Caleb's Comics

Caleb pulled the cord to signal the bus driver that he wanted off at the next stop. As the bus gilded through the intersection, he looped his backpack’s straps over his shoulders, grabbed a pole, and stood up. As the driver braked, he took two big steps to the rear door, and pushed the yellow bars that triggered the opening mechanism. He called a “thanks” to the driver, stepped off the bus, and continued up the block to his comic book store. 

He pulled his keys out of his front left pocket, found the right one, and unlocked the door. He raised the blinds on the front window, and installed himself behind his desk. He hung up his backpack on the hook he’d installed on the wall. Then, he pushed the power button on the computer. 

While waiting for the machine to warm up, he grabbed a box of new inventory, balancing it between his left hip and arm. He walked it to the back of the store, past the racks of current issues, tables of back issues, and shelves full of comic-adjacent merchandise that paid most of his rent, to the door at the back of the store, where he fished his keys out of his pocket. He found the right one, and unlocked the door. 

Caleb flipped a switch on the wall and the lights came alive. He put the box down on his work counter, then walked around it. He hung up his denim jacket on the hook he’d nailed to the wall, then pushed the button to start the coffee maker. While waiting for the machine to begin its magic, he grabbed his inventory log and walked back across the store.

The computer was ready, so Caleb typed in his credentials. He checked his email and the store’s online order portal, then pulled up the website he ordered stock from. Reconciling the orders that he’d found in his emails and online, he placed an order to arrive later that week. This chore complete, he grabbed the broom from the corner and began his cleaning routine.

He swept up and down the store, then opened the front door, and swept the steps and the sidewalk in front of his bay window, with its display of the most recent issues and merchandise. He waved to the barber opening his shop across the street, then headed next door to the cafe to grab a coffee (cream and sugar) and an apple fritter (still warm and gooey). 

Returning to his own store, Caleb pulled his keys out of his left front pocket, and turned to the right one. He unlocked the door and hung up his denim jacket on the nail he’d hammered into the wall the previous summer. He sat on the stool behind the counter (that he’d found at a yard sale for two dollars), which put him at the perfect height for the oddly constructed counter that he used as a desk. He poured the now ready coffee into a waiting mug (emblazoned with “World’s Best Boss”), and pulled two stale oatmeal cookies out of the package that had lived beside the coffee machine for the past month or so. He dunked his cookies into the coffee, and consumed his breakfast while perusing his inventory log. Realizing he needed to check stock, he walked back to the back room.

Finding the door locked, Caleb fished his keys out of his left front pocket, found the right one, and unlocked it. He hung up his jacket on the ornate antique hook he’d paid the landlord extra to install, so it would be properly anchored. The computer was warmed up, and ready for him to check his stock. He noticed that his order was set to arrive later on in the week. He took a sip from his paper cup of coffee, burning his tongue. The cafe had changed vendors, and the new cups were so well insulated that he couldn’t tell how hot his beverage was before it was too late. He shook his head, put the cup down, and went back to the front of the store, needing to sort through the latest delivery of new inventory.

Caleb slid himself behind his desk and into the antique office chair he’d rescued from an untimely death in a landfill the week he’d opened his store. His mother had wondered if the set-up wasn’t a little pretentious for a first business, but he’d always wanted his own official office set, and figured this was as close as he was likely to come to one. He flipped open his inventory log, and, on a scrap of receipt paper, jotted down some of the issues he’d been meaning to order. He took a sip of his now luke-warm coffee, and lamented the fact that he still didn’t have a fridge, so milk or cream was really out of the question. He consoled himself by ripping open the paper bag, tearing off a chunk of fritter, and dunking the going-on-stale pastry into the coffee, ameliorating both. 

Caleb, now having planned his order, stood up, and headed to the back of the store with his list. The back room’s door was locked, so he fished his keys out of his pocket and let himself in. He sat at the work table, placed his notepad beside the phone, ready to recite the issues he needed to his supplier. Hoping it had cooled enough, he gently blew into the opening of the paper cup of coffee. It smelled fresh and homey. He wished he’d gotten a pastry; the cafe made amazing scones and delicious muffins. He considered going back, but the sleeve of digestive biscuits his mom had brought him back from England was sitting right in front of him, beside the phone. He rolled the sleeve towards himself, and opened one end, prying out three cookies. They were crushed around the edges, so he licked off the crumbs before dunking them into the steaming coffee in his mug. 

Needing a pen to jot down how his order went and not finding one, Caleb got up and crossed his store again. Seeing the barber across the street letting himself in for the day through the window, Caleb is inspired to step out into the sunshine and to call a “hello.” Already being outside, he decides to run through his outdoor chores. He gets his broom from the alley and sweeps the sidewalk in front of his store free of dirt, cigarette butts, and some of last fall’s dried leaves. The cafe next door smelled of fresh bread and coffee, but his bus was scheduled to arrive any second. Resisting temptation, he stepped just off the curb, and, sure enough, could see the bus’s top blue light. 

As the bus glided through the intersection, Caleb plunged his fist into his pocket, double checking that  he had his fare. As the driver braked, he stepped up to the curb, and when the doors opened, he hopped on. He dropped his fare into the small metal box beside the driver, and slipped his backpack’s straps off his shoulders, and slid into a seat. 

Caleb watched the city fly by the bus’ windows, careful not to miss his stop. He’d opened his store the previous summer, but still missed his stop once or twice a week because he got caught up in people and scenery watching. Seeing the landmark graffiti that always signaled him, he reached up and pulled the cord to let the driver know he wanted off at the next stop.