Andrew Bishop - Chapter 1

Andrew Bishop was a rather disliked man.  He was old and bitter and quite frankly didn’t like hardly anyone, and saw no reason to have other people like him.  It would only be a nuisance.  He was retired and bored out of his mind most of the time.  He hardly left his small retirement community, because he figured everything and everyone was mostly the same everywhere.  He didn’t have much time left, and he figured it wouldn’t be quite worth it to find anything he liked at this point. 

He had a nephew, Jeremy Sands, who he also didn’t like very much.  Jeremy Sands had come to visit him a couple of times, but always had something to do later.  When Andrew asked Jeremy Sands if he wanted to spend a few hours fishing or taking walks, he didn’t even consider it as he shook his head and checked his watch and schedule. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t try to like people.  He had had a system.  He would talk with someone for a bit before he decided if he disliked them or not, but once he realized that he disliked practically everyone, he figured it wasn’t worth it anymore.  Some people talked gently to him, like he was feeble or incapable of normal conversation.  Others were always talking on the phone, and never really paying attention.  Most were just boring. 

One morning as he was sitting at breakfast and reading his newspaper, a child walked in. He generally didn’t like children.  Most were spoiled and sheltered and simply annoying.  So he didn’t give the child much attention.  She had probably been brought along grudgingly by her parents to see some grandparent that she meant the world to, while all she wanted to do was finish a movie she’d started that morning. 

But as he was engrossed in his newspaper, or rather scanning for some article that wasn’t painstakingly boring, the girl came over and tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Excuse me, sir,” she began.  “Would you mind talking to me for a moment?”  She had a confidant, yet polite voice.  She didn’t exactly sound like a child at all, but she had all the evidence of being one.  She was small, for one thing, and had light brown hair pulled back into a braid with a large white bow. 

“What?” said Andrew grudgingly, not moving his newspaper. 

The girl continued as if he’d answered civilly.  “My name is Lila Johansson.  I had a few questions about this retirement facility.  May I ask your name, sir?” 

Andrew lowered his newspaper slightly and glared at her.  “How old are you?” 

Lila put her hands on her hips, clearly offended, and spoke with a slightly sterner tone of voice.  “I’m eleven, but I don’t see why that’s relevant.  I can have a conversation same as anybody.” 

Andrew began to smile in spite of himself, but was then startled, because he hadn’t smiled in quite a few years.  He put his newspaper down.  “Andrew Bishop,” he said.  “It’s nice to meet you.  What do you need to know?” 

Lila still seemed offended, but continued.  “I have a friend who is trying to find a retirement facility.  He doesn’t want to move into one, but he wants to find one just in case, you see.  He would have come, but he’s working all the time, and I could get here on my bike so I came for him.” 

Andrew was slightly confused.  “In case of what, may I ask?  And is this friend of yours closer to, say, around eleven, like you, or around eighty, like me?” 

“Please don’t insult my intelligence,” snapped Lila.  “He’s eighty four.  He owns a bookstore.  If it goes out of business, he may want to come here, but he needs to know pricing and things.” 

“There, now, calm down,” Andrew said slowly.  He got up, found a pamphlet of information from a folder on the wall, and handed it to her.  “Everything he’ll need to know is there.  How’s that?” 

“That’s wonderful.  Thank you very much.” 

Lila turned to leave, but Andrew stopped her.  “Wait.  Lila.  I haven’t read a good book in quite a long time.  In fact, I haven’t left the building in quite a long time.  What is the man’s name?” 

“George Clocksman.” 

“Ah, this Mr. Clocksman is probably an intelligent fellow.  There aren’t many of those left, but most bookstore owners are, you see.  Now, I need a smart bookseller.  Why don’t you give me the name of this bookstore, and I’ll stop by today or tomorrow?” 

Lila stopped looking cross at once, and she smiled one of those smiles that Andrew hadn’t seen in years " the kind where you know the person isn’t trying to smile, but that they can’t help it.  “Would you really?”  Andrew nodded, and Lila wrote the address down on a piece of paper, and then left.  Andrew watched her ride down the street on her bicycle. 

Andrew had somewhat of a new spring in his step.  He’d found somebody he liked, you see, and he remembered what it was like to talk with someone that he enjoyed talking with.  He even wondered if there were more of these people out there still. 

