Duke Deatherage Writes

Whatever, I tell myself, it’s a slow day and I’m leaving the tome where it is, though I do brush off as much of the dust as I possibly can before re-shelving it. I finish up with this final aisle, full of the self-help books and niche non-fiction pieces we carry, swiping my duster back and forth across each title and shelf. Residual particles float to the ground behind me in a trail that I’m careful to not breathe in deeply. I exit the aisle as a brass bell jingles. Turning to the sound, I see a familiar yet begrudging face walk in through the front doorway of the bookstore.

“How can I help you today, Edison?” I ask while holding back the sarcastic tone I’d rather use instead of this overbearingly polite customer service voice, anticipating his usual request.

“Got anything new?” he asks with his grating, nasal voice.

He takes in a quick breath through his nose and almost immediately breathes it out through his closed, thin lips. He scratches his salt-and-paprika hair and pulls down at his solid black tee shirt as he waits for my response.

“You know we have books outside of the occult topics, Edison, right?” I ask, hoping to edge in a pitch of one of our newer acquisitions.

Perhaps he would enjoy a dark fantasy novel. Edison harrumphs in response.

“Do you have anything new?” he repeats, tapping his foot and crossing his arms in annoyance.

I mirror his movements, but he doesn’t seem to notice my reflective position.

“I think I saw something back there that you haven’t read,” I say, gesturing over my shoulder and down the aisle that I just dusted.

Edison scurries past me and I make my way to the front of the store and I finally allow myself to roll my eyes at the creepy bastard. I’ve talked to my boss about banning him, but since he’s not doing anything illegal Jacques would rather not do anything about him. As I walk to the register, Edison erupts in a fit of rapid sneezing. I let myself smile as I settle down on the canvas seat of the barstool behind the wooden counter. As soon as my butt makes contact with the fabric, the sneezing subsides. Edison approaches the register and thumps that dusty tome onto the counter with such force that I’m concerned about needing to dust the surface once again before I leave.

“Is this all for you, today, sir?” I ask in my cheerful customer service tone.

I grab the scanner and start turning the book around for a barcode. There isn’t one. My eyes almost bulge out of their sockets, and the fake smile I plastered onto my face as soon as the bell chimed probably makes me look like some deranged weirdo- like this customer.

“Yes,” Edison snivels, pulling out his wallet. “And I’ll be paying cash.”

I roll my eyes as I manually search for the tome in our digital catalog. I still can’t decipher its title, and I definitely don’t have a keyboard with the symbols on the cover. I select a few filters and find an entry that matches the shape of the title and physical description. I click and drag the photo to the register log, then return to the checkout window and look back at Edison.

“Your total today will be,” I say before my mind wanders off.

After a few seconds my brain turns back on and Edison is gone from the store, as is the tome. Where the purple volume sat is now a pile of shiny golden coins. There are a dozen of them, each the size of my thumbnail.

“Sure, okay, why not?” I ask the air in front of me, throwing my hands out to my sides.

“What was that, Zakary?” asks Jacques in his ridiculous French accent.

I quickly turn my gaze towards the short man, and as always my eyes are immediately drawn to the slightly balding vertex of otherwise thick, brown hair. Jacques looks up at me with his bright blue eyes for a response.

“Oh, nothing, sir,” I reply. “Just, um, well--”

I gesture to the pile of coins that Edison has presumably left on the counter. The coins sparkle under the store’s lighting.

“Interesting find, Zakary,” my boss remarks.

I have to admit that his dedication to the accent is infallible. He moves me to the side so he can inspect the coins, each one seeming to have a different engraving. His eyes glaze over when he takes a closer look.

“Put them in the register drawer for now. I will handle them later.” My boss stands up and squeezes around me, watching and observing me with a closeness that I’m unfamiliar with when it comes to Jacques.

I do as he asks, and his eyes return to their usual vivid blue shade. He gingerly shakes his head and holds out a package to me.

“Open this later,” he says. “It’s my birthday present for you!”

I take the paper-wrapped rectangle by the twine that ties it together. It dangles softly with the slack of the rope.

