The Story of The Story

Paul Shirley Chapman checked his watch for the fourth time in as many minutes. The theatre class today had kept him after-hours at Riverdale Public school, where he was employed as a history teacher. With his destination still about seven minutes away, his mind took a quick trip back to the chain of events that had led him to rushing to a rather charmingly named bookstore called The Booklore.

About almost a year back, when Paul’s night-time dreams of becoming a writer had started to seep into his daydreams, he had entered the school with half his mind still struggling to come up with that awe-inspiring first-novel idea that would propel him into the esteemed company of published writers. By the time he had opened his Tuna sandwich lunch, a gossip had reached the staff room. Earlier that day, the janitor had caught a senior student dealing weed behind the basketball court. Accepting it as a bane of teaching at a public school, Paul had paid only fleeting attention to it. He had more important matters to devote his grey cells to, like coming up with the idea for his first book. It wasn’t until he picked up a stray newspaper left by a commuter on the bus that he thought, really thought, about the drug dealing idiot. The headline from the open page had captured his attention. It was about how some folks in a country town had spotted a ‘flying anomaly’, sensationally (and somewhat stupidly) claimed by the reporter to be a UFO from outer space. On any other day, such news had would have only emitted a wry smile from him. But the amateur weed-dealer from earlier was still lurking in some corner of his mind. In a flash of a moment, they both came together to fuse into the idea that his mind had been impatiently waiting for. He could see the beginning of the story; an alien crash-landing on a weed farm just outside a city and going on to become a prominent drug lord of the city. The rest of his bus trip went in a daze.

That night, his subconscious filled in the details in his story. The next morning he started with the first chapter. Six months and three drafts later, he was brimming with uncontained enthusiasm as he sent his first letter to a publisher with his manuscript. And then the second. And the third. After his seventeenth rejection letter, he took the matters into his own hands. He self-published twenty copies from a local publisher and went around hawking his books to various bookstores. He had an idea in his mind that if he can find twenty people who were willing to live a story he had so lovingly created, he maybe had a chance at writing as a career. He managed to convince a reluctant Mr. George Cantwell of The Booklore to stock a single copy of his book in their Fantasy section. “No more than one at a time, lad. Fantasy shelf right now is like London real estate.” he told Paul when he agreed to keep his copy.

From that day, about two months back now, Paul had visited The Booklore every day after the school. While he would never accept that he had hoped that people will scramble over each other to get their hands on a copy of his limited-edition print run, the first day he returned to the bookstore he had to pause and take a breath before he turned towards the Fantasy section. He needn’t have bothered. The book was there. And it remained for the next two months. Even with a little less enthusiasm than the day before, he returned to The Booklore every day, sometimes to buy, but mostly in hope of finally not seeing his book on the shelf. And while the book remained firmly planted on the shelf, he got acquainted with James.

James was a 16-year-old history student in his first-year college. He worked at the bookstore as a helper, managing and assisting with the ever-decreasing visitors each day. Working at a bookstore at his age given the neighborhood he came from was quite an anomaly. During the past two months, James had become a person somewhere between an acquaintance and a friend for Paul. Every time he visited the store, he would idly chat with James for a few minutes. They talked about school, football, books and sometimes James’s life outside The Booklore. Their sort of friendship grew roots in time, much like the ones his book seemed to have in the shelf.

Paul was shaken out of his reverie with the sharp jerk of the bus. Taking one last glance at his watch, he hurried towards the bookstore. James was carrying a near-astronomical pile of hardcovers onto the shop.

“Let me give you a hand with those books before you become the first person from your neighborhood to die of a book avalanche.”

Paul reached up and took off a few books from the top. James’s spine straightened a little. 

“Thanks, Mr. P.” he said with visible relief.

They both deposited their respective half-piles just inside the door. After waving off another Thanks from James, Paul moved towards George Cantwell who had his nose buried between the pages of Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban.

“Your reading choices have certainly changed, George.” Paul casually remarked with a twinkle in his eyes.

“They have bloody well not. Just wanted to see what the fuss was about.” George replied with a frown creasing his forehead.

 “So what’s the verdict?”

“Looks to me like a proper rehash of The Lords of the Rings. They could’ve just stuck a new cover on it and sold them just fine.”

“You better not speak of this outside the store. Kids with pitchforks will be waiting outside.” Paul said with a wink.

“I suppose they will. But I can always distract them with Twilight.”

Paul and George shared a laugh before Paul retraced his now familiar steps towards the Fantasy section of the store. The shelf held no surprises for him. With his shoulder only slightly dropped, he looked around the store. His feet moved of their own accord, taking him on a journey from Fantasy to Self-help to the History section at the far end of the store. James sat there on a tiny wooden stool meant for children. He was scribbling in a notebook.

“Can’t think of a better place for finishing homework. What are you working on?” Paul asked.

James Looked up.

