welcome to the cabbage castle

The bookstore had been open 3 years when the owner was convinced to put in a coffee bar.

The sleepy town frequented it's haunts enough to warrant beverages for stamina. Roaming the rows of shelving and nestling in deep velvet cushions being heavy work.

Originally it had been a cart with a carafe and a kettle, assortments of tea in an old cigar box and cream and sugar at your leisure. This lasted until one too many people stole the entire box.

What spurred the upgrade was of little consequence. But what was of consequence was the fine oak bar top and expensive espresso maker imported soon after. The skilled manager was equally valuable, and the bookstore developed a reputation for smooth coffee that couldn't be had elsewhere. In a town of scant 3,000 people it was a mecca for tourists and locals alike.

You leaned back in the armless chair that sidled the few mismatched tables out on the floor. Resume in hand, crisp white button up, slacks.

Overdressed? Certainly.

Mackenzie was in the store room, where he was presumably prepping something for open. In the meantime, you resisted the urge to fidget.

You'd come around last week after the grapevine had dropped the opening into your lap. You'd made a few connections, mostly through your new landlord, and he'd put in a good word.

You needed this job. Any job.

"Hey, thanks for hanging out," Mackenzie rounded the doorway with a box of glass bottles. They clinked as they met the counter and the broad man slung a chair out opposite you.

"Ok, soooo," squinting at your creased paper, " looks like you've got a lot of experience".

You nodded. He glanced over it again.

"Any reason you bounced around so much? Lotta different employers."

He gave you a look.

Damn.

"Well, truthfully, I've moved around quite a bit. But I'm really hoping to make a home here so I am definitely looking to stick around if y'all will hire me".

The conjunction stood out in your vernacular, and in the ear of the western mountain native. You were an amalgamation of every place you had laid your head.

"Yeah ok," Mackenzie chewed his words slow, "don't wanna hire somebody who's just going to take off, ya'know?"

"Right, totally."

"You want a quick test run?"

The question caught you off guard, but you nodded anyhow. He slapped the table and stood, rounding the bar top and gesturing for you to follow him.

"I am a customer, and I want a macchiato," he stated.

Your brain froze.

Orienting yourself, you mentally picked out pieces of equipment, fridges, supplies.

"Coming right up."

You fumbled around a bit, searching for the coffee grinder. He gracefully pointed it out. Facing the espresso maker, you struggled to get the basket out. It was newfangled, not like some others you were used to. Tamped down the grounds, struggled again to put the basket in, successfully pulled a pour.

Attempted to make a heart with the dollop of foam, and it came out looking more like testicles. Oh well.

You handed him the cup.

He was leaning against the countertop, out of your way. Took the handle and a sip.

His lips thinned, so did his eyes. A tiny whisp of foam draped his scruffy mustache. You held your breath and he cut the silence, "that's really good."

You exhaled.

"You've been doing this like, 4 years total so I guess that checks out, huh," he joked dryly. "I am going to talk to the boss, and we'll get you an answer in a day or two. I need an extra hand so we'll let you know either way".

"That's perfect, yeah, thank you. Now, the boss here is...?" You trail off, hoping he'll throw you a lifeline.

"Yeah, no, yeah, super cool dude, you'll like him" Mackenzie brightened, "Mr. Wick. John."

The name sat in your ribcage like a stone, though you weren't sure why.

"Can't wait to meet him," you flash a smile. "Any chance I can take a look around? This place is pretty neat".

Neat was underselling it. It was one of the oldest buildings in the modest downtown area, the high ceilings capped with crown molding and embossed tin of elaborate design. A thin spiral staircase in the corner led to a loft with another section of books and nooks to lose oneself in.

"Yeah, sure, knock yourself out."

You thanked him, gathered your things and set off deeper into the building, away from the inviting street facing windows into the dark stacks. It smelled like books, and cigarettes. The place had a charm about it, in an eclectic, indie way--all mismatched furniture and antiques.

The organization was chaotic, but shelves were loosely divided by genres scrawled on index cards and hung in placards along the aisles. Some of them were clearly used, though many were new-- their spines still smooth and shiny.

