Bookshop After Hours

Adam moves silently through the aisles of the bookshop, avoiding the squeaky floor plank next to the stairs. The shop is closed. Safety lights cast shadows onto the corner of the reading nook and the elevated platform, spilling texture on the plush carpet and upholstered club chairs. He takes the stairs two at a time, muscles strong from years of rock climbing — reaching the top landing in a single breath. Agatha, the resident ghost, floats behind the reference desk a few feet away.

Swallowing air, choking out a surprised yelp — Adam lifts his chin in a nod to Agatha, putting a finger to his lips, unnecessarily. Silence broken, Adam dashes through non-fiction T–Z, to the glossy black door at the end. Safely inside he pushes the door shut, slumping to the floor with his back against the door. Reaching to his right, inching the bottom file drawer open, Adam's fingers find the bottle of vodka. Taking a deep swig, he swallows hard and exhales the tension he's been holding. Eyes closed, willing control over breath and nerves, thoughts spiral. Deepening his breath, willing his mind to quiet — he takes another swig.

“I have to replace this bottle before Dad gets back from the conference,” Adam says aloud to the empty room taking another deep drink, resting the bottle against the thigh of his jeans. Removing an antique flask from the inside breast pocket of his fitted blazer, he goes to refill it — just as Agatha floats through the wall, making him jump. Vodka soaks the hem of his soft white t-shirt and gets into his shoe. He wants to lash out, but he carefully caps both bottles and takes a few deep breaths so as to not take it out on her. She is a ghost, but she is sensitive and can be vindictive, and he really doesn’t need that right now.

Agatha looks Adam over and wags a translucent finger at him. “Drinking again?” she thinks to him. “You aren’t driving, are you?” Adam stands up, grabs a roll of paper towels from the top of the filing cabinet and does what he can to clean himself up. No, he wasn’t going to be driving, not now that he was properly drunk and reeking of vodka. It was late, anyway. He’d sleep on Dad’s office couch tonight, and then see things through clearer eyes in the morning. Gathering a pillow and blanket from the leather storage ottoman, he makes a nest for himself, and Agatha goes back out to watch over the shop.

After sitting a while with his head in his hands he gets up and stretches, taking off his blazer. Hanging it up, he feels for the ticket tucked in the little zipper pocket, just to make sure it’s still safe. Wouldn’t want to lose THAT scratch-off, he thinks, as he climbs into bed.

Fast asleep, in the middle of a dream about a tropical beach and a yacht, Adam suddenly feels a cold presence and stirs. Back in the waking world, Agatha is standing over him. Translucent finger in front of her lips, she thinks “DANGER,” appearing to Adam as flashing red letters over the front door. Outside a car door shuts, and two pairs of cowboy boots click cluck down the sidewalk toward the shop.

Adam goes to open his crusty eyes, just as the (not unexpected) headache comes fully on. Grabbing the sides of his head to contain the throbbing, Adam sits up slowly, putting his head between his knees, then remembers — someone is coming. He groans, reality coming into focus. Cowboy boots. Dad’s office. Right, ok — getting up, he goes to look out of the window that faces the street.

Out front, a key turns in the deadbolt, and the door releases. Two men step in — the taller man motions to the other to take his boots off, and puts a finger to his lips. They move quietly through the aisle, toward the stairs. The taller man automatically avoids the tricky floor board — the other man, not knowing, steps squarely onto it. Squeak! Agatha, taking any sound as a cue to materialize, swoops toward them — with a wagging finger and stern look on her pale face.

Adam, grateful for the distraction, stuffs the pillow and blanket back — and vodka! Shoes on next, clumsily, then out of the office, quietly closing the door behind him. He sees the commotion on the front steps and makes his way to the back staircase toward the alley. Realizing too late that his blazer is still in the office, he feels for keys in his jeans. Office bunch yes, house and car keys — no. Dammit, they must be in the blazer. Groaning, Adam sees he is going to have to go back in and deal with whatever is happening. That’s not his job, he thinks, and it’s not like Agatha can’t handle it — she’s been effectively managing security at the bookstore for her whole afterlife. Not to mention, she's sober.

