As soon as the weight of the book leaves his fingers, he felt relief, and walks quickly away from it and towards the aid of Mrs. Ryan.
Throughout the day, an unusually large number of people visit the shop, and Mrs. Ryan keeps him quite busy. Perhaps the approaching holidays drive people to shop in less-frequented stores, or perhaps it is merely a fluke; either way, he is on his feet until the shop closed at five.
He gathers the short stack of books he’d set aside, dons his sweater, which he shed earlier, and bids Mrs. Ryan have a nice night. Then, in his slow, nearly invisible way, he threads through pedestrian traffic and back to the flats.
As he pauses while waiting for the traffic light to change, he shuffles through the books in his arms. He catches sight of the journal, and takes a deep breath. He halfway wants to turn around and take the book back to the store, but while he waits on the curb in his indecision, the light changes and foot traffic pushes him forward.
He finds himself walking next to a man who lives in his building.
His name is Earl, and Harry only knows a few things about him. He’s English, and he’s young, and Harry knows of the Englishman’s fascination with wartime literature. They’d had a scintillating conversation about books in the elevator once when it had stopped halfway between two floors and were trapped for nearly an hour. He catches Earl’s arm. “Hullo,” he says in his crisp accent, “what are you doing here? And what’s that you’re holding?”
Harry presents him with the book, saying hurriedly, “Well, I found this at the book store. It…ah, well, it made me think of you. I know you like wartime novels and such. This isn’t a novel, but, ah, it is about a war. Interested?”
Earl takes the book from him, flipping through the pages slowly. “Fascinating. I think it’s a war journal. Not as good as these, though.” He indicates the novel under his arm.
“Well, anyways, if you don’t want it…” Harry begins.
“No, no, I didn’t say that. It looks brilliant.” Earl’s nose is already buried in the book.
“That stain on the inside cover… what does that look like to you?” He wonders aloud, “It almost looks like coffee, doesn’t it?”
The Englishman flips to the inside cover and traces the stain. “No, you know, I think it’s…. I think it might be blood.” He peers at the dark stain.
Harry blinks and notices they’ve arrived at the apartment building. “Yes. Well. Be seeing you, I guess.”
“Thanks so much,” Earl calls after him as Harry quickly enters the building. Harry raises a hand in response, anxious to get into the elevator and away from dusty blood-covered war journals.
A young man wearing a flannel and wool coat is standing patiently in the elevator. “What floor?” he asks.
“Ah, four,” replies Harry distractedly. “Thanks.”
The elevator doors slide shut with a clang.
Harry sinks into a squat, rocking his weight onto the balls of his feet. He opens the aged book and thumbs a dark stain that spreads across the title page, obscuring any title that might have been there. The stain is dark brown, almost black, and has nasty looking faded edges. Quickly, he removes his hand from the stain, feeling contaminated in some way.
He flips through a few pages, noting the thick paper was darker around the edges of the pages, as if the book had been dipped inadvertently in water. He notes also the handwriting. Dark ink has, over time, faded into a pale blue script. It seems to be a journal of some kind. Skimming a page halfway through the book, he picks out the words “war,” “blood,” “Death,” and then reads the last sentence on the page, which appears to be the end of one particular entry. “God has deserted us.”
He tucks the book under his arm and rises slowly, feeling the blood rush into his head and simultaneously, chills running down his spine. Unconsciously, he rubs his right temple with the fingertips of his right hand.
“Harold, dear,” calls Mrs. Ryan suddenly. “Harold? Could you come and give me a hand?”
“Of course. I’ll be right there,” he calls to her. As he makes his way from between the dusty shelves, he suddenly realizes the book is still tucked under his arm. Just to be rid of it, he settles it onto the corner table alongside with the small pile of books he will be taking home over the weekend.
As soon as the weight of the book leaves his fingers, he felt relief, and walks quickly away from it and towards the aid of Mrs. Ryan.
Throughout the day, an unusually large number of people visit the shop, and Mrs. Ryan keeps him quite busy. Perhaps the approaching holidays drive people to shop in less-frequented stores, or perhaps it is merely a fluke; either way, he is on his feet until the shop closed at five.
He gathers the short stack of books he’d set aside, dons his sweater, which he shed earlier, and bids Mrs. Ryan have a nice night. Then, in his slow, nearly invisible way, he threads through pedestrian traffic and back to the flats.
As he pauses while waiting for the traffic light to change, he shuffles through the books in his arms. He catches sight of the journal, and takes a deep breath. He halfway wants to turn around and take the book back to the store, but while he waits on the curb in his indecision, the light changes and foot traffic pushes him forward.
He finds himself walking next to a man who lives in his building.
His name is Earl, and Harry only knows a few things about him. He’s English, and he’s young, and Harry knows of the Englishman’s fascination with wartime literature. They’d had a scintillating conversation about books in the elevator once when it had stopped halfway between two floors and were trapped for nearly an hour. He catches Earl’s arm. “Hullo,” he says in his crisp accent, “what are you doing here? And what’s that you’re holding?”
Harry presents him with the book, saying hurriedly, “Well, I found this at the book store. It…ah, well, it made me think of you. I know you like wartime novels and such. This isn’t a novel, but, ah, it is about a war. Interested?”
Earl takes the book from him, flipping through the pages slowly. “Fascinating. I think it’s a war journal. Not as good as these, though.” He indicates the novel under his arm.
“Well, anyways, if you don’t want it…” Harry begins.
“No, no, I didn’t say that. It looks brilliant.” Earl’s nose is already buried in the book.
“That stain on the inside cover… what does that look like to you?” He wonders aloud, “It almost looks like coffee, doesn’t it?”