He spent the day pondering this, and wishing for something to do.  He had given up on the prospect of there still being anything he liked, you see, and he figured if he could manage to find a person he liked, maybe there would still be other things he liked as well.  What he really wanted to do was to go fishing, but he couldn’t alone, and he couldn’t exactly ask for anyone to go with him, as most of the staff didn’t like him anyway.  He contented himself with just walking around the grounds.  Lately he had hated the outdoors " the temperature was never right; it was always too hot or too cold or windy or humid, and even if it seemed right rain could always take him off guard. But that day he thoroughly enjoyed it " even though it misted a bit. 

The next day, he also realized he didn’t have a way to get to Mr. Clocksman’s bookshop. He no longer had a car, and he had nobody to drive him.  A nursing home aid would, of course, if he asked, but he or she would not be happy about it, as he was the most unfavorable tenant of the whole.  Besides, he knew all of the aids and didn’t like them anyway, and wasn’t too crazy about spending time in traffic with them. 

But when he came down for breakfast and got his paper, he realized there were a few new aids.  They looked high school and college age " most likely beginning summer jobs.  He picked one out " a quiet looking girl.  He didn’t pick out any immediate flaws.  She didn’t look too busy, or selfish, or any of the normal unfortunate traits many of her age seemed to have.  She seemed to smile often " yes, that’s a good sign " but it was a sort of sad smile. 

He called her over and asked her name.  Some of the older aids who knew him exchanged puzzled looks.  “Dawn Michaelson,” she said.  “And you?” 

“Andrew,” he replied.  “Have you just begun work here?” 

She smiled at him.  “Yes, I have.  It seems quite nice here so far.” 

“How old are you?” 

“Seventeen.”  She smiled again.  She seemed to enjoy telling him that she was seventeen, as if she’d waited her whole life to be that age. 

He asked if she would drive him to the bookshop, and she of course happily agreed.  They walked to a car, and she kept asking him questions.  At first she asked about his past, and he told her his war stories, and she was fascinated.  But then she did something that nobody else had really done.  She began asking him about his life now, what he currently did.  Not a word about his health, or his fitness, or any other normal question that many generally ask old people, but about what he was doing with himself now, even what he was working towards.  He didn’t exactly know what to say, and didn’t want to tell her that he was simply waiting and not doing anything at all.  So he told her that he was exploring, traveling, visiting friends, and reading a little " all the things he supposed he wanted to be doing.  Then she said something that really took him off guard. 

“I really look up to people like you.  Nobody my age seems to know what they want to do, so they don’t do anything.  I’m so glad it’s not like that for everyone.” 

He was silent after that, and she dropped him off, and promised to be back in a few hours. He looked around him.  He seemed to be in a small town.  There were little family shops everywhere, and a large fountain about a block away.  Small children sat on the edge of the fountain throwing in coins, while their parents chatted on wooden benches.  And they didn’t look selfish or self-absorbed at all.  He scratched his head.  He, well… he liked it here.  He smiled hesitantly, shook his head, and walked into the shop. 

A bell chimed as he opened the door, and the first thing he saw was Lila and her long braid whipping around, and that same smile as the day before.  “Good morning Mr. Bishop!” she said. “You came, didn’t you?” 

“Of course,” he said, and another old man walked over slowly from behind a shelf.  He looked older than Andrew, but less stiff.  “Mr. Clocksman?” asked Andrew. 

Mr. Clocksman nodded, and held out his hand.  “You must be Mr. Bishop,” he said.  “Lila told me about you.  It’s so kind of you to come over here.” 

“No trouble,” said Andrew.  “Do you enjoy working as a bookseller?” 

Mr. Clocksman chuckled.  “Do I!  Why else would I be working at eighty four?  My good man, the folks who come into a bookstore are the most interesting people there are.  The people I talk to who come back and want to talk to me again, well, even more so.  The ones who continue this so long they become permanent assistants,” he motioned at Lila, who was shelving a box of books, “are the dearest people in my life.  My wife owned this shop with me for forty seven years, and now I’ve got this child here helping me.  I’m the happiest man in the world, actually.”    

