A Rare And Unusual Place (Part Two)

Is something hiding between the pages?

 The following Monday morning a cab carrying John and a trunk full of boxes and crates pulled up in front of  The Uncommon Word. The cab driver helped John unload everything and stack it on the sidewalk. John paid his fare, plus a one dollar tip. The cab driver sneered, got back in, and drove away, his tires squealing a curse.

  Once John had carried all of his possessions upstairs to his new room Christmas crooked his finger toward him. John followed him to the back corner of the shop, where Christmas sat down behind an enormous mahogany desk.  In the center of the desk was an ancient Underwood manual typewriter.  “No computer?” asked John.

Christmas rolled his eyes in disgust. “Never. A silicon chip has no character. And there is no more beautiful sound than this.” Christmas rolled a sheet of paper into the Underwood and started typing. “Hear that? The slap of the letters on the platen. That simple clickety clack, clickety clack is the explosion of big ideas. Ideas that can change the world. Directly from the mind to the page. Then from the page to the heart.” Continuing to type Christmas closed his eyes and smiled, savoring the sound. “Hear that music? A symphony of creation.” He stopped typing and turned back to John. “Now, take a deep breath.” John inhaled. “That’s the perfume for the mind you’re smelling. Ink and a felt ribbon. Isn’t it marvelous?” John nodded although he smelled nothing.  “Now what does a computer smell like?”

John shrugged. “I never really noticed.”

“That’s because there is no smell. Except possibly plastic. Computers are an homage to speed, nothing more. And I have no need of them. Is there a computer packed away in one of your boxes?”

“Well, yes, I’m afraid so. Two actually. A tablet and a laptop.”

Christmas shook his head sadly. “You are a product of your time I suppose. No matter.”

Christmas outlined John’s duties which, for the most part, were simple: to familiarize himself with the inventory, to greet customers promptly, politely, professionally, and to dust, dust, dust at every opportunity. “But always gently,” Christmas added. “They may look like just so much paper and ink, but they’re so very much more. Treat them with tenderness.”

John had as much respect for the written word as anyone, but Christmas reminded him of a professor he had who once burst out crying in class when someone questioned the value of Shakespeare in the modern world.  Eventually, he went on a sabbatical to a place the college called a “health farm”.

“And there’s one more thing,” Christmas added. “In a prosperous neighborhood like this one, you’ll rarely get someone shopping for a book to read. What you’ll get are usually collectors wanting to impress their friends, and investors wanting to expand their already substantial bank accounts. You’re welcome to sell any book in the store, but before a book leaves my shop you must first bring it to me for my personal inspection.”

“Why is that?” John asked.

“Just accept that it’s absolutely vital that you do it. Understand?”

John nodded. “Of course.”

“And, from time to time you’ll get what I call special customers. There aren’t many of them and I’ll always deal with them personally. Okay?”

“Okay,” said John. “How will I know these special customers?”

“Most of them will ask for me by name. Some of them will ask you strange questions that make no sense, or that make you wonder about the sanity of the person asking the question. When that happens, find me. I’ll handle it. Quite simple, really.” Christmas smiled and reached out his hand. “Welcome to the family.”

Forcing a somewhat nervous smile, John Blunt shook his hand. And so began his employment at The Uncommon Word. It wasn’t the job of his dreams, but it was pleasant, sometimes in spite of, and sometimes because of his employer’s eccentricities.  He even began to enjoy the old man’s company and his long-winded talks about writers and their works.  It was the nights that were difficult.  The shop didn’t have cable, and that was okay with John because he seldom watched television anyway. But not having an internet connection was very difficult for him. His cell phone service had been cancelled for non-payment, so when he wanted to contact a friend or get news about the world outside the shop,  John had to go to a cafe on the corner that offered free Wi-Fi but sold coffee for five dollars a cup. As time went on, however, he found that he needed his internet fixes less and less. He was, after all, in a kind of Eden for a lover of literature.

Most nights after Mr. Christmas retired to his basement apartment John would wander through the shop looking for something interesting to read. There was so much to choose from that sometimes he would close his eyes and run his fingers across the spines of books, finally selecting something at random.  He was rarely disappointed. One night, however, as he was walking past a bookshelf, his eyes closed and his fingers searching for tactile inspiration, he felt something that wasn’t a book. It felt soft, silky, and warm as it folded itself around his hand. He jerked his hand back and opened his eyes. He saw something that was rectangular, like a piece of typing paper, and glowed with blue light, its corners undulating slowly back and forth like the wings of a manta ray gliding through the ocean. It hovered there in the air then, suddenly, it shrank away, disappearing among some Ernest Hemingway first editions. 

John rubbed his eyes. He was tired and had had half a bottle of Cabernet before he started looking for a book to read. Maybe I’m just imagining things, he thought, as he climbed back up to his room where he locked the door, finished the bottle, and settled in for a fitful night.

Several days later John heard the tinkle of the door and looked up from his dusting. A middle aged woman walked in trailing the scent of great wealth. Outside the shop, John could see a liveried chauffeur standing by at attention beside a Rolls Royce. The woman glanced around the shop, not acknowledging John’s presence. “Oh, Mr. Christmas,” she called out. “Mr. Christmas?”

“Can I help you?” asked John.

Ignoring John, the woman called out again. “It’s Mrs. Ainsworth. I just have a moment.”

Christmas came running from the back of the shop. “Welcome, welcome, Mrs. Ainsworth,” he said. “Are you planning another event?”

“I am indeed,” she said, as she reached into her bag, pulled out a book, and handed it to Christmas. “The last one was absolutely unforgettable. We really must outdo ourselves this time.”

Christmas glanced at the book. “Ah, yes, I remember now. Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Were you a naughty girl, Mrs. Ainsworth?” She giggled as Christmas led her to the back of the shop and through the basement door.

                                To Be Continued…………

                                © 2016 Stanley R. Teater

                                     All rights reserved

Reviews

[Splatman73]

I like where this is going. Can't wait for the next part. Although maybe I should go back to part one... (whoops)

[alanwgraham]

You have done a great job at leading the reader into this eccentric out of kilter world. You have a comedic turn of phrase which suits this perfectly. I don't know how long you plan this to be so I can't comment on the pace. So far i can't guess where you are taking us but that is a good thing.
Well done,
Regards,
Alan

[Valentine]

You are making your readers want to get to the plot perhaps sooner than you want to reveal it. Your writing is excellent though. Like the review below, I too wish it were longer. Valentine

[Jacob Clifford]

My comments for this part are the same as they were for the previous. You have an engaging atmosphere, and the story is interesting. I wish these parts were longer, but of course you can have your stories be whatever length you want.

[Dr. Ryan Nolte]

Very intriguing story so far. The mystery of the shop is ripe and the characters are marvelous. I'm looking forward to the next installment.