“Thanks, sir,” I say, smiling.

At least someone remembered that my birthday was today. When I was leaving for work this morning, Pops had already gone to work and Dad seemed to have avoided me all morning. They hadn’t even made me a single waffle, let alone the fanfare that was my usual birthday breakfast. Maybe if I had an older brother, he would have remembered that I turn twenty-one today, and would have reminded Dad and Pops about it. Unfortunately, my childhood best friend Terrane is the closest I’ve gotten to having a sibling.

That’s not to say that I don’t love her like she’s my actual sister. Dad and Pops often invited her and Auntie Skai over for dinners like they were family. With each visit, Terrane would always take a few moments to show off whatever new magic trick she’d learned since our last dinner together. I remember one trick in particular where she turned all the pips on the cards orange and blue. Despite hours of research online, I could never figure out how she did it. Another trick, one that I eventually learned how to do myself, involved her reading my mind and telling me that I was thinking of Gray Elephants in Denmark.

Once we aged out of middle school, our paths diverged. I sat through the standard math and science courses while Terrane excelled at Honors everything and even took several Advanced Placement courses starting our sophomore year. At our high school graduation she delivered an eloquent valedictorian speech, talking about finding the magic in the mundane. Then she went off to Arcadi University while I stayed behind in Ozryn to continue working at Main Bookstore. The family dinners still happen, just on the few nights that Terrane came home for a break from school. Even then, she’d only stay at home for one night before jetting off to whatever part of the world was calling to her.

I refocus on my final task for the day: closing down the store for the night. As I had feared, there is substantial dust on the counter from the tome, which I dust off and into the wastebasket by the register. That tome! I rack my brain for its title, but now I can’t even picture the shapes that the gilded letters made, or maybe they were silver? Jacques is busy setting the store for the next day, so I begin reviewing the sales and inventory reports. With how few customers came in today, I already know which books have sold and quickly do the math in my head.

I close the outdated program after saving a copy of the reports to the bulky desktop that Jacques has had for at least twenty years. Walking down each aisle, I ensure that all books we didn’t sell are still in their places. I push our metal cart around the tall wooden bookcases, and its squeaky wheel yaps with every complete turn it makes. When I check the shelves of the fantasy section, my eyes are drawn to the small collection of Bibles that has miraculously found a home among some of our classic fiction, like “A Song of Ice and Fire” and “A Court of Thorns and Roses.”

“I doubt Jesus wants their story next to books full of murder and graphic sex,” I mutter.

Jacques must have heard me because I hear a faint chuckle. I start to reach for the books but stop myself as my fingers brush the spine of the leftmost copy.

“On second thought, why can’t they can stay the night? Build a longer bookshelf, not a higher whatever, after all.” I finish the physical inventory and Jacques checks over my work.

“Zakary, your numbers look good. Why don’t you clock out early and I’ll finish up the checklist?” Jacques asks.

His accent is less pronounced with the question, but I don’t mind when he sounds less French. Especially not if he’s letting me go home this soon.

“Really? Thanks, Jacques! See you Monday,” I say, changing my course to the back door.

“Wait a second, you have forgot your present.” He hands me the twine-tied package and I leave the building.

The short buildings that make up the alleyway provide no reprieve from the scorching, late summer heat. Without the comfort of Main Bookstore air conditioning, I have to stride to the streetcar station. I stop once I’m in the shade, and check how long I have until the next streetcar will come to pick me up. While the walk home is relatively easy and somewhat quick, the weather won’t be nice enough for at least another month when summer’s fiery reign on the seasonal throne ends. Also the streetcar is free, so I don’t mind taking the time to avoid the oppressive heat.

At a quarter to six, the bell of the streetcar rings to announce its arrival. I hop on and a crowd of townsfolk has taken up most of the good seats. I do a visual sweep of my options until my eyes lock with his. Of all days, he has to be riding this streetcar and of course the only available seat is right by his side. The man in question is Tristen, my ex-best friend from high school. He had been the only guy I would casually hang out with outside of my fathers.