Andrew was puzzled.  He liked this man too.  They began talking of books, and he was given many recommendations, which he bought.  He walked out of the shop, intending to come back and talk to Mr. Clocksman again, and went to the fountain at the end of the block. 

He sat down next to a young man sitting alone feeling positively jovial " it was almost disconcerting.  “There’s a nice bookshop right over there, you know,” he informed the young man. 

He turned to face Andrew.  “What’s the point, even?” he said.  “Reading books.  When you could be doing real things, instead of reading about them.  Not that anybody does, anyway.  The best people are always the ones that read books, but they don’t even do anything.  Now tell me, how does that make sense?” 

Andrew could tell that the man wasn’t expecting an answer.  He studied him.  He had been just like him, when he was younger. 

“Maybe you have to read books to figure out what you’re supposed to be doing, but there isn’t enough time to figure it out and then go do it.  At least the ones who read know though, right?” 

The young man relaxed, paused, and then smiled slightly.  “I always buy something from Mr. Clocksman’s place.  He’s the most decent guy I know.” 

“What’s your name, son?” asked Andrew. 

“Thomas Jameson.  I’m twenty.” 

“Andrew Bishop.  I’m eighty.” 

“Say, what’re you doing out here, Mr. Bishop?  I don’t think I’ve seen you before.” 

“People-studying, I suppose.” 

Thomas nodded.  They sat in silence for a minute.  Then Thomas tapped Andrew on the arm and pointed to the bench nearest to them.  “Say, what about that guy?” 

Andrew nodded.  “Mhm.  Looks pretty distraught.  Got camera equipment.  Wearing a necklace, and keeps messing with it.  Can you see what it is?  My eyes are going.” 

“It’s a locket.  He keeps opening it.” 

“It’s probably his girl’s.”

“Yep.  A picture on the inside, or something.  You ever had a girl, Mr. Bishop?” 

Andrew cast his eyes downward, and nodded.  Thomas said no more.  Andrew had had a wife.  She’d been kind and gentle and firm and had turned him from a stubborn cynic, very much like Thomas seemed to be, into something much better.  When she’d passed, he’d turned into something much worse. 

Thomas glanced anxiously at him.  “Let’s go talk to that guy.  What do you say?” 

Andrew looked up and nodded.  They got up, walked over to the man, and sat down on either side of him.  He looked a bit confused, but didn’t exactly acknowledge them. 

Andrew wasn’t saying much, so Thomas spoke.  “’Scuse me, sir, but I know about everyone around here, except for this fellow here and yourself.  I’ve already met this one, so we’ve come over here now.  I’m Thomas Jameson, and this here is Andrew Bishop.” 

The man shook Thomas’ hand.  He had a deep voice, but he spoke quietly.  “Samuel Trotter.  I’m a news photographer.  I’m here for a couple of weeks, doing pieces on teacher layoffs.  What brings you here?” 

“Just looking around, I suppose,” said Andrew.  “I live at Sunrise, over in Country Creek.  I haven’t been out in awhile.  Have you been here long?” 

“A couple days.  Got here on Monday, worked on Tuesday, went fishing yesterday.” 

Andrew smiled again " it was still quite strange feeling.  “Say, how about that.  I haven’t gone fishing in years.  Back in the day, I went every weekend.” 

Samuel looked over at him.  It was if they’d just mutually earned the other’s approval.  “I could take you sometime, sir.” 

Andrew’s eyes even widened slightly.  “I may take you up on that.” 

Samuel chuckled.  “Anytime, sir, anytime.” 

Andrew instinctively glanced at his wrist, as he always did, before he remembered he wasn’t wearing his watch.  Samuel and Thomas didn’t have the time, so he figured he ought to head back and wait for Dawn anyway. 

He came back to the bookstore, intending to wait on the bench in front of it, but saw that a trashcan had toppled over in front of it.  He leaned against it instead.  A woman came quickly down the street near him.  “Excuse me,” he called her over.  “Do you have the time?” 

She gave him a look as if to reprimand him for not owning a watch.  “Of course, it’s six fifteen.” 

She looked at a sign by the road.  “Ah, this is the bus stop, isn’t it?”  She looked at the bench and the trash can in front of it.  “Did you want to sit here, sir?” she asked. 

