Shelf Monkey (9 page)

“If we could just for once push a book they haven’t had shoved down their throats by a corporate logo.” Aubrey wouldn’t let it go. “Kazuo Ishiguro has a new release, it’s not too threatening, and I’m sure if we just try, we might just expand our customer’s minds beyond the usual pap.”

Back to Page. Her back was if anything even straighter, as if her vertebrae were being fused together from the blazing heat of her anger. No one dared breathe, lest the slightest breeze upset the tension.

“This can wait until later, Mr. Fehr,” she said finally, in a tone of utter reason so unexpected the audience reeled as if slapped. “Meet me in my office?”

“Of course, Page.” Aubrey gave a slightest of apologetic nods. “I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries.”

“No apology necessary.” Page’s spine relaxed, and my knees almost buckled with relief. “Now, I think that’s everything.” She glanced at her clipboard. “Oops, I forgot, Thomas. Thomas Friesen, are you here?” She looked over the room. “Mr. Friesen?”

I timidly raised my hand above Warren’s shoulder. “Here, Ms. Adler,” I said, instantly back in kindergarten.

“Ah, there you are. Everyone, one last thing, we have new employee starting today. This is Thomas. He’ll be taking over for Emily.” A chilly ripple of resentment threads itself through the group. At me? “Thomas is a former
lawyer
”

FUCK! FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK!

“who I am quite positive will be a terrific asset to our store’s little team. Thomas, I’ll leave it to you to get acquainted with the staff. Danae, look after him, will you?” The group broke up, employees dispersing themselves through the store.

“Hey, sorry, didn’t see you down there, guy,” Warren apologized. “Been there long?”

“Uh, long enough.”

“Oh, you saw that, huh? You enjoy the floorshow? Hope it
didn’t turn you off working for our happy little family here.”

“Yeah, what was
that
about?”

“They’re always like that. I’ve never understood it, but the way I figure, if you can sell like Aubrey, you can pretty much act how you please.”

“Well, I guess, but
still . . .”
The explanation didn’t sit well with me. Aubrey’s behaviour was a bit too forward to be ever tolerated by an employer. “You don’t think they’re . . .” I let the sentence hang in the air, hoping that my insinuation was strong enough that I wouldn’t need to utter the words.

“What?”

“They’re . . .” I thrust my hips back and forth a few times.

Warren made a face. “Hey, there’s no call for that kind of imagery, dude; this is a family bookstore.” He wobbled on his feet as the distasteful notion cemented itself in his mind. “No, it’s nothing like that. I don’t get their relationship either, but it’s not that. It’s like, like . . . well, I don’t know what it’s like exactly, similes fail me. But if there is something that it’s like, something you never get used to, then that’s what it is.” He checked his watch. “Gotta go, dude, the doors are about to open and I’ve got a wicked whiz coming on. I’ve got a lunch hour at about one, see you in the break room?”

“I have no idea. I haven’t even filled out a form yet.”

“I’ll help you with that.” I felt a light tapping on my shoulder, which I took as an indication that I should swivel around. Turned thusly, I stood looking at a woman dressed entirely in what I can only describe as librarian chic. A woman who finally fit my image of what the term
zaftig
was supposed to mean. The kind of woman
I
dream about. Round in all the best places. Black hair bound in a ponytail, with a loose strand or two dangling fetchingly loose. Dark plastic rims outlining eyes of an almost black brown. Freckles abounded before me, highlighting cheekbones and nose in such a way that I became acutely aware of such things. She knew she was good-looking, but saw no need to flaunt it. A sweetish perfume tickled my nose hairs. I inhaled deeply.

“Thomas?” she asked. Did I detect a note of lust in her voice, or was I just desperately lonely?

“Yes?”

“Do you always flare your nostrils like that?”

I stopped sniffing. “No, sorry, uh, allergies.” I sniffed again to demonstrate how plugged up I was. “Too much smog in the air, or something.”

Warren snickered. “Yes, something in the air.” He pushed an enormous elbow through my ribs. “So much
something
. Really hard to breathe in here, right, Thomas? Could it be love?”