Out in the night air, the cold helps Adam’s thinking. Whoever went into the store just now had a key, limiting the number of people it could be. Looking around the parking lot, he sees Tom’s truck, and sighs. Why is his father’s brother at the bookstore so late at night? Tom’s been stocking shelves part-time and sometimes opens the store for the cleaning crew — but what could he be up to now? Thinking fast but still a touch drunk, he decides truth is the best way to go — he’d just head back up there and say he left his blazer earlier, grab it, and leave.

I got this, Adam thinks, walking around the corner and looking up into the big glass store window. There, for the otherwise empty street to see, is his Uncle Tom, in the elevated reading nook — doing AcroYoga. He is on his back, with a man perched on his feet working himself up into a handstand. Shaking his head and squinting his eyes, Adam looks again, and yes, that is his uncle — in a closed bookstore with a strange man in patterned yoga pants balanced on his feet.

Walking back around the corner, Adam puts his back to the stone wall, feeling the coolness through his t-shirt. He reaches for his flask, forgetting that his blazer is inside. Keys, flask, ticket. Shit, the ticket! Rounding the corner again, pulling office keys out of jeans, Adam walks up to the front door. Taking a steadying breath, he unlocks the door, and walks right into Agatha who is trying to push him back out.

“What the hell is going on here?” Adam demands of Agatha, aloud. “Why are you trying to push me out of the shop? I’m just coming back to get my blazer!”

Tom, having heard, makes his way to the front door to find out what’s going on. He pushes his toiletries bag under a club chair as he strides by. Whoever is at the door doesn’t need to know he’s been living at the bookshop since the contract at his full-time job ended. Handstand-man follows, feeling uneasy about the whole thing — he’s been hoping for cuddles after AcroYoga practice, but now thinks he may just slip out while everyone is distracted.

Agatha sees Tom approaching and throws up her hands. Turning to go back to the reference desk, she waggles a finger at them all, thinking loudly “I am done getting in the middle of this! Tell each other the truth! I’m done covering for you!”

Both shrug, and go to speak at once.

“You first,” they both say.

“Tom, I just stopped back to pick up my blazer — I left it here earlier,” says Adam.

“Oh, what’s Agatha covering for you for, then?”

“I was sleeping off too much drink on Dad’s couch earlier. I walked here from Lucky's."

“Oh, whatever,” Tom says nonchalantly. “At least you weren’t drinking and driving, right?”

“Yeah, I know better than to do that,” Adam says, wincing a little, remembering, and takes another steadying breath. Then asks, “So what’s she covering for you for, Tom?”

“Well…uh…I kind of lost my job at the paper and couldn’t pay rent, so my roommates kicked me out. I crash on friend’s couches most of the time, but I’ve been sleeping here…when I have company and want some privacy.”

At that, Handstand-man comes around the corner and waves. Tom gestures to him and says, “Company.”

Adam nods and shrugs, not knowing what to say. He goes back to the office to retrieve his blazer. Tom is homeless? How did I not know that? Feeling the heaviness on his heart at this realization, Adam wonders if he can help somehow. And, then, of course, he remembers — the ticket. Grabbing a little black notebook from a Moleskine display on the way up, he makes a mental note to pay for it. Adam sits at his dad’s desk. Uncapping a pen he scribbles something on the page, then carefully unzips the little pocket in his blazer. Removing the ticket he’d bought and scratched off at the local bar hours earlier, he looks at it again pausing to confirm the $20,000 grand prize really did match his numbers. That really happened, he thinks. I actually won. Getting up, kissing the winning ticket goodbye — Adam sticks it in the notebook and heads downstairs.

“I’m heading home,” Adam says to the room. “Tom, there’s something for you in this notebook — I think you need it more than I do. I would have just blown it gambling, anyway.”

Adam looks around the shop, nods, and heads back out into the night air.

Tom watches him go, then looks in the notebook. In smooth black ink, under a gold lottery ticket, the note reads “Get a room! And finish writing your book, now that you have time — Oh, and use some of the money to replace Dad’s fancy bottle of vodka for me, please.”