6
When my alarm goes off at seven, I throw my phone across the room. Well, more of a gentle lob into a pile of dirty laundry. My bedroom door bursts open, Michael standing there with two coffees in hand. “It’s fair day,” he sings, dropping down on the bed next to me.
The coffee aroma hits my nose, summoning me up but also causes my stomach to gurgle. “Please tell me there’s food to go with the coffee.”
“Bit hungover, huh? Well, thinking on it, probably wasn’t the best idea to drink four bottles of wine the night before one of our busiest days of the year.”
I flop back down on my pillow. “We need to stop drinking like we’re in our twenties.”
“I’d like to believe it’s what keeps us young. Our livers pickled and all.” Michael leaves the room, reappearing seconds later with a bag of McDonald’s.
“Fuck yes,” I say, Michael lobbing a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit my way. The two hash browns he hands over a bit more gingerly. I take a bite of the biscuit, and instantly I feel my stomach begin to ease. Damn McDonald’s and their hangover cure witchcraft.
“Did you really already pick up a rebound from Alex?”
I shrug as I rip into a hash brown, quickly swallowing the bite. “I warned him I’m moving to Dublin and it didn’t seem to deter him.”
“Hmm,” Michael says, also chewing through a bite of food. “Wonder what’s wrong with him. Obviously, nothing looks wise though. He’s a fucking smokeshow.”
He really was, having a Ryan Gosling vibe. Not a spitting image, but enough to make you pause and appreciate the view.
“Okay. Now that I’ve dined you, let’s go over the morning schedule.”
I look over at the clock. “It’s barely seven,” I complain, pausing to take a hefty sip of my coffee.
“Quite the observation. Since you’re so astute this morning, you’ll also remember the event starts at ten. Which we need to go set up for. And you also know people always show up early. You need to get in the shower so we can leave in fifteen minutes.”
“Ugh. Fine.” I rip the covers off, standing up in front of Michael.
“Jesus Christ put that thing away!” I look down and, yup, my morning wood is right in his face.
“You brought this upon yourself barging in here and talking about hot Colin.” I grab a pair of briefs and head into the bathroom.
“We don’t have time for you to take care of that in there so hurry the fuck up!”
* * *
Twenty minutes later we’re inside the shop, Sydney had met us just as we had walked up to the front door.
“Divide and conquer,” Michael says, handing us each a list. “We have a lot to do in the next two-ish hours so get to it.”
My list includes setting up the Irish author table, setting up the book and bakery carts outside, and getting the extra outside tables and chairs from the shed out back. Seems simple enough.
I first hit the author table, which is being set up right near the register.
I grab the trays of wrapped barmbrack and arrange them on a three tier stand in the middle of the table.
I then stack the books around the stand, the likes of Sally Rooney, Emma Donoghue, and Claire Keegan.
Then I fold in some classic Irish authors, like Bram Stoker, Oscar Wilde, and C.S.
Lewis to fill out the table. The centerpiece is a beautiful limited edition set of The Chronicles of Narnia we got in just for this event.
With the table set up, I roll the book cart around the store and start filling it with clearance books to display outside.
Michael and I discovered after a few years of the event we could put almost anything on the clearance cart and they would fly throughout the day.
We use the fair as our backlog purge to get inventory manageable before the push for the holidays.
Once the book cart is outside, I make trips back and forth with the boxes of baked cookies for the final item on my list. The cookie display is a bitch to put together, but it always looks fantastic and draws people in.
We sell cookies individually and in packs of six or twelve.
Every year Michael and I bicker about what the cookie flavors should be.
Michael wants to keep a consistent menu to keep prep simple, whereas I value bringing new offerings to the fair.
In the end, we decided the only solution was that we each pick three flavors.
Michael always chooses brown butter chocolate chip, lemon raspberry, and Reese’s Explosion.
This year I went with 100 Grand inspired cookies, iced Fruity Pebbles cookies, and snickerdoodles.
Honestly, it’s better knowing Michael will always choose the same flavors.
It makes it easier each year to know what flavors to avoid when planning out my selections.
My flavors always sell out first anyway.
It’s around nine-thirty when the three of us reconvene in the bakery part of the bookstore, all three to-do lists complete. A couple of local authors have set up tables near the entrance, self-published authors who otherwise wouldn’t find their way into bookstores.
“Maybe one year your book will have a table at the fair.” It’s a pointed remark at Michael, who’s been working on the same book for the last five or six years.
I’ve read and re-read so many chapters over the years, but never a complete story.
Michael can’t seem to find a direction for the end of the novel.
I’ve tried to nudge him to work on it a bit more. Hell, I think even Niall has brought it up a handful of times. But Michael always has an excuse. The bookstore takes up his time. He’s focusing on his love life. The shower needs to be cleaned.
Yes, that was the most recent excuse.
Michael shrugs and heads back into the kitchen.
Sydney and I chat with the authors for a bit, asking them about their books and where they get them printed.
It seems the majority of them publish through either or Barnes & Noble, or both.
Sydney brings up our self-published consignment program, something she spearheaded when she joined the team.
We give local authors a ninety-day period to have a new release in the store, which can be extended based on how well it sells.
Sadly, it’s really the only way they get their books into stores.
Without a big publisher pushing their books, they just exist in the online shop of whichever self-publisher they went with.
Here, at least, we give them a low-risk way to get their name out in the market.
To feel the joy of seeing their name on a shelf along with some of their own favorite authors.
I notice people are really starting to mill around outside, hovering just outside the tables but trying to get a look at the cookies on display. “It’s time!”
Michael pops out of the kitchen, holding three fresh iced coffees for us. “Let’s fucking go.”