A Source of Comfort

“Did you know they filtered their water?”

“Anna.”

“Built the whole system themselves. They even had heated pools. And, to carve the Al-Khazneh-”

“Anna-”

“-they would start from the top and work their way down. The stairs they used are still there, and there’s even, like, imprinted ladders on the sides. It’s incredible.”

“We’re here.”

“What? Oh.” My rambling halted along with my feet. I stared at the storefront, the sidewalk broken and wobbly beneath my boots. The brick walls standing tall, if a bit dirtied, but what part of this city wasn’t coated in a fine layer of grime. A metal sign hung high over the glass door, looking sparkly new and out of place on the old bookstore.

“I will happily listen to all of your stories about the Nabataeans,” he said from my left, his warm words hitting my face, still stinging from the chilly, winter weather. Tearing my gaze from the shop, I watched as his head tilted to the doorway, round glasses falling down his nose in movement. “After you go in. You’ve been putting this off for three weeks already.”

I scuffed the pointed toe of my boot against the fading concrete, looking like a petulant child as my words came out in a whine, “but I don’t want to.”

“It’ll be fine.” He assured, his bright eyes gaining a teasing twinkle. “Or, it won’t, and you’ll get a different job somewhere else. Either way, I’ll grab our dinner and meet you back at the apartment.” He patted my shoulder as he walked away, careful to never call our shared living space ‘home’.

He was right, I knew. If I couldn’t get my old job back, I could just go somewhere else. I could stack books, or cans, or whatever the fuck, anywhere. It wasn’t like this is what I went to school for, trained for and educated myself in. This was just a source of comfort in my life. A quiet, little shop, filled with unique novels and creaky floorboards, bustling with locals looking for a specific read and tourists wanting a unique souvenir. A place to hop out of the rain and plunk down on a loveseat to read a few pages, or aimlessly shop, trying to kill an hour in a city that never stops.

I, like many others, grew up watching The Mummy, and decided to plan my life accordingly. Most kids my age did, though not as many followed through with the plan. Some wanted to be like Rick O’Connell, gruff yet charming, a living legend himself. They wanted to have the map in their head, just like he insisted, and to lead others on an Indiana Jones-like adventure, knowing every right or wrong move in ancient cities surrounded by sand. Others chose Evelyn, desiring to know facts about frail artifacts while proudly announcing her librarian status, and yet handling a weapon with ease as she defended her family in danger. She was intelligent and badass and quite the role model for little girls and boys, alike.

I chose Evie.

That was, until my twenty second birthday, and a flight to Las Vegas sent me into hysterics. I cried so hard I passed out before I could even open my complimentary bag of peanuts. My feet haven’t left the ground since, hurtling my chances of a career in my field. I’ve been bound to the United States, a country known for its newness and lack of history to rival our neighbors to the east. And, without a driver’s license, let alone a vehicle to drive, I’m glued to New York City and their expansive subway system. Certainly not the worst city to live in for a historian, and seven months ago, I would’ve thought I had the (second place) career of my dreams right at my fingertips.

I did. But it blew right out of my hand, like a stack of papers on a windy day.

I was chosen, out of a hundred candidates, to collaborate on an exhibit for the American Museum of Natural History. The big leagues. The one everyone wants to visit, just to see if the T-rex really chases its own rib bone when the sun goes down. There were four of us brought in for this assignment, recommended by past professors and connections we had. We busted our asses, day in and day out, stupidly expecting that it would lead to a more permanent position with the museum. Or maybe a placement somewhere else. Just something. And there was something. Two somethings, actually. Two positions to join the museum’s staff when the exhibit ended and everything in our little corner was torn down and packed away. Two positions and four people, and I was not one of the lucky ones.

So, I’m back. Crawling back to my old job before I succumb to the golden arches and the dreaded question, “would you like fries with that?”

I pushed the door open, the little bell ringing above my head as I stepped in the hushed quietness of the store. A few shoppers milled around, pulling hardbacks from the floor to ceiling shelves while two men sat opposite each other in plush chairs, centered in the room as their eyes trailed each word on the open pages in front of them.

“Oh my, God.”

