The Book of Volunteers

Lemony Snicket

To my beloved guardians—
My search for you will never cease.

A happy story, one could argue, is discerned from a sad one only by how it ends. What I mean to say is, I can't make any promises. This story is being written as it happens. In the year since my guardians disappeared, I've been afflicted with one of the worst ailments a person can endure - uncertainty. I thought meeting my long-estranged uncle over root beer floats would provide answers - but all I'm left with is more uncertainty.

My search for Lemony Snicket found me in a number of obscure and often fire-singed locales. From the urban buzz and overpriced salmon-based cuisine of the city to the barren plains of the Hinterlands where you can travel three hundred miles in any direction without seeing a fish, my uncle's elusive nature proved highly incompatible with my unrelenting determination. As is often the case, however, I found what I was looking for only after my journey led me back to where I started.

I had returned, discontented, to my small, cluttered sub-suburban home (which now felt bigger and emptier than it ever had) after a promising lead at a sheep-populated brae some miles east of the burnt remains of Paltryville amounted to nothing. Restless, I set out on my bike at the crack of dawn to drown my discontent in a root beer float at Old Ed's Soda Shop, straining to enjoy the pulsing, amber sunrise and the cool, quiet breeze despite my total lack of sleep and the disconcerting shriek of my gears at every turn. Violet would have spotted the issue and had it fixed before I had the chance to notice anything was wrong. I allowed the thought to be drowned out by the first of two loud intersections, though it lingered in the pit of my stomach a little while longer. Sirens blared, two parallel drivers entered a passionate shouting match, and a beige cocker spaniel broken free from its leash caused me to swerve on a busy crosswalk, nearly launching a hurrying judge's bag of groceries beneath the undercarriage of a nearby convertible. The city's early commuters were a more lively type than you'd imagine. The judge seemed forgiving, despite her urgency, which provided me a fleeting moment of solace amidst the chaos.

I enjoy biking, and I like where I live, but I hadn't really enjoyed the ride to Old Ed's in quite some time. My bike sufficed the rest of the way, meeting a compromise with me for what I thought had to be the last, or close to the last time. I had arrived. A familiar silhouette occupied my usual seat, at the bar, second stool from the door. Never before had I been upstaged in such a way - as Old Ed's first customer of the day for a consecutive two weeks and three days (perhaps something I should be less eager to admit, and a particularly offputting development for any dietician reading) any competition was sure to pique my curiosity. What I felt upon recognizing the man in the window far outweighed curiosity. In me, I sensed the long-absent pang of feeling invoked by family.

I knew that an attempt at direct contact would conflict with my uncle's skittish and unsociable nature. I sat at the booth situated behind my uncle and to the right, in order to obscure my face from his view - perhaps an overly cautionary measure, assuming he hadn't been spying on me all the while I had been spying on him, and assuming he weren't, for some bizarre reason, sociable enough to strike up conversation with a ten-year-old girl who happened to possess an approximate amalgam of his deceased sister's facial features with those of an equally deceased sub-sub-librarian. Over came Stan, the elderly waiter, with whom I had formed a shallow bond over a fondness for root beer and intricately detailed miniature-model instruments.

"Your patronage is an enduring pleasure. The usual for you, today, young miss?"

Stan had greeted me the exact same way every day since my fourth or fifth visit. Still, I managed a polite smile. I realized my luck at his convenient omission of my name from said greeting, knowing my uncle would immediately be alerted by the familiar nomer. I nodded, answering Stan's inquiry.

Stan alluded to my uncle's presence under his breath. "Looks like you've got competition, Beatrice!"

"Indeed." I quietly uttered.

"Well, you're still my favourite customer. He doesn't seem a friendly type, unlike you, Beatrice." Stan smiled earnestly.

"Perhaps he's just tired, from a long night without sleep..." my voice faded from a whisper to a barely audible mumble "...or a long life without rest."

"I didn't catch that last part. It's not like you to mumble. Anyhow, I'll be back with your float in a moment.

"One more thing."

In my short time since arriving, I had penned a short letter on a paper napkin. Addressed to my uncle, I made a final plea to meet with him. I made sure to emphasize that he was under no obligation to indulge me, and that I would cease my pursuit of him if only he would make visible himself tearing up the note. I asked Stan to deliver the note, and he obliged. I waited in agonized suspense. Upon noticing he had been handed the note, I read out its contents in my head, hoping to follow along at my uncle's same pace. This proved no use, as he spent at least an additional minute mulling over the message. It felt much longer. He held the note in his two hands and positioned himself at an angle, likely so I could see. I braced for him to tear into it, unforgivingly. A subtle hand gesture inward all but confirmed my suspicions. Instead, he folded the note into a neat rectangle, and nestled it in his jacket pocket. He turned around and smiled, before leaving his chair, float in hand, and joining me at the nearby booth.

"Float's on me."

I was too startled to thank him, but I think he noticed the hint of gratitude amidst the shock in my expression. Here I was, face to face with Lemony Snicket.