The Family Man

Chapter 8

Bouvier's Booksellers was adorable. It was sandwiched between a Victoria's Secret and a Baby Gap, which had the opportunity of being pretty depressing; instead, it was a breath of much needed authenticity on that block. A warm, family heirloom embrace in the midst of the three Starbucks cafés Jack counted as he turned onto 31st.

He seemed to forget the existence of his keys, and therefore took the long way to the customer entrance of the shop and stood, deer in headlights, at the heavy oak doors.

Jack peeped into the window display, adorned with fake daffodils and dandelions twisted around the newest volumes. Classics were packaged in collector's editions, new releases advertised on vibrant posters. A giant calendar boasted all author signings, children's circles and book clubs for middle aged women. Women of the World dissect Eat, Pray, Love at 7PM. Lady Mirabellum's Children's Happy Fun Hour (Bring Your Own Puppets) Wednesday afternoon. Join us for Nancy Tucket's excerpt from sequel How My Mother Ruined My Marriage and Libido: Part II.

He jumped as the doors swung open. A young man squinted up at him, his mouth stretched into a grin. "Hey, Jack."

"Hi."

The man slipped out of the shop and crossed his arms in front of the window display. He cocked his head: "Something's not right, isn't it? I told Mrs. Lincoln the flowers were too much. That woman enthuses about summertime like nobody else. And kittens."

Will eyed the young man cautiously. The nameplate beneath the BBooks gold stitching across his chest read Aristotle, which sounded mildly familiar from last night's conversation. It was probably another acquaintance to be recognized. Darcy fought an eyeroll. This was difficult.

"Ah well," Aristotle shrugged his shoulders and shoved open the doors. "After you, boss man."

Jack flashed him a look that clearly said "You don't sound like a douchebag at all"; he disappeared inside with not the smallest ounce of morning optimism. The smell of ground coffee beans hit him like a long lost relative. It wrapped its arms around his innards and squeezed.

A freckled brunette was writing names on espresso cups at the front counter. She smiled as he walked in: "Hey-ho, Jack. Ari and I already scanned in the new merchandise. And we have a new shipment of Warwick's documentaries in the storage room. And J.F. King called about Friday night's booking. And your coffee's cold but that's your fault, not mine."

"Quiet down, Kate," muttered Ari.

Kate arched an eyebrow: "Nobody asked you, Onassis."

Aristotle simply grinned. Boyishly. Carelessly.

Jack stood staring at the counter. His eyes moved thoughtfully around his workplace. It was an adorable, warmly furnished book shop with cozy, personal touches and a partly exhausted espresso machine. It had rich, mahagony surfaces and plush armchairs. The children's corner was colorful and chock full of abandoned stuffed animals. The biographical section had knowing, expertly painted pictures of Ghandi and Napoleon Bonaparte and Elizabeth I. All the discount signs were hand-written in Sharpie'd bubble letters. It made his stomach churn in the way that scarfing down icing might. It was sweetness and happiness at first. And then it was all vaguely nauseating.

"You look sick," the girl folded her arms. "Is swine flu still going around?"

"Swine flu, for real?" chuckled a voice. An older man walked in from the back room, wielding a cardboard box. He looked to be in his late thirties, with black thickly rimmed Woody Allen glasses and a tattoo of a blue jay at the crook of his elbow.

"Did you find the fax, Joe?"

"Yes, I did. You jammed it between yesterday's invoices, Boy Wonder."

Ari scowled.

Jack had trouble keeping up. He slid his laptop bag beneath the counter, took his latte from opinionated teenager, Kate Forster, and downed the 20 ounce cup in what had to be ninety seconds. Then he poured himself another.

"Before you OD on caffeine, can I show you what's become of the back room?"

Jack looked up at the older man. He pointed at himself: "Me?"

"No, Ari, because he obviously runs this shop. Yes, you."

And what choice did he have? Jack followed him past the 'Employees Only' sign and into the maze of boxes that was the storage room. It was like a metropolis of books. Only there were no streets or highways between buildings constructed from novels. Three other rooms threatened to reveal more skyscrapers. Several unopened boxes loomed ahead.

The man heaved his shoulders with a sigh and pointed: "This shipment's late. We reserved a few copies of Audrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife and it was supposed to arrive five weeks ago. UPS lost our package somewhere near Seattle. Which I guess is okay, but we might have lost some Kleenex-happy customers from the delay. This shit is like women's potpourri."

Jack's shoulders slumped in defeat and absolute indifference.

Joe smirked up at him: "Rough morning?"

"You could say that." A pause. "Are we friends?"

The man grinned and polished his glasses. "Not since I permanently borrowed your One Direction CD, no."

"We seem to be on good terms," observed Jack..

"I'd say so," laughed Joe. "But I'm not that good at heart-to-hearts. You feeling sentimental, Jack?"

"Just curious."

"Of course," Joe continued with a wry smile, "my bet is Onassis' worse for confiding in. That kid rubs me the wrong way. Flirts with all the female customers. Loses all the invoices."

"That short, heavy one?"

Joe looked amused. "Yes, Jack. Good of you to identify him after nine months of his employment. The short one who comes in late every Saturday and fills the store up with the stank of Temple University parties. But John thinks he has a heart of gold, and I've respected John Bouvier for five long years, so I'll be damned if I don't trust his judgment by now."

Jack stared at him in silence.

"So," Joe clapped his hand upon one of the boxes, "this is the package you said you wanted me to haul in. I'd help you organize the almanacs but Mrs. Lincoln's already got me setting up for the author signage tomorrow evening. You don't hate me, right?"

"...No."

"Cool beans. Holler if you need me," grinned Joe. He deserted him within five seconds.

Closing rolled around at seven o'clock in the evening; not that Jack had been perceptive to the sales for most of the day. He had lingered by the inventory and the back shelves, watching and observing his Alterno-life. If anything, he seemed like a wandering victim of amnesia. His co-workers chalked it up to stress behind his back. But mrs. Lincoln (another longtime employee) had implored him to help them lock up. Even though all Jack did was stand stupidly as she clicked shut the register and punched in the alarm.

"Are you all right, Jack?" she chuckled as she powered off the back lights. "The young ones giving you a hard time today?"

Ari and Kate's shifts had long passed. Joe had booked it an hour before. Jack was left with the company of a sweet woman with horn rimmed glasses and affection for cardigans and Lewis Carroll. She was impossible to dislike. She reminded him of his late grandmother. Hell, she probably reminded everybody of everybody's grandmother.

"You know," Mrs. Lincoln slung her pocketbook over one shoulder, "everybody says you've been acting strange. Even Joe told me so. I hope you're not getting cabin fever here. You're too young to be so miserable."

Jack half smiled and stared at the window display.

She touched his cheek and smiled with warmth: "Have a good evening, boy. Give your family my love."

"I will."

He caught the shop keys as she tossed them across the threshold.