Happy Ending Books

The books were on the floor again. Robert sighed and crouched down to scoop up the discarded and rejected remains of the Super Savings Sale. He began to scoop them up and loaded them onto his cart, pausing ever and anon to admire a particularly familiar or classic title. At this point he had collected a good thirty books onto his little metal cart and began to lopsidedly push it down the narrow aisle between the maple shelves. The cart’s front right wheel was a bit warped and it had an annoying tendency to veer into the shelves, occasionally even knocking more volumes out of their places, which Robert then would mechanically slip back into their places.

            The floor between the shelves was arrayed like a minefield of literature, with Robert courageously dodging the occasionally explosive Hemmingway or the ever sly thriller novels that seemed to be flooding ever inch of the Best Seller display these days. He was a fairly short man and couldn’t see over the tops of the shelves, but after walking these paths religiously for the past thirty-five years he had no problem finding his way to the backroom. His friend, Clementine, was always teasing him that he could’ve restocked and reordered the selves during the rolling blackouts of ’82. Robert smiled, as he always did when he thought of Clementine, her laughing at her own jokes and her curly hair bouncing rhythmically with the swell of her chuckles. He liked talking about Clementine a lot, especially about her hair.  He’d always say “Fire engine red it is, natural too,” and followed it as he always did with, “no lie, no lie,” as if someone could ever picture the jovial seventy-three year old Catholic leading them on.

            The dim flicker of the florescent lights cast abstract shapes on the canvas of book spines lining the walls as Robert made his way along the back wall. The cart occasionally emitted a slight squeaking noise as he navigated among the fallen books, carefully making his way to the storage room. He hesitated as he reached a long strip of darkness that yawned across his path. The shadow was thrown by the imposing figure of the Down Through the Ages section, which housed the majority of the store’s “classic” literature. He might be able to navigate through any blackout with ease, but he was no fan the darkness. The jagged flickering edges of the shadows always seemed to be taunting him, each triangular point a tooth ready to gobble up any unwary passerby.

            He steeled himself for the passage; it was a good twelve feet to the other side.  He took a deep breath and crossed himself over his well-worn green vest, which was standard fare for the employees of Happy Ending Books. Clementine had actually given them out as a joke one April fools, they were embroidered with an open book and a rainbow over the right hand pocket. Robert diligently wore his every day even after the ruse was revealed, part out of the sense of duty that came with being in the war, and part out of admiration of Clem. He stepped forward.

            The wavering outline of the shadow greeted him with open jaws, plunging him for a moment in dizzying blackness. His heart racing he almost leapt out the other side, scattering several worn paperbacks as he did so. Safely on the other side he caught his breath, furtively glancing over his shoulder at the abyss he just conquered. He noticed that a couple of novels had fallen off the cart and were sitting by the edge of the darkness, “tempting fate”, as he’d always say. He bent to scoop them up, his face scraping the edge, tendrils of grey licking his cheek. Something brushed his ear.

            He spun around, his brown eyes darting about the aisle. It was empty save for a few lonely volumes huddled around the mystery section. He chided himself for being childish, “as skittish as a pack of toddlers”, as he’d always say. Turning back from the shadow he looked at the novel he still held in his hands, “Paradise Lost”. He sighed and placed it back on the cart, he’d never been a fan of it, “sacrilegious,” he’d say, “a load of nonsense”.

            Robert resumed his march toward the backroom. He approached the mirrored oak door and fumbling around in his pocket for the ring of keys. The jingling metal echoed through the aisles, slowly soaked up by the thousand paper residents of the building. It was always very quiet in the bookstore, even when it had been bustling with customers intent on buying the latest Sci-Fi thriller or Mystery novel. It was probably them who created this mess, thought Robert, young scoundrels with their fancy gadgets and wild ideas. Not a God fearing man or woman among the lot of them. The lock clicked.

            The door creaked open and Robert quickly flipped the switch before he was overwhelmed by the darkness. The shabby room had books piled floor to ceiling, organized by genre. Thanks to his diligent efforts they were in neat stacks and rows, all the spines facing outwards of course. Under the florescent lighting their bindings glowed like a muted rainbow of Horror, Drama, and Suspense.

            Robert wound his cart between the stacks, pausing here and there to unload a book onto its proper pile. He was very efficient at his job, and within minutes the cart was operating under a much lighter burden. Whistling softly to himself he hefted a particularly cumbersome cooking manual and headed toward the Self-help pile. On his way he tripped and almost fell over a small disordered clump of books he had previously overlooked. Scowling he returned the cooking book and turned his attention to the offending literature.

            They were all newer volumes, some of them borderline avant guarde in their approach to fiction. He grimaced and rubbed his sore ankle and set out to tidy up the books. Picking up the first book he set to work, making sure to alphabetize them, as was his wont. He was just about finished cleaning up the mess when he heard movement coming from outside the room. Standing bolt upright he froze, straining against his hearing aid for the faintest whisper of any sound. He was greeted only by a silence as insidiously inviting as the darkness had been. “Clem?” he called out quietly, edging toward the exit of the storeroom. The lights flickered, he shivered.

            He silently made his way to the door, wary of the faltering light fixture; a lone moth fluttered around it, futilely throwing itself against the glass, desperate for the light. Clementine had never visited him on his night shift before, but it was still possible. She was an unpredictable one, her one fault in Robert’s eyes. He could even tolerate her youth, as she was different than the normal fare of rapscallions, but he just could not abide surprises.

            A strong gust blew past him as he stepped out into the shop, ruffling the pages of discarded novels. Dancing shadows painted phantoms across every self, each nook hiding imaginary villains. He walked past the windows, careful to avoid the broken glass. He kept hoping Clem would clean that mess up; it’d been like that for ages. Passing the glass he entered the Sci-Fi section, ducking through the broken mock spaceship portal. That had been Clem’s idea of course; she was always thinking up crazy schemes to increase business.

            He silently crept toward the cash registers, pausing only to gaze out of the hole in the wall; he’d been meaning to patch that up. Through that rough portal poured a steady wind, as the world stared blankly into the little shop. It passively watched as he slowly approached the checkout area, he breathing measured. The breeze picked up again, this time stronger and, in unison, the lights flickered again. He rested his hand on the smooth oak and used it to steady himself as he worked his way to the small swinging door in the counter.

            Those same cold eyes of the empty night stared in upon Robert as he gained the employee side of the counter, breathing a sigh of relief to see the familiar face of Clementine nose deep in a book. He reached out to touch her and as the silence held its breath his touch met cold bone. He smiled, as if feeling the memory of warmth and soft skin on his fingertips. “It’s good to see you still reading Clem, even after that whole scare about the bomb.” He sat down next to the corpse, still smiling as he read over her shoulder a few passages from “Dante’s Inferno”, the empty wind still howling its sorrows; just beyond the shop.

             

 

Author's Note

ignore grammar problems

Reviews

[Legion]

I kind of agree with Jobbs on the ending. A bit of a shocker, but I think a bit more depth to what happened might be needed. Not to detract from the unexpected ending though. That must stay, but some tasty bits of foreshadowing as to "the bomb" wouldn't hurt to help build up to the climax so to speak. Other than that, I found this well written and kept me wanting to read a bit more as I went along. Good read. Kudos to you.

[electricsatori]

Decent story. But I will not ignore grammar problems. ;-)
The pacing was ok, and I liked the ending.
It was well-written but lacked suspense.

[Jobbs]

I really enjoyed this short story, although I think the ending needs a bit more. Perhaps a pan out, or a switch of perspective would nicely paint the apocalyptic picture you seem to be looking for. Otherwise good read.