The Englishman flips to the inside cover and traces the stain. “No, you know, I think it’s…. I think it might be blood.” He peers at the dark stain.
Harry blinks and notices they’ve arrived at the apartment building. “Yes. Well. Be seeing you, I guess.”
“Thanks so much,” Earl calls after him as Harry quickly enters the building. Harry raises a hand in response, anxious to get into the elevator and away from dusty blood-covered war journals.
A young man wearing a flannel and wool coat is standing patiently in the elevator. “What floor?” he asks.
“Ah, four,” replies Harry distractedly. “Thanks.”
The elevator doors slide shut with a clang.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Of Camus and Jimmy Choo
Harry G., Apartment 419
Harold E. Gershwin tucked his head into the beige poly blend sweater. Momentary darkness, a subtle smell of laundry detergent and something else... dust, perhaps, and then he can see a fuzzy outline of himself again in the bathroom mirror. He gazes for a moment into that dim figure, taking stock of the same slim frame he's seen there day in and day out since high school, when all he wished for was to be built like the other boys in his class: tall, broad, dark haired and deeply-dimpled. He sighs, a soft breath that whooshes against his thin lips, and shakes his head, unwilling to think of school. It was nearly thirteen years ago, he reminds himself. C'mon, now, Harry, there's no reason to think about something from way back in Midland.
He flicks the light off as he pads softly into the next room, picking his glasses up off of the dresser on the way. With them settled comfortably around his face once again, he can see more than just dim outlines. His whole apartment takes shape. A beige couch, a faded olive-colored rug, and a state of the art stereo system: these things are his pride and joy. They're the first things he ever bought for himself when he first moved to Thallow Flats. They're really the first things that he ever bought for himself, save for the train ticket out of the shallow hell he'd grown up in. With nothing more than a a change of clothes in the bag on his shoulder and his two favorite books: a first edition copy of The Count of Monte Christo and a well-thumbed paperback version of The Stranger, he'd set out to make a new life for himself.
A quick glance at the cheap watch on his wrist speeds up his pace. He doesn't want to be late to work, not because he'll be docked pay or even reprimanded at all, for it would be quite a leap to expect elderly Frances Ryan, the blue-haired store-owner, to even notice him. No, he's anxious to get to work because in this beige state he currently occupies it's the only place he feels he's truly welcome. He loves to lose himself within the rows of ancient books, which smell of leather and dust and a whole unbelieveable world so far from his own. The books are his first love, for back in Midland, they were the only friends he could find that didn't judge him or whisper behind his back.
He rides the elevator down to the ground floor with two little girls, a set of twins who speak a foreign language and giggle whenever they see him. He thinks that they might know something about him. They're always around every corner of the apartment building, on the roof, playing in the drop-ceilings of the hallways. He finds them sneaky, beady-eyed. They remind of the girls from his elementary school, who were always too ready to laugh at his naive attempts to ask them out for a milkshake and make fun of his thick glasses.
The book store is a mere block away, and he makes it there in no time. As the bell rings, and Mrs. Ryan's ancient eyes peer at him, hope flaring in their milky irises before fading, he takes a deep breath, the first one he's truly taken all day, and feels comfort.
Harold E. Gershwin tucked his head into the beige poly blend sweater. Momentary darkness, a subtle smell of laundry detergent and something else... dust, perhaps, and then he can see a fuzzy outline of himself again in the bathroom mirror. He gazes for a moment into that dim figure, taking stock of the same slim frame he's seen there day in and day out since high school, when all he wished for was to be built like the other boys in his class: tall, broad, dark haired and deeply-dimpled. He sighs, a soft breath that whooshes against his thin lips, and shakes his head, unwilling to think of school. It was nearly thirteen years ago, he reminds himself. C'mon, now, Harry, there's no reason to think about something from way back in Midland.
He flicks the light off as he pads softly into the next room, picking his glasses up off of the dresser on the way. With them settled comfortably around his face once again, he can see more than just dim outlines. His whole apartment takes shape. A beige couch, a faded olive-colored rug, and a state of the art stereo system: these things are his pride and joy. They're the first things he ever bought for himself when he first moved to Thallow Flats. They're really the first things that he ever bought for himself, save for the train ticket out of the shallow hell he'd grown up in. With nothing more than a a change of clothes in the bag on his shoulder and his two favorite books: a first edition copy of The Count of Monte Christo and a well-thumbed paperback version of The Stranger, he'd set out to make a new life for himself.
A quick glance at the cheap watch on his wrist speeds up his pace. He doesn't want to be late to work, not because he'll be docked pay or even reprimanded at all, for it would be quite a leap to expect elderly Frances Ryan, the blue-haired store-owner, to even notice him. No, he's anxious to get to work because in this beige state he currently occupies it's the only place he feels he's truly welcome. He loves to lose himself within the rows of ancient books, which smell of leather and dust and a whole unbelieveable world so far from his own. The books are his first love, for back in Midland, they were the only friends he could find that didn't judge him or whisper behind his back.
He rides the elevator down to the ground floor with two little girls, a set of twins who speak a foreign language and giggle whenever they see him. He thinks that they might know something about him. They're always around every corner of the apartment building, on the roof, playing in the drop-ceilings of the hallways. He finds them sneaky, beady-eyed. They remind of the girls from his elementary school, who were always too ready to laugh at his naive attempts to ask them out for a milkshake and make fun of his thick glasses.
The book store is a mere block away, and he makes it there in no time. As the bell rings, and Mrs. Ryan's ancient eyes peer at him, hope flaring in their milky irises before fading, he takes a deep breath, the first one he's truly taken all day, and feels comfort.
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