2. The Shop Around the Corner
2
The Shop Around the Corner
On Friday morning I take the bus downtown, past all the crumbling industrial buildings to the old Main Street strip that now has worse-for-wear, run-down shops. Some will be out of business by next year. I know Uncle Andy and the local business association had hoped some developer would come in and an upscale furniture store would open, or a condo complex would go up and revitalize things. So far, no luck.
“Bobby?” I hear from the back of the bus as people get off at the next stop.
I turn my head in time to see two arms envelop me. The owner of the arms pulls back and waggles a ringed finger at me. Tricia, a girl from high school I’d first met weeping in the nurse’s office over being dumped by her middle school boyfriend.
“Engaged! Can you believe it?” Tricia asks. “All thanks to you. If you hadn’t convinced Mikey to leave me all those secret admirer notes and me to reply, I’d still be crying over Jordan.”
“Wow. Congratulations,” I say, genuinely surprised. We just graduated high school and while I knew Tricia and Mikey were a perfect pair and feel a swell of pride in them planning the rest of their lives together thanks to yours truly, I also feel a pang of it should be me and Tru planning a future.
Tricia’s face darkens and I wonder if she picked up on my it-should-be-me vibe before she says, “I saw the video of you at the fountain. I want to be the first to tell you that guy doesn’t deserve you. You can do so much better.”
Except Truman’s rejection is evidence that I, in fact, cannot. But I’m not about to have a breakdown on a bus right before my first day at my new job. Instead, I reply, “No worries! I’m moving on and moving up.”
“That’s great! You’ve already found someone new?”
“Not exactly. I’m focusing on me right now and keeping my options open.” Before Tricia can ask me more specific questions about what that entails, I say, “Here’s my stop. And seriously, congratulations to you two.”
“I’ll text you an invite to the engagement party,” Tricia calls as I get off the bus.
I cross the street to Corner Books, named, as I’ve long assumed, because it sits on the corner of the block. Not original but it ensures the location is clear. The bulbs flicker behind half of the wraparound sign. The other half’s bulbs have been burnt out for as long as I can remember. It’s owned by Cass’s oldest friend, my Uncle Andy who isn’t actually my blood relative. I normally love a bookstore but this one has slid downhill worse than I remember.
I don’t need to look through the windows to picture the mismatched shelves Uncle Andy has rescued over the years from curbs around Little Elm. Some metal, others wood, their paint flaking off. They were probably discarded when students moved out of rental units and Uncle Andy picked them up, brought them here, and gave them a new home.
As most of Corner Books’ revenue comes from used textbook sales, used shelves fit the theme. The remainder of its sales comes from books that Campus Books doesn’t keep in stock because they’re not current best sellers or on any course’s syllabus. Campus Books, in fact, never started a buyback program for textbooks because of how well Corner Books handles the market and because, as rumor has it among Campus Books’ employees, dog-eared, dated versions of textbooks don’t have the same air of prestige Campus Books prides itself upon and would bring down the overall vibe of the store.
I’m ashamed to admit as soon as I got a spot in book club alongside Truman, I purposely distanced myself and avoided Uncle Andy’s store. Corner Books wasn’t part of the image I was going for either and it didn’t suit my rising brand, even though when I was growing up Uncle Andy kept me supplied with as many books as I could go through. Uncle Andy still comes over with boxes of titles he’d ripped the covers off to send back to publishers and advance copies, neither of which he can sell.
Old habits die hard and thinking of my image, I decided even though Corner Books is in a crappy part of downtown, and the mismatched shelves are as old and used as the books, it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t look my best. It’s on my list, after all.
My mustard-colored corduroy pants match my Fully Booked stack of novels T-shirt excellently. I threw on a chunky knit sweater and even wore my thick black plastic-framed glasses, so I’d look extra smart and literary. The glasses aren’t prescription, but they do have UV protection. They let people know I’m intelligent and well-read. I mean, I am intelligent and well-read. But with the glasses on, anyone can tell from a glance.
And maybe while choosing this outfit I might have indulged in a few fantasies of myself looking attractive as I wandered up and down the aisles of the store, nose in a classic like Wuthering Heights . Suddenly, a guy with big zaddy energy like Pedro Pascal swaggers up to me and says those three magic words I’ve been longing to hear my whole life, “What you reading?” Admittedly, the store I imagined I’d be in was more upmarket and less bargain discount, but I can make it work. This is the way.
Despite how cute I look and my positive can-do outlook, I’m nervous and sweating. For one thing, I barely received any training at Campus Books. As awesome as I look and as forgiving and flattering as a chunky knit on a guy of my build is, it is summer. Fat guys, summer heat, and layers aren’t a good combo. Stains are forming under my arms, and I can even feel a trickle going down the small of my back into my butt crack.
