Chapter One #3
My gaze switches from my feet to the cashier, the one in the fitted sweater.
It’s black, I notice, and her name tag tilts delicately near her left shoulder.
She is mid-conversation with a customer, but she’s looking at me.
I’m surprised to discover I haven’t stopped walking as the conversation occurring at her register comes into focus. I’m walking straight toward them.
“No I haven’t,” the man is saying as he plucks out a credit card and begins to tap it on the payment machine, which beeps three quiet beeps. “I haven’t read any of his books, I’ve just heard this one is the best to start with.”
“It’s great,” she replies, “My favorite is the college rowing team one, with the two guys from Boston, but this one is great too.” She glances my way again.
I can’t tell if she’s really tall, or if the platform behind the counter is raised, but I suddenly feel like she’s looking down at me.
The customer also turns toward me as everyone begins to acknowledge that I’ve thwarted the small maze-of-impulse-purchase-shelves that’s organizing the other waiting customers, many of whom have also looked up from whatever books they are holding to watch me.
Had I been more alert, I might even think there was sneering involved.
“Is that a copy of Unspoken Things by…” I hear myself speaking, and it surprises me so much, I stop mid sentence.
What am I doing?
The clerk looks from me, to the book, to the customer and back again.
“It is,” the man says, eyes darting back and forth as he returns his credit card to his very teeny wallet, which he deposits in his rear pocket. He smiles. “A friend recommended it to me. Have you read it?”
The cashier rips the receipt from the machine, and begins to tuck it in the front cover of the book and I see it for certain, it’s my book!
The title in big yellow letters across the front.
The author’s name running down the spine.
The clear blue comic-style cover of two men on the front facing away from each other, each holding something.
And, clear as day, as she opens the cover to place the receipt, I see that now-familiar sloppy writing in blue pen on the cover page.
I’m not sure exactly what happens at that moment, but I think destiny kicks in, or maybe it’s just temporal insanity. It still remains a blur to me other than I know that this book is destined to be with me, and I am not going to argue with fate.
I grab it. And run. Fast.
I think I hear someone screaming behind me, but the front door is approaching so fast that I’m not sure what I’m hearing. “That’s my book! He took my book!” Yep, that was someone screaming. I hear frantic shuffling behind me, but I don’t look.
“Stop that man!” More screaming, this time a woman’s voice. “He took that book!”
I hear myself heaving for breath and the sounds of my rustling clothes seem deafening.
These sounds blur together as the brightness of the outside world becomes clear through the glass panel doors, which seem both extremely heavy on their hinges and light in my speed as I sprint through them toward the sunlight with my prize in hand.
My shoes pound the pavement with thundering smacks.
The combination effect of the heavy doors closing behind me, the parking lot before me, the confusing glares—and possibly gasps—of the few people in my path, and the blur of angry booksellers behind glass, seems to bring the reality of my situation into focus and now I’m running full tilt toward my car as the painful clarity of my actions hit me.
I think I’ve lost my mind. Who is this person who has possessed my body, stolen this book, and is sprinting toward my getaway car?
Turns out, a getaway car is stressful to drive with door latches and keys to fumble and gears to choose and pedals to press, but I make it out of the parking lot onto the main street without sirens blaring behind me.
I get about two blocks away when I begin shaking so badly, I can’t continue.
I pull over to the side of the road, grabbing my forehead with all ten fingers.
The book—what have I done?—is sitting on the passenger seat upside down and I can’t look at it. But I also can’t look away.
Releasing my head, I pick up the book, flipping it around, trying to make sense of what’s just happened, fanning the pages as if that will make things right, the new book smell is almost sickening.
Mostly, I just feel shame. And, my eyes won’t stop searching the rear-view mirror for red and blue flashing lights.
My ears are particularly tuned to the sound of approaching helicopters, too!
Of course, I might just be exhibiting paranoia.
I stare at the binding long enough that my heart rate settles, and I brace myself for whatever that inside cover page holds for my future.
With one last involuntary check of the rear-view mirror, I carefully pull the cover open.
What’s written inside, the sloppy blue markings, makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It’s clear that this adventure has certainly leveled up. The only real thought I have is that I need to tell Martin.