Summoning Dragons

Life as a cashier stretched long before him. His break was over. Lunch wasn't for another hour. He'd left his phone in the back, and none of the books on the counter were ones he wanted to read. He thought of doing something strange—dancing, or making a weird announcement on the intercom—but didn't have the energy.

Mark drifted by, looking as detached and bored as Jeremy felt. "Did you get those DVDs tagged?" he muttered to his coffee.

Jeremy pointed to the pile of stickered DVDs on the counter.

"Good. Call all the special orders?"

"Mm-hmm."

"All right. Um, clean up, get things neat..." Mark glanced at the counter, found some clutter to point at: a roll of tape, a few unsorted returns. "Call if you need any help."

"Thanks," Jeremy said, and knew Mark wouldn't notice the sarcasm.

Nodding vaguely, Mark started toward the cafe to scold the baristas for talking.

What would it be like to just walk out—drive home, never come back? He could stand for a while under the summer sun, feel warmth for once instead of the curdled air conditioning of the bookstore. He actually considered it for a while.

But he couldn't quite do it. If he did leave, he'd be fired within the hour. Then what? Hard enough getting this job—there wasn't a lot Jeremy was qualified to do with half a college degree and a drug offense on his record. If he left, he'd end up working at Wal-Mart, and he had enough trouble paying the bills as it was.

So he stayed, counting minutes, and waited for people to buy books.

A young woman entered after a while, face stormy. She looked like the sort of person Jeremy would like to talk to: black bob, chain jewelry, chunky boots. He opened his mouth to ask if she needed help—anything for a conversation. Just then another customer appeared to distract him, though, and the woman kept walking. He didn't see her again for several minutes.

When she returned from the back, she held a book—a thin, flat hardcover, dark-red velvet—under one arm. It was one of the ones from the bargain bin—a blank book, or one of the schmaltzy poetry collections no one ever bought. She carried it oddly, though, half-hidden, and after far too long Jeremy realized she meant to steal it.

The woman saw him watching, clearly realized he knew what she was doing. Now she'd turn around, put the book back, because it definitely wasn't worth anyone's time to call the police over stupid shit like this.

But she kept going, still watching him, as if she couldn't stop. As if she had to take this book.

Jeremy shifted so that he could see her path clear to the door. It only counted as shoplifting if she actually took the book outside. If she did, then he'd have to call the police.

She was almost to the gates now. It didn't look like she was going to stop.

He opened his mouth to call her back. He didn't want her to get arrested, not over something like this.

But then... he didn't call, didn't follow, didn't watch her take the book outside. Instead, walked to the other end of the counter, turned his back on the door, and began clearing up. What did it matter if someone stole something—stole anything? The store was about to go out of business. Soon everything would end up remaindered, and it wouldn't really matter what anyone took. The woman was just getting an early start.

When he turned back, she was gone.

The store was almost empty. There probably wouldn't be more than twenty more sales tonight. Maybe Mark would bite the bullet and close early. It would be nice to go home a little early, though Jeremy couldn't really afford the hours.