I looked to the table beside the door, a little cash register sitting atop with stacks of books and reading accessories decorated around it. Sat behind it all was a cashier, spine cracked open in his nimble hands as he stared horrified at me.

“Hi, Roger,” my voice meeker than I am.

He let his mouth flop open and closed a few times, blinking with each movement, before finally settling on a still shocked, “hi, Anna.”

“So,” I swallowed, going for casual and failing immediately, “is Meg around?”

“Oh my, G-,” he suddenly leaned forward, asking in a hissed whisper, “what happened to the “best job in the world so see ya later, suckers”?”

I dropped into a whisper, unconsciously mimicking him, “it’s still there, I just don’t have it.”

“Anna.”

The sharp tone pulled my attention, as I looked at the woman walking through the store. “Meg, hi. Good to see you.” I sucked up as best I could.

“I didn’t think we’d see you again.” Her stare calculating and cold, an anomaly in this kind shop.

“Yeah, well.” So eloquent. “I was hoping to speak to you about something-”

“How’s the grand job at the museum? The one you had been waiting for while working “in hell,”” she held up her fingers, bent in air quotes. “Remember? You slammed your nametag down on the counter,” she pointed to the table tucked in the corner, the one with the communal desktop that ran too slow for anyone’s patience, “and told me to throw out anything you left behind.”

“I wasn’t … in a good place,” I pinched my eyes, confused by my own words. I was in a good place. A great place. I was goddamn giddy. And now I get to chow down on some crow.

“Y’know,” Roger cut in, “we have been shorthanded since Darla left. We could use her, Meg.”

I always liked Roger.

“Oh no, Darla left?” I asked, like I gave a shit. Darla was a disaster of a human, which made for tense shared shifts and lots of restacking and sorting once she’d left for the day.

“And yet, she did so without telling any of us off. Weird,” Meg sarcastically remarked.

I let an awkward chuckle slip through my teeth, aiming a hopeful smile at my ex-boss. “Fresh start?”

I watched Meg as she glanced at Roger before returning my stare. She hadn’t suddenly aged in the seven months I’ve been gone, but she had since I started this job how many years ago. I needed a part time job in college, one where I could study while working, and Meg had just been promoted. Not quite a spring chicken herself, but certainly a fresher faced Meg ran the shop and balanced the books. Now, she appeared more managerial. Her haircut a blunter chop, her clothes less comfortable and her attitude coming off as confident instead of approachable.

“We have two filled trolleys waiting for you in the back that need to be sorted and tagged.”

“Yes,” my hands flew out, ready to grab her, grab anything in eagerness before I remembered where I was. “Yes, I can do an hour, maybe two, right now. I’m on it. I’m on it,” I yelled as I moved to the back where I knew the newest intakes would be.

That was easier than I anticipated. I expected more groveling. Much more. Lucky me, I guess.

I spotted them as I rounded the corner, the smell of old books somehow stronger back here than in the front. And there they were, waiting for me. Sitting twin to each other, loaded with different sizes and colors of covers, though I’d bet mostly mysteries sat on the metal tiered shelves. It was kind of our specialty.

Maybe this was where I was supposed to be. In this bookstore, surrounded by these misfit stories, organizing them on the wooden shelves and watching eyes light up when they find one interesting. Like this, I pick up the first book on the top shelf, a thick novel with a cover the color of freshly spilt blood, Yours Truly, From Hell. A thriller based on Jack the Ripper returning to reign hell on London after a hundred dormant years.

Okay, this one might not light up any eyes.

But others do, and a few dozen uncommon and far from the New York Times Bestsellers list or any famous book club novels sit in front of me, waiting for me to crack them open. To assess their price, to find a place for them along our massive displays. To tap them with my finger at the end of each week, seeing what inventory we still had, and how long they sat still, dusty and unsold. To consider using my employee discount on ones that catch my attention, or hope they’ll get moved to our two dollar rack soon enough.

This is the job I need right now. To lick my wounds in a comforting environment. It might not be long term, whether I can find a job matching the career I’d dreamed of since childhood, or move along to another bookstore, one a bit bigger or a better paying position. But right here, right now, it does feel like this place, filled with written characters that need to be brought to life, that need to be pictured and focused on through imagination, has been waiting for me to return.