My brain jumped past the summer part of summer job when Uncle Andy agreed to let me work here not as a sign twirler or garbage collector, but as an actual bookseller. I doubt he needs another employee, but as Cass always says, “Andy would do anything we ask and more. So, be careful what you ask him.”
I wonder if I can fan out the sweat stains when two faces appear on the other side of the door. One, I know. Uncle Andy. He’s in his usual button-down tucked into a pair of khakis, brown belt matching brown shoes. At dinners over the years, I’ve offered a few suggestions to jazz up his attire, but Cass’s snorting laughter kills any hopes of that. I suppose his dull attire fits the worn-in vibe of Corner Books.
“We didn’t mean to startle you,” Uncle Andy says with a laugh as he eases open the door and the little bell tied to the top of it tinkles. “Come on in. I don’t think you’ve been here since I hired Corner Books’ first employee. Gladys, Bobby. Bobby, Gladys.”
I’ve heard mention of Gladys as this old-school battle-ax, but nothing could have prepared me for her. She glowers at me, looking like a cross between a Chihuahua–Jack Russell mix and Sophia Petrillo from The Golden Girls with her tightly wound perm, and isn’t subtle as she sizes me up through her thick glasses.
If we’re going to work together, we need to get off on the right foot. I decide to give Gladys a big, toothy smile. I’ve been told I have a great smile. Score one for orthodontia. After her brief stint as a receptionist in a retirement community, Cass insists dental hygiene is an investment in one’s future.
Gladys looks from me to Uncle Andy. “How do you turn him off?”
She might as well have slapped the smile off my face.
“Well, that did it,” she says.
“Be nice, Gladys,” Uncle Andy warns. “You’ve been complaining about how much work there is. Bobby is here to help you.”
“I thought I had been clear. I never said I wanted help. I didn’t ask for it and, for the record, I don’t need any either. I’m not abnormal in the fact that I love to complain.”
“Bobby is here for the summer whether you like it or not.”
“I certainly do not,” she says. “Is his given name Bobby or Robert? I don’t care for silly nicknames as you well know, Andrew.”
I’ve never heard anyone call Uncle Andy “Andrew.” Not even Cass. Andy isn’t even a nickname. It’s a short form.
Uncle Andy laughs again, a bit nervous this time.
Despite setbacks, of which there have been numerous instances, the only way forward is to be an optimist and to see the best in situations and people despite how awful some of them (Gladys) may behave. I even read an online article or two on creating positive, fulfilling work relationships when I was asked to join the Campus Books crew. If Bobby Ashton is anything, it’s a team player. The first step for a difficult personality is setting clear boundaries so Gladys and I understand the nature of our future working relationship and, in turn, foster an environment of mutual respect.
“Actually, I prefer Bobby,” I say, forcing my smile back onto my face. I hold out my hand. “It’s a bit more fun and young. Don’t you think?”
Gladys takes a long time blinking as she stares at my hand. “I’m too old to be coming to work for fun. I’ll be calling you Robert.”
“It’s Bobby.”
“Robert,” she repeats. “If you don’t like it, don’t answer. It won’t bother me one bit. I can only assume your parents took time and care in naming you Robert. It’s what I’ll be calling you.”
“Everyone calls me Bobby. It’s what my mom named me,” I gently correct after I stop gritting my teeth. “Bobby is cuter. Why don’t you try it out and see how you like it?”
“I won’t and I don’t. Same as I won’t be directing customers to poems by Bobby Frost or novels by Bobby Louis Stevenson. It’s undignified and childish. Cute is for newborns. You’re too long in the tooth for that.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. Did Gladys seriously just call me old?
“I don’t pay you extra for snark, Gladys,” Uncle Andy says.
Gladys places her hands on her hips. “Then consider it a bargain I’m providing it for free. If I’m stuck bringing this one up to speed, I’m going to have my work cut out for me. Come on, Robert. Keep up. A little farther past the entrance won’t kill you,” she says as she turns and storms through the store. “Your uncle has some books to pick up that were mistakenly delivered across town. It’s you and me for the morning.” She’s quicker than I imagined a woman best described as a withered old bat could ever be.
Uncle Andy leans in. “Don’t take what she says to heart. She doesn’t mean anything. That’s just Gladys being Gladys. You’ll be fine once she warms up a little.”
“Hurry up, Robert,” she calls. “We’re not paid to stand around looking moist.”
Warm up? A Siberian gulag seems balmy right now and Gladys has managed to get me sweating harder in my cords than the summer heat ever could.