Untold Stories

The message in my inbox haunted me. "Performance Review Reminder" in bold letters from my company's HR ghoul. I was nervous but not because I was bad at my job - I do all right - but because there had recently been a merger of two companies and I was starting to feel a bit redundant. I was afraid the company might share my opinion and send me packing. Not a great way to start the week.

The meeting was scheduled for after my lunch break but there was no way I'd be able to eat something other than my fears. I left the office just the same but meandered down the street. If things did go sideways, I would miss this place. not the office or the job but the location. I wanted a last look before the blade fell.

I had time to kill - which might be the title of my life story - so I ducked into "Page by Page", an ancient-looking used bookshop on the corner. I always wanted to go but never had the time. Now that I was avoiding lunch and awaiting my possible death sentence, this seemed as good a time as possible to check it out.

The bells attached to the door clattered as I walked through but no one greeted me, save for a calico cat. Well, greeted is kind of a grandiose term for what the cat actually did - which was to stop cleaning themselves for a minute before continuing. To a cat though, that was damn near rolling out the red carpet.

Besides spotting the feline greeter, the next sensation that grabbed me was the smell of old books. It wraps you up like a warm blanket. I read somewhere that the smell is a mix of old grass and vanilla but those two scents seem underwhelming for the feeling it really gives you. Journies waiting to be taken. Stories untold. Possibilities as endless as the universe.

There were dozens of shelves but they could not contain the incredible number of books that flooded the space. Some genres we stacked floor to ceiling and looked like a stiff breeze would knock them down. A cutesy way of describing the scene would be "cluttered" but the truth was this was "hoarding".

I loved it. I should've come to this shop sooner.

I started walking down the "Western" aisle and looked at the scores of books with similar covers - a damsel in a dress that is being held together by a stitch and a masked cowboy on a horse ready to save her was the dominant theme. I got to thinking, "Had I ever been anyone's masked cowboy?" Who was I kidding, I'd never even worn a cowboy hat let alone rode a horse to save someone. I moved on.

Sci-Fi was next and, like every used bookstore, there is no shortage of paperback sci-fi books. So many of them with such inventive covers - monsters, rockets, and, surprisingly, nearly nude space damsels. Most of these golden age books go unread. I think of the authors that spend months or years banging away at that story just to have it sit in an old shop. An unread testament to a bygone era.

I turned a corner and found myself in the self-help aisle. This, too, was filled with books that people haven't read. Unheeded advice surrounded me and I suddenly felt what being a sober person at a bar felt like when some lush went full Freud on you.

I picked one up - "Smiling Through the Pain" - and thumbed through it. Nothing stood out and I gently placed it back on the stack. That's when I noticed the man standing near the end of the aisle. He was small and bookish - not a total surprise, considering - and he gave me a friendly nod as we exchanged glances.

"Need help," he offered.

"Don't we all," I said with a smirk.

"Some more than others," he added with a sincerity that made me instantly feel guilty about my joke.

"I'm just browsing."

"What are you looking for?"

"I'm not sure," I said with a subtle sigh. He picked up on it.

"Rough day?"

"Not yet, but I think it might go that way."

"Why is that?"

"Just work things," I said, "You know how that goes."

"I do," he said staring out at the middle distance.

"I love your shop. I've always wanted to stop in but never made the time."

"I find," he started, "that we often never make the time for things we really want to do."

"That's true. I guess it's because our wants don't come with deadlines and bosses."

"Never liked the term 'deadline'," he said, "'Lifeline' feels more affirming, don't you think?"

"You've never worked in corporate America," I said with a shrug.

"I've had my fair share of toil," he said with a small grin, "each one wore me down some but it never wore me away. A diamond only shines once it's polished."

"I'm not a diamond," I said with a shrug, "I'd be lucky to be cubic zirconia."

He laughed, which honestly, made me feel good.

"We all are our worst critics," he suggested.

"Let's hope so. I have a performance review in ten minutes or so and I'm praying they'll think higher of me."

"And if they don't?"

"I don't even want to think about it."

"Avoiding potential problems doesn't do us any good."

He had a point. I don't know why, but I felt compelled to answer him. I could have walked out of the store and gone back to my desk, but I didn't. I stayed and opened up.

"Unemployment office is probably my first stop," I said to the stranger, "Then updating my resume. Looking for a job. Interviews. Interviews...."

"What do you WANT to do," he interrupted.

"Earn a living."

"When you were a kid, did you have a dream or did you just want to exist?"

"I mean, of course, I had a dream. I wanted to be an astronaut, doctor, police officer, and firefighter concurrently," I said, "but the older I got, the less I wanted to do any of those."

"But something stuck with you, right? Something you'd always want to do but maybe were afraid?"

I chewed over his question. He was right. "I always wanted to...."

He raised his hand and stopped me. "Breathe life into your dream when you need it the most."

I closed my mouth and almost felt the words smash against my teeth. I took in the man - there was something familiar and unfamiliar about him. He's a face you see in the world every day but never learn their name. Another unread book in a shop full of them.

"What's your name," I asked.

Before he could answer the bells on the door clattered again. I looked towards the door expecting to see someone walk in but there wasn't anyone. When I turned back the man was gone.

"Hello," called out but no one responded. I looked around the shop but I never found him. The only other thing in the shop was the now sleeping calico cat.

I wanted to keep exploring but one glance at my watch pushed me out the door. I had a date with an HR representative but, weirdly, I no longer felt the dread I had beforehand. I felt...calm.

"Thank you," I said to no one and left the shop.

***

About an hour later, I walked out of my office carrying my belongings in a small cardboard box. I whistled as I walked down the street - relief filling a space I had reserved for dread.

I wanted to thank the owner of the bookshop for whatever voodoo magic they did but when I got to the corner I froze. There was no book shop - it was an empty space with a yellowing "For Rent" sign plastered on the window.

Laying on the front step was a calico cat. I kneeled down and called for the cat to come over. After a few seconds, the cat stood, stretched and walked over to me. I gave him a scratch on the side of the head.

"I've always dreamed of being writer," I whispered to the cat.

The cat mewed and then laid back down. I stood, grabbed my things and headed home.