Anything But Practical

1. Aiden

When you're forced to wait for something, it's best to keep your mind occupied and your hands busy. This is what I told myself on repeat as I worked through the morning, trying with all my might not to glance at the clock every five minutes. The little old lady in front of me, who any other day I might have found tiresome, was actually doing me a favor by taking up my time.

"And you're sure there aren't any copies hiding in the back somewhere?" she asked, craning to get a look over my shoulder at the cluttered countertop behind me.

I suppressed an eye roll. Lynn was a regular, and yet she had a habit of asking this question every time she came in. "Definitely not. We don't really have a back to the store. Everything's just kind of out." I gestured to the mountains of used books around us, stacked nearly floor to ceiling on sagging shelves. The shop was like a labyrinth or a cave system, full of surprises at every corner. The crudely photocopied map on the counter in front of us barely encapsulated half of what we had to offer.

"Okay. Well, thank you for all your help today..." The woman paused to read the name tag pinned to my chest. "Aiden."

I smiled cheerfully. "No problem, ma'am. Like I said, I'll give you a call if we ever get it in."

"Sounds great. You take care now."

"You do the same."

As the front door closed behind her, I spared a glance at the clock. 11:35. Francis was more than two hours late. This was not like him at all, and once more I had to wrestle down the urge to pick up the phone and call him to find out where he was.

I stopped myself mid-dial. This was his shop. Technically, Francis could come and go as he pleased, and there was no reason for me, a lowly employee, to be keeping tabs on him. If anything, that was just likely to invoke his ire. In an effort to distract myself from Francis' absence, I tucked the information card the customer had just filled out into the appropriate binder.

Name: Lynn Barnes

Request: First edition of The Silver Chair by CS Lewis

Since starting at the shop a year ago, I had devised many binders in an effort to manage the mess that Francis liked to refer to as 'organized chaos.' This one was the Special Requests binder, created for customers who were waiting on something specific to come in. I had even come up with and printed the customer information cards myself.

"New hold request," I said loudly in the direction of Pauline, the only other employee in the store at the moment. "The Silver Chair by CS Lewis. First edition."

"Got it."

Until we figured out a computer database, the only way we could keep track of holds was memory. I was in the process of setting something up, but considering the only computer in the shop was running on Windows '98 it was taking me awhile.

"Oh, and by the way," I said, grabbing an armful of books to take to the hold shelf, "we need to order more—"

BANG.

The front door to the shop slammed open, sending the little bell jangling like a flock of frightened birds. My heart immediately leapt into my throat and I took a couple of hurried steps forward. Francis, the owner of Practical Paperbacks, stood in the doorway at last, his rigid figure silhouetted by the sun streaming in behind him. The tension coming off his body was almost palpable, like waves rising in the desert heat. I swallowed hard.

"Good morning?" I said tentatively, raising the stack of books in my arms up protectively over my chest.

Francis looked at me as if I'd grown a second head. He allowed the door to swing shut behind him, though he ventured no further into the store.