“Not much Mr. P. I’ve this paper due tomorrow on The Cultural Effects of World War 1 on colonized countries in the world. I’ve a few angles but nothing that hasn’t been said by a bunch of students just like me before.”

This intrigued Paul. It was not often that a student wanted to have a unique point of view on such a straightforward topic. At least he had not come across such a student.

“You wore your lucky belt today. I’ve got nothing to do for a couple of hours and the store seems to be managing itself quite adequately.” Paul gave the store a quick scan, registering George now lost to Harry Potter and a fly familiarizing itself with the Supreme Court laws.

Paul pulled an equally tiny chair and after some squirming, sat down. For the next two hours, almost an hour after the store was supposed to have been closed, James and Paul discussed, suggested, postulated and shredded every angle that was to be considered. James only had to get up twice to attend to the potential customers, one of which was just asking the directions to the movie theatre. At the end of the two hours, the physical toll of occupying the chairs meant for slighter anatomies was largely dulled by the very impressive skeleton of a history paper that lay before them. Paul wished a good night to James and went towards the door. George was still engrossed in the book, well past his leaving time.

“You know, that Sirius Black guy actually gets Ron at the end.”

He didn’t wait to see George’s angry face glowering after him from behind the desk.

…………………………

Next week, Paul missed Tuesday and Saturday at The Booklore. The week after that he showed up three times. James felt a little uneasy. It was like constantly glancing at your naked wrist when for the first time you forget to wear your watch in a long time. It was not only the fact that Mr. P had helped him with his studies more than a couple of times. Mr. P had always noticed him. Not once had he come to the bookstore not had a conversation with James. And it was not the one where the conversation is exhausted in 45 seconds. One day when he had taken a leave from the store just before his last exams, Mr. P had called to enquire and wished him luck, just before offering to help with anything he might need for the exams.

Then, after almost two weeks of absence, Paul showed up at The Booklore. After the customary greetings to George, he ambled around. He found James and chatted with him for a bit. James looked strangely fidgety. Assigning this to the group of students browsing the shelves on account of college being over, he left James to attend to them and sought to find the familiar Fantasy section. He did a cartoonish double-take after his cursory glance. Just to make sure, he called out to James.

“Hey James! Did Mr. George remove my book from the shelf?”

“Umm… No, Mr. P. I think someone picked it last week.”

“Okay… all right.” mumbled Paul vaguely.

Paul left the bookstore in a daze. He never remembered consciously selecting his dinner and having it. The last thought before he passed into the world of comforting dreams was that after all, maybe he could be a writer!

………………….

Paul returned to The Booklore the very next day, carrying another copy of his book. He perched the book discreetly on the Fantasy shelf. He fell back into his old habit. The bookstore again became a part of his daily routine. Then on the third day of his return, he found the second copy gone. He knew that books deeply depended on referrals. Maybe the first person who read his book ended up recommending it to his friend. Yes. That made perfect sense. Next day, he returned with renewed enthusiasm and placed another copy of his book on the shelf. By the weekend, it was gone. And then came the fourth, the fifth, and the rest. Within two months, nineteen of his copies had disappeared. On the day the penultimate copy was picked up, James caught up with him as he was leaving the store.

“Hey Mr. P. Your books are flying off the shelf! You have found your readers! Just how many more are there?”

“Oh, thank you James. I guess that was all of it. You have no idea what it means to me. I had almost given up writing. But you know what, I’ve been working on a new book for past two weeks now. It’s still a little rough around the edges, but I would love your input on that.” 

Whatever James was expecting, this was not it. Paul bought them coffee and then lay down his idea for his second book. It was set in a dystopian future where the government-controlled everyone’s watches, effectively dictating their lives. James was attentive; he asked the right questions and prodded Paul into refining the story. At the end of forty minutes, the story looked far more encouraging.

Their conversation ended at the bookstore. Paul ducked in to bid a good night to George. James went on with his closing routine. It wasn’t until he reached the Thriller section that he realized he was humming a forgotten tune to himself. George usually left earlier than James, leaving him with the duty of shutting down the store. The store was deserted and James took a few moments to take the calm in, like he did every day at the end of his shift. Giving everything a final look-over, he had almost passed the Fantasy section when he realized there was yet another copy of Mr. P’s book perched on the far corner of the shelf. So Mr. P did have another copy! This one will have to join the other nineteen in the cupboard behind the Mythology section. Any guilt that he had felt when he had picked the first of the copies and hid it in the cupboard to ease the life a little for Mr. P had disappeared today. Nineteen hidden books later, Mr. P had not only picked a pen again, he even had quite a promising story to tell. He had just turned around with the book in his hand and a feeling of satisfaction over a job well done in his heart when a note escaped from the pages of the book and fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and turned it towards the only light switched on in the store to see it better. It simply said,

I swear this is the last one. Thank you, James.