You intended to purchase at least one. Provided one called to you. That would surely boost your odds of getting hired, showing some patronage?

You pulled a uniquely colored backing and examined the jacket.

Behind you, the creak of floorboards.

Your head jerked to follow the sound.

In the corner, at the back wall, was a hand painted sign cut out in the shape of a pointing hand.

"More books this way" it announced. To its preferred direction was a descending staircase, the doorway empty and dark.

Hairs crept up on the back of your neck. You hastily reshelved your selection and hustled toward the main entrance, still feeling eyes on your back.

A few square, thick tables showcased the newest arrivals near the front. You hazarded to peruse these instead.

It was a new edition of a classic. Gilt pages and a beautifully designed hard cover housed a copy of "The Master and Margarita". You'd had the book, years ago, but had lost it in one of many moves. It would be nice to re-read it (or perhaps finish it? Who can remember these things). You took the display book.

"That everything?" Mackenzie had materialized behind you.

You jumped.

"Wh-" you smoothed your button up, "yes. That'll be everything".

The checkout desk was along the wall opposite the cafe. Simple class case, like one would see in a department store, though the shelves inside were empty. Mackenzie swung around to the other side and pressed a few giant, archaic keys on a brass register.

"Kidding," he said toothily. Procuring a white tablet, he rung you up.

"So what made you move all the way to Elkhart Colorado? Got a thing for high prices and shoveling snow?"

You shook your head and delivered a polite smile, "Not quite, just, looking for a fresh start. Figured it's the perfect place".

"That it is," he nodded sagely.

Your book was suddenly wrapped in delicate brown and maroon paper, sealed up with a sticker. It was the bookstore logo and name in gold filligree. You tilted it in the light: Elkhart Book Co.. A crown of antlers fitted with an open book in the center.

"Sorry the boss man isn't here," he broke your concentration, "he usually tries to be on site. Guess he had business. You'll meet him soon I'm sure. Everybody around here knows everybody".

You agreed non-commitally, thanked him again for his time, his help, and backed out of the building. The bell rustled on the door hinge as you did so.

You were living off of meager savings. First, last and deposit had eaten up the majority. This weighed on you as you drove home --crawling along the icy flows that lined the streets.

Your new apartment was stark. Just whatever you'd been able to pile into your car to move states. You didn't even have a proper bed yet, just a loose pile of blankets, your sleeping bag and mat. This was what you collapsed into, interview outfit wrinkling instantly.

You clung to a silent, buoyant hope that Mackenzie would crow your praises to the boss, this Mr. Wick, and you'd get that phone call soon. Very soon.

Curiosity welled up in your fingertips and you typed his name into the search bar.

*John Wick*

It yielded a lot of nothing. Not even a picture.

Troubled, you rolled over in your nest of nylon and insulation, allowing a nap to take hold.

Barely a day later your phone rang. You recognized the area code and instinctively picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hello," the voice on the other end was coarse, deep as pitch. It asked if you were you, and you affirmed.

"And who is this?" You hazarded.

"John Wick. I own the bookstore."

Fuck, this man's voice was sexy. You set down your spoon and pushed away a bowl of cereal you'd been waking up to.

"I looked over your resume. Mackenzie thinks you're a good fit."

"Oh yeah?" pride beamed in your voice. "I'm glad to hear that. I think I'll really enjoy working for y'all."

There was a pause on the phone, to the point you wondered if you should say something.

"I'd like you to come in this afternoon. Are you available?"

Shivers up your spine.

"Yes, of course".

"Good. 2 pm?"

You nodded, almost forgetting to verbally assent.

"See you then."

Your phone made a jingle when he ended the call.

Thrilled, intrigued, and nervous all at once, you wiped your clammy hands on your sweatpants. You had a few hours to kill before they expected you.

You became sieged by thoughts of what to wear, how to look.

It took strength to shake free of it.

No, no, no! Don't go down that road!

You'd made such a mistake before. No good would come of some naive infatuation with a coworker, an employer no less.

You took your half finished cereal to the sink.