Candace Rowe enjoys making others feel small. She enjoys making me feel small.
"Go wash the windows," it's a demand, not a request.
"Unload those crates from the truck," never with a please.
"I need you to set up for the reading tonight." Some progress, but after taking thirty steel chairs out from the closet, hooking up the sound system and receiving a generous splinter from the flimsy podium, I half expected a 'thank you'. Oh, and one more thing. "Head down to Smith and deliver these notes to Michelle for me." I peeked at the file on the walk over to South and Smith. That could have been sent in an email.
I almost stopped getting my hopes up around there.
"Bryn, how about you shelve some books today," was the first acknowledgement Candace gave when I burst through the double doors five minutes late. Too busy frantically tying the apron around my waist, I wasn't sure if I heard correctly. I tried to speak. "Well," she said, finally looking up from the stack of papers on the countertop. Candace pushed her small framed glasses from the bridge of her nose up into her graying hair. "Your face is red," she told me. I reached up to touch my heated cheeks.
"Oh. Must. have been. the ride o.ver." I had to put the pedal to the metal when I realized I overslept what was supposed to be a twenty-minute powernap. So, I blamed it on my high-speed bike race rather than the embarrassment I'd suffer from Candace's displeasure.
"I see. Well, there's no need for that apron today. Lisa called in sick."
"Is she o.kay?" Lisa isn't one to call into work.
"She sounded fine to me. Here, follow me."
I thought about pinching myself to make sure I wasn't stuck in that overextended powernap, but the square brick building, Literary City, seemed to remain stationed on its axis, overlooking the universe of Iowa City from the highest peak in Iowa.
Candace led me across the store, towards a locked door inhabiting a side hall in the back. I always knew the basement was where the books were stored but there was never a reason for me to go down there. Candace only lets her closest employees on the salesfloor have access. Pulling out a keyring from the pocket of her knit cardigan, Candace unlocked the door and jolted forward with a push. Splashes of her black coffee and the ghost of a "shit" still fill the doorway.
I mirrored my boss, gripping onto the splintered railing as each step creaked beneath us. She turned on the lights when we arrived at the bottom of the endless pit.
Books. So many books. Like a snapshot in my mind, I insert myself back into that image of that cold, deep basement. Tall metal shelving units cover the high walls, disrupting the darkness with a collage of colorful book jackets and literary classics. Along the Northern wall are second editions, each occupying their own glass casing, their bindings in complete disarray. Austin, Dickens, Hemingway, including modern names such as King and Patterson, fill the space between the shelves. For as many books as there are on display, there are twice as many within the cardboard boxes scattered along the floor.
Perhaps it was because Candace had her afternoon coffee or maybe it's because books have this mystical way of bringing people together, but the day continued to feel even more surreal as it progressed.
Candace let me in on her personal life for the very first time. She explained how her father used to own the bookshop and had a passion for collecting early editions. When I asked Candace how she felt about them she almost shrugged. "I can't say it means as much to me as it did to him," she said. "It's a business now. I can't afford to collect, so I sell. That's the mistake my father made. He was too poor to be collecting."
Once Candace finished her book tour, I unloaded the contents from the first box and got to shelving. I'll admit, by the time I shelved the thirteenth book the task wasn't quite as exciting as I thought it would be, but it was definitely a step in the right direction.
"Bryn," my name was whisper-shouted by Amelia. "You got promoted?" I walked around the bookcase to find disbelief and an instance of disappointment on her face.
"No. Li.sa called. in sick. I'm fill.ing in for her." Amelia nods her head slowly then looks down at her shuffling feet.
"You think she still has her job?" A tease of a smirk played on my lips.
"I think Can.dace is pretty merc.iful today. I came in. six. min.utes late and. she still let me she.lve. You know I.'ve never got to do th.is before?" I could tell Amelia was trying to smile for me. It didn't quite touch her buggy and brown doe eyes.
I couldn't entirely pin down what was wrong with Amelia. Considering we have a friendship that extends outside of work, I was surprised she reacted with such silence.
Then the bell rang, and I think we were both just relieved to have something break the tension and provide an excuse for our eyes to wander over to the front door.
Now, I wouldn't normally write this, but something about the way he strode into Literary City with so much confidence felt compellingly noteworthy. I watched as he wandered past the non-fiction, through the fantasy and right to the classics. So, he's been here before. And he's the type of man that knows exactly what he wants, I thought.
Amelia brushed down her apron and when I looked away again, through the corner of my eye, I caught her tucking a brown tendril behind the ear. "Woah, hot mystery man alert," she said, staring after the man whose footsteps professed inflated ego up and down every aisle of Candace's shop.
"I th.ink that's the ja.cket talk.ing. Really, lea.ther in Septem.ber? I mean, comm.on'"
"You know I can't resist a man in leather," she teased. "So, I'm calling dibs," she said before heading in his direction.
"Need any help over here?" I could hear her ask him from down the aisle. I remember a flicker of jealousy passing through me. It wasn't that Amelia got to have a conversation with the man, but that she didn't possess any shame, especially since she was wearing her café uniform with muffin crumbs and coffee stains running down the front.
"No thank you. I think I found what I needed actually," he said lowly. Mr. leather jacket then wandered up to the front register with nobody there to greet him. Amelia and I exchanged glances. For a split second I contemplated checking him out, a split moment after that I was ducking behind the shelves. Amelia began waving for me to help him. After waiting several moments, I lifted just enough to peer over the top of the unit. Mr. leather jacket was staring at me now. I know. I know. I'm the only one that can assist you right now, I thought.
I took a deep breath and made way to the 'mystery man'. Amelia was right. There's a lot of mystery going on here. I noticed his stance was tense, legs pressed together, shoulders stiff, hands clinging to his sides. Darkness emanated off him and passed through the distance between us, despite the light from the stained-glass window illuminating his presence.
The closer I got, the clearer became his sharp features that fell into all the right places; nose slightly arched, sunken dark eyes and a jaw a bit overly defined. By the time I was standing across from him on the other side of the register there was a faint smell of aftershave in the air.
I pretended like I knew what I was doing. "Did y.ou find every.thing o.kay?" My voice came out choppier than expected.
"Great. Thanks." I looked down to find Tolstoy's Anna Karenina on the countertop. An interesting choice for Mr. leather jacket, I assumed.
That's why I've always wanted to be in the front of house working with the books, anyways. I've always been fascinated by the what a reader's choice can reveal about their own character.
So, I chalked it up to the notion that it wasn't really the leather jacket after all, but his choice of literature which made him mystifying. I cleared my throat.
"Y.ou got good ta.ste. Tol.stoy is o.ne of my fav.orites." Just like every other girl's. He replied with a slight smile, enough to reveal pearly white teeth that radiated against his warm complexion.
"Something magical has happened to me: like a dream when one feels frightened and creepy, and suddenly wakes up to the knowledge that no such terrors exist. I have wakened up." It comes from under his breath.
"Pardon?" Refusing to look at him, I busied myself by putting the book in a bag.
"One of my favorite quotes from the book," he said, while sliding a ten and a five across the tabletop.
"Right. An.na," I nodded as I picked up the money.
"Keep the change."
"No recei.pt?"
"This one I definitely won't be returning." Only when I went to hand him the bag did I finally look up and realize he'd been trying to catch my gaze. I handed him the paper bag and looked away swiftly.
"Catcha' later, smalls," were the last words he spoke.
As I sit here writing this at midnight, I'm still trying to unravel the mystery of how Mr. leather jacket, in the most wickedly twisted way possible, managed to make me feel so big.