It's Wednesday, and I can't imagine missing out on the bookstore today. Freshly released books and newly repaired dust jackets arrive exactly at nine in the morning. Having the privilege of being the first to handle its unique form means a lot to me. Although reading isn't my hobby, I find internal satisfaction in watching things shift around the ledge and enjoying the quiet, orderly environment.
I’ve read a book in the past but I can't recall its title since I don’t pay much attention to book names. I can’t remember the name of the person who wrote it either. It’s about a woman who dedicated her time to volunteering, providing emotional support, and offering resources to those in need. Her actions built a network of connections based on reciprocal support, where her generosity was recognized and appreciated. As time went on, a transition began to unfold. The individuals she had helped, who had once counted on her began to distance themselves. Even though her intentions were genuinely benevolent, her assumptions about receiving support in return were often implicit. The community she had fostered lacked a system of reciprocity, resulting in a painful sense of isolation. The turning point in her story happens when she encounters a personal crisis. As her world falls apart, she reaches out to those she once assisted hoping for the same support and empathy she had given. The sharp difference between what she anticipated and the reality of their reactions, from indifference to outright refusal, becomes the central focus of her book. She struggles with the disparity between the help she previously offered and the absence of support she faces now. The woman’s book, with its strong complaints about those who left her when she needed them, offers more than just a story of being let down.
“Cyd Morgan. Hmm, I like her but she's a bit too vague." As I leafed through the pages of this book, I noticed the author and realized I was holding one of her works.
“She’s just more grounded in reality.”
“Yeah. Which some people might consider mundane.”
“Because people dislike the reality, Nathan.”
“If you wanted my opinion, Cari, I wouldn’t waste effort documenting my problems when they’re already quite miserable.” I somewhat agree with him. That wouldn’t be part of my choices either.
“While her life could be quite different from anyone else's, she still earned a considerable amount of money—”
Nathan intensely fixed his gaze on me, “She was rich from the start, Cari! If I were in her position, I wouldn’t offer assistance to those who don't deserve it. Look at her—she’s in a sad state, people took advantage of her.”
Now I’m realizing this isn’t really about the author anymore. “It’s not your concern.” Honestly, it’s not anyone’s problem. I gave him a pat on the back before walking past him. “And this is not one of those days we're about to argue, Nathan.”
“How about helping me with this, Cari? There’s a stack of books that needs to be organized now.”
“You’ve got Jean and Mal.” The people who work with him are often absent and I sometimes wonder why they haven’t been dismissed yet.
“Yeah and can you see them? It’s no shock.”
My first and second jobs are still fresh in my memory, I began working on a farm at fifteen. I requested a job from my father’s associate, Ellbert, clearly showing my impatience. School wasn’t an option for me, having a job would only give me more excuses to avoid it. Even though Dad refused, I did it anyway. “What are you even learning, Cari?”
I didn’t appreciate it when he spoke as if he knew my situation and tried to comment or question. But I eventually left due to the oppression from his, as people call it, cruel spouse. I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like to live under the same roof as her. She’s spared from my vengeance because I’ve been occupied with my own life. A harsh, demanding woman is often expected, especially those without children of their own.
“Nobody would ever want someone like you.”
The absence of food at home pushed me to muster the courage to look for a new job. It’s consistently a single piece of bread. If not, there's just empty plates that remains untouched for a couple of days. Otherwise there are just empty plates left untouched for days. However, this only occurs when I choose to clean up during an exceptionally bad day, as a way to distract myself. It mostly doesn’t work, I just end up cutting myself on shattered glass. When I turned seventeen I tried being a server at this mediocre nightclub where I guaranteed every person who comes as a returning costumer was all ignorant and perverted old men. Even the workers are ill-mannered. Given that I was only seventeen, inexperienced and often skipped class, I had no other options. I needed to ensure I had food. There were no requirements or conditions, just your level of tolerance. It lasted just a month, I couldn’t endure it. I needed to pull myself from the worst.
After that I stopped working and remained at home. It wasn’t too difficult since I had my own resources, which I used for my essential needs. But I know that soon it will run out and I’ll be uncertain about where to start over.
“Actually. . . can I work here?” I glanced at Nathan who was now holding a stack of books with a doubtful expression.
“We just need three people here and it looks like I'm currently with two so—”
“Perhaps you could talk to the owner and find out if I can begin working as soon as possible. Besides, Jean and Mal are clearly no use here.”
He arranged the books in their proper order. He hesitated before finally turning to me, seemingly about to speak but instead walked past me to the checkout counter, leaving me bewildered. “I know they're both very distressingly indolent but Mal said he badly needs this part-time. And as for Jean, she just got here, Cari.”
My past job's traumatic experience is preventing me from considering any new ideas or locations at this time. “I guess I'm not working at the moment.” I'm terrible with my resolution.
“You should look somewhere else.”
“Others might not accept me as easily.” Assuming if he even likes me here. Since I'm not great with people and most jobs need someone skilled and essential in customer interactions, I clearly fall short.
“You might want to take on the role of my assistant.” I looked over my shoulder and saw Sam holding his camera. “I heard you're looking for a job?”
“That could work. Sam's a photographer.”
“I wouldn't consider myself an expert, but I could really use some help.”
I don’t see how I can be of assistance to this person. “Are you going to ask me to take pictures as well? Because I—”
“Just come along with me to every shoot. You can greatly assist by managing my schedule or handling the materials needed. How's—”
“Are you the one who will be telling me what to do?”
Over the past few days after my walk from Laurel's Dance, Sam and I ended up talking at an hour in the middle of the night that I least expected. He saw me at my most vulnerable, a side no one else had seen. I wasn't putting any pressure to myself with anything at that moment. I kept reflecting on things and before I knew it, I was in tears while he just sat beside me. I somehow doubt its reality, thinking it might not have happened.
“We'll divide it, Cari.”
I might turn down his offer if I weren’t so desperate for something right now. I’ll need to place my trust in this one. “Fine. When do we start?”