The woman took pity on me, unmistakably annoyed at Warren’s teasing of the new boy with the hopeless schoolboy crush. “I’m Danae,” she said, extending a lovely hand toward me. Perspiration filled my palm. I willed the appendage to dry and manfully gripped her hand tightly, not too tightly, just enough to show that I was indeed all man, but still had a sensitive side that could permit me to cry at sentimental movies and funerals, and if she’d only give me a chance, I could in all probability be the one for her, the soulmate, the yin to her yang, the other side of her coin. By the end of the handshake, I was exhausted.

Danae wiped her palm off on the seat of her pants. Dammit. She looked to the big man beside me. “Warren, don’t you have a Munroe to get from Page?”

He nodded solemnly in a playful show of obsequiousness. “Oh, yes ma’am. Can’t wait to crack it open. Just wanted to make sure my new mate here was well taken care of.”

“Well, leave that to me, won’t you?” She swept Warren away with her hands. “Off you go, little boy. There’s literature to sell.” Warren snapped together a jaunty salute and lumbered off to his grazing grounds, grinning at me all the while and throwing me a wink that could be seen from space.

If she saw the wink, Danae took no mind. “I’ll be your tour guide today. If you’ll follow me?”

“Lead on, Bwana.”

Danae escorted me through the jumble of aisles to her workstation. “Do I get an employee map?” I asked as we rounded the fifth corner on our trek. “You know, in case I get lost and you’re not available.”

“You’ll get used to it. Just remember, moss grows on the north side of a bookshelf.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“In an emergency, the binding glue of most books, if sucked out of the spine, contains essential nutrients that can be used to sustain life almost indefinitely.” We reached an antique desk hidden behind Asian-American Studies. She perched herself behind an enormous flat screen and motioned for me to have a seat on the metal folding chair to the side. “Have a seat here, and I’ll get you entered into the computer.” She began typing on the keyboard.

“So, what’s your position here?” I asked as I sat with a sexy slouch, trying for an air of Cary Grant nonchalance, but instead settling for what I hoped was a stuttering Hugh Grantesque effacement.

“I’m the assistant manager.” I straightened up in my seat. “And before you ask, no, I don’t date employees.”

“I quit.”

“Funny. How do you spell Friesen, E I or I E?”

“I E. You assume I’ll want to date you?”

“You wouldn’t be the first, sport.”

“Could I be the last?”

“Cute. Social Insurance number?”

I gave her my card. “Hey, we just met, next thing you’ll be asking me for my telephone number.”

“Telephone number?”

“Uh . . . I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t be coy, now.”

“No, I’m just . . . temporarily between phones at the moment.” My telephone had been disconnected the week previous for massive funds owing. “Besides, I hate them. Phones. Don’t you just hate its air of despotism? It’s this tiny little man who sits in your corner and demands your attention at any time it sees fit. No matter where you are, what you’re doing, you leap to attention when it calls for you. And cell phones, don’t get me started. We’d all be better off without them, you ask me.”

She stopped typing. Her brown eyes considered me. “What an intensely charming little rant, if only it meant something. You must have practised in front of a mirror for hours.” Busted. “And if someone gets sick and I need a replacement? How do I call you, what do I do?”

“Tell them to walk it off? I’ll give you a number when I’ve
received my paycheque, promise.”

She sighed. “I’ll put my number in for now. Just don’t let me forget.”

“Does this mean we’re dating?”

“I assume you have an address, or should I just put down ‘beneath Osborne Street Bridge’ or something?”

“Apt. 27, 182 Furby Street. Just south of Broadway.”

“The bridge would be nicer.”

“Hey, once you get past the constant threat of drive-by stabbings, it’s not so bad.”

She placed her hands in her lap. “Done. Just please try to get a phone soon, before Page finds out what I’ve done.”

“You’re scared of her, too?”

“I’ve met nicer rabid dogs.” We shared a smile of mutual terror. “Are you always so flirty?” she asked.

“Opening night jitters,” I said. “I kind of ramble on when I’m nervous.”

“What comes after Q?”

“R?”

“You’ll do fine.” She stood up. “Follow me, Thomas, and I’ll give you the grand tour. Or do you prefer Tom, or Tommy?”