“Well, I was going to, but it doesn’t matter.” 

She sighed and moved the trash can, and they both sat down.  “It was probably some kid who put it there, that’s what it is.  I can hardly think I was so obnoxious when I was young as those kids are today.”  She crossed her arms and shook her head. 

“Do you have children, m’am?” asked Andrew. 

“No, thank goodness.  Do you?” 

Andrew shook his head.  He was a bit relieved to find someone he didn’t like again. “Where are you off to?” he asked. 

She was constantly moving, it seemed, very busy.  “Conferences, then back to the office for a meeting, and then… a convention is Seattle.” 

She said the last part with a small sigh.  Andrew glanced at her.  “Something you’d rather be doing?” he guessed. 

She looked at him, puzzled.  “No, no, of course not.”  She paused for a moment, but seemed to feel the need to continue talking.  “There is this play I’d wanted to see, before I was assigned to go to the convention.  That’s all, but of course it doesn’t matter.  The convention’s going to be such an interesting experience, it really is.” 

“What play was it?” 

“Oh, er, My Fair Lady, I believe,” she said quickly. 

His face softened.  “That was my wife’s favorite.  She tried out for it on Broadway, actually.  She didn’t get the part, but she didn’t mind, because she then went to see it about eight times.” 

She nodded politely.  “How nice.” 

“Why did you want to see it?” 

            She looked slightly pained.  “Well, er, it was the first play I saw.  My grandmother took me to see it when I was young, actually, many times, but I haven’t seen it since then.  But… well, yes.” 

            Dawn pulled up then, and for some reason he felt a pang of sympathy for the woman.  It was quite odd, and something that hadn’t happened in years.  Before he opened the door, he turned back to the woman.  “Say, what’s your name?” 

            She looked puzzled.  “Jan Hope.” 

            “Andrew Bishop.”  He tipped his hat and got into the car. 

 

            When Andrew returned that evening, he went up to his room for awhile, making some phone calls and doing some paperwork.  He spent the next week working in his room, taking walks outside, reading the books he’d bought, and finally fishing with Dawn. 

            The medical staff was a bit puzzled by him.  He was looking pale, and much thinner.  But he was almost radiating energy.  He had a spring in his step.  He was, well, happy. 

            Nobody was sure exactly what to do.  The old staff was a bit afraid, and stayed away from him, but the new staff, which hadn’t seen him before, loved him, and couldn’t understand the rest of the facility’s aversion to him in the slightest. 

            He talked with them some of the time, but spent most of his time alone, or with Dawn. One day they found an old piano in the auditorium.  He couldn’t play well because of his arthritis, but enjoyed listening to Dawn far more.  They would sit on the porch at night, he’d teach her the constellations, and she’d read to him.  He told her about his life, an activity he hadn’t done with anybody in years, and she told him about her hopes and fears for the future. 

            Dawn’s day off was on Sunday.  Andrew woke up with a knowing smile on his face.  He ate breakfast and talked with everyone.  People were beginning to stop being afraid, and simply go along with this change, or rather reversion, of character.  He took a few long walks, and then went back to his room. 

            That evening, Andrew Bishop died a content man, happy for the first time in years.  

Author's Note

Any and all help and review would be wonderful. This is the beginning - after this, the characters he meets will be brought together to receive objects in his will. Any ideas? But mainly, critique on this would be much appreciated.

Reviews

[Tony]

Well. This was quite a story.
I have read a few stories that took place around bookshops. This one was the best.
This would seem to some like a silly thing of a story, with no drama or surprises (como....death, destruction, tragedy, etc.) but it is really a gem for the inner warmth that comes from it, ( like a nice bookshop, on a miserable day) and there are very well some surprises......
ones I like very much, because they are merely marks of an author who loves to tell a story and has a flair between the keyboard and the mindscape:

...'he looked older than Andrew, but less stiff''.....

...'She did something that nobody else had ever really done'...

...'Andrew Bishop died a content man, happy for the first time in years.'...

Very Good, this story, and I am sorry to have taken so long. I overlooked you somehow..... when this happens, and it occasionally does, please alert me forthwith!
This story somehow reminded me of the colonial scenes on my grandmother's Sunday China.....