“Thomas,” I said, a little too forcefully. “I, um . . . I’ve never liked the name Tommy, that’s all.” She took a pause, looking at me with a distinct tilt to her head, the tilt that says you’re hiding something, and you’re doing a shitty job of it, but I’ll let it slide, just be aware that
I’m
aware, you dig?

“Okay, Thomas it is,” she said. We strode off in a westerly direction. “Now, the biggest part of your job will be handling customer requests. Page doesn’t approve of lengthy discussions as to the literary merits of any particular book, so keep your answers short.”

“What
does
Page approve of?”

“Sales. Volume, not discourse, is the lifeblood of this store. Did she give you her used car analogy?” I nodded. We walked in silence for several hundred metres before reaching what appeared to be the Fiction acre. Danae stopped and blew an errant strand of hair from her face while she thought about something. “Listen, Thomas, I don’t mean to freak you out, what with this being your first day and all, but you heard what happened to Emily, right?”

“What, the previous me? No.”

Danae took a breath. “Look, you seem relatively stable. But this place, it can have an effect on you.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“I mean to. Emily was like a lot of us here, she loved books. I mean, why else would sane people work here, right? But this place, it isn’t about the books, it’s about the sale of books. Got me?”

“With you so far.”

“Emily, well, got a little frustrated with Page and the whole money thing. She began to berate the customers for their ignorance. Eventually, Page got wind of it, and . . .” Danae made a motion with her hands, wiping invisible crumbs away. “Page got rid of her. One day here, next day, poof.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

She sighed, revolving her eyes ceilingward. “Because I egged Emily on. We all did. The place’ll affect you, you know, in a Hill House sort of way. We can all get that way, and as it turned out, she was the one to take the bullet for the team.” She noticed the oblique terror in my eyes, and put her hand on my arm. “Don’t mean to frighten, sorry. Aubrey says you’ll do well, I just want to make sure.”

“He said that? I’ve known him like four minutes.”

“He’s a good judge of character. That and books. Never wrong about books.” Danae peeked at her watch. “Sorry, gotta go. Page and I have a meeting about sales figures or some bullshit thing. I’ll find you at lunchtime, see how you’re making out.”

“What should I do?”

She pulled out a degrading trainee tag and pinned it to my vest. “Just stay in this general area, answer questions, and if anything gets too complicated, find another employee, or direct them to the front of the store.”

“And where’s that?”

“Just say, by the big head. You know the one I mean?”

“Intimately.”

“Remember, women account for eighty percent of all hardcover sales, so push the big books on the females. Weird, but true.” She walked off, waving goodbye over her shoulder.

As instructional training goes, I’ve had better.
I take a linebacker stance in Fiction, my designated area, thank Christ.

An intercom click, husky voice on loudspeakers. “The store is now open.”

“Music” fills the aisles, vanilla pudding for the ears.

Ah, Gino Vanelli. Perfect.

“Hello, may I help you with anything?”

“No, thank you, I’ve found what I was looking for.”

“All right.” That wasn’t so hard.

When you get caught between — Hey, wasn’t this the theme from
Arthur?

“Hi, can I help you find anything?”

“Yes, my son is a science-fiction fan. I’d like to buy him something for his birthday.”

“I see. Well, we have a wide variety of choices. Does he like the work of Asimov, or are you looking for something a little older, say Bester or Sturgeon? Maybe a Zelazny?”

“Well . . .”

“You cannot go wrong with Philip K. Dick. He’s one of the old grand masters of the genre.
Ubik
, that’s his finest, I’m sure I could find you a copy around here somewhere, or maybe
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?”

“That’s a weird title.”

“Well, it was made into a movie,
Blade Runner,
years ago, but the book is much better. Very dark. Very philosophical.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Trust me, your son will thank you.”

“I’ll think about it. I know he likes video games. Aren’t there any books based on video games?”

Sigh. “Yes, just over this way, I think.”

“Thank you. Oh,
Brute Force
, this is perfect. Oh, and
Star Trek
, too. Why didn’t you just point me over here?”

“Sorry.”

Bette Midler warbles about the air underneath her armpits. Great, that’ll be stuck in my head all fucking day.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“Yes, why don’t you have a legal fiction section?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Every week I’m here, every time I have to go through every goddamn aisle looking at every goddamn title. Why don’t you have a section on just legal thrillers?”