You might think that my first panicked thoughts would be how to get out.
But I was not scared, not yet.
Let me back up. I’ve been to this used bookstore many times. If I told you the name, you would not know it. It is not one of the better-known bookstores.
I turned in the aisles, feeling the shelves as if, from touching the books, I might know where I was or what would be coming next.
The store is small and dark, and there are seldom any patrons. But I work nearby and can drop in from time to time.
No, I’m sure I made a different turn this time. What will I find when I get to the counter?
The owner is short and gray. I’m sure he has been in the place for years. He is slow and gentle. Bill — that is his name — has been wearing the same faded brown sweater for as long as I have known him. Winter or summer, it is always the same.
“How long have you been doing this?” I asked him once.
He pulled on his little mustache. “Oh, I suppose longer than you have been alive.” He said this in an odd, mournful way.
“I doubt that. You do fit with the place, though.”
He shrugged and looked at the uneven stacks of books in front of him. He handled these gently, as one would touch a child. “I started here when I was in high school. The area, the neighborhood, was different then.”
“But not this place. I don’t think a thing here has changed in years.” I chuckled. “Just old books out and new books in.”
He nodded and turned away, toward the rows of valuable books behind him.
Conversation over, I thought, and approached the shelves of new arrivals.
And now, on this visit, I was stuck, lost. I wanted to call out to Bill, but I thought that would be foolish, like a kid. I still didn’t know what occurred. Maybe I had a minor stroke or something. You do hear of that happening to someone who is young, and I am only fifty, for god’s sake.
I know this section, mysteries — Christie, Hammett, Sayers, Chandler — you know. My poor wife (God rest her) loved mysteries. I always teased her about broadening her horizons and trying some other genre. But she always responded by giving me the finger.
I turned again and found the military section. I thought I had passed this section before, but I could not be sure. The shelves were taller here, to accommodate the large folio volumes of maps and battle equipment. Who the hell would be interested in that?
I turned left, toward the brighter lights. I knew I was nearer the counter and Bill.
A man was puttering behind the desk. But it was not Bill. There was no faded brown sweater. As odd as it seemed, this was the first thing I noticed.
This fellow was younger than Bill. His hair was slicked back — I was reminded of that ancient commercial, a little dab will do you. He was dressed in a shirt and tie, and he had a small radio in the shelf which was playing Elvis Presley. The man looked at me, seeing how puzzled I was, and smiled.
“I know, rock and roll. Customers think that I should have the thing tuned to a station that plays Brahms, but I like the new stuff, too.”
The man was taller than me, thinner. His clean-shaven face was dark but smooth. I would put his age at thirty-five or so.
The counter held stacks of books, but the piles looked neater than the ones Bill had handled. A clock in the background ticked deeply. I didn’t remember that Bill had a clock.
The calendar on the wall had a sappy picture of a waterfall. The year on it was 1958. That did not surprise me since the bookstore sold old postcards, sheet music and calendars. But somehow, though, this calendar did not look old.
“Where is Bill?” I asked.
The man looked up sharply, as though he knew something, but did not want to let on.
“Bill?”
“Bill, the other guy.”
“There is no one named Bill.”
I won’t repeat the rest of the exchange. I’m sure as I became more alarmed, the clerk continued to nod sympathetically but also warily, as though this madman might take a swing at him.
“Is there anything I can help you with? If not…” he let the rest of the sentence fade as he looked toward the door.
I wanted to leave the store, but that might make things worse. I was afraid to find out what the outside might look like. I turned and plunged back into the rows of books.
I felt that I was there for hours, wandering, tripping over the books on the floor. I was rolling by sections of fiction and reference and local history. For some reason, the books seemed different — older and dustier. I thought that I heard sounds and saw a bit of bright light, but I could not be sure. In some ways wanted to get back to the front, but in another, I dreaded it. I did not know what I would find. I had forgotten, of course, the reason I had come here. I wasn’t looking for a particular book. I suppose that I had come to browse.
There was a short window on the rear wall. The sky — what I could see of it — was dark. It must be later than I had thought. I had no watch, and my phone was charging at the office — I’m not one to cart a phone around.
I knew that I would have to approach the desk again, and I could now see it. I crept forward slowly, haltingly, like a schoolboy heading for detention.
I was not surprised that a different man was behind the desk. He looked up quickly at me, turning his head slightly so that I could see the shape of his small beard. He wore the clothes from someone of the 1900’s. His collar, a deep white, looked stiff and uncomfortable. The calendar behind him showed a long-haired maiden, but I avoided looking at any of the details.
“May I help you?”
“No, I suppose not. I was just browsing. ”
That was not all of it, but I was afraid to say more. The man was probably my age, but fussy and severe looking. He was asking me something else, but I did not hear him.
“Do you know,” he said cheerfully, “that we have been open in this spot for twenty-five years today. I can’t believe it.”
“Yes, yes.”
“We have come far since 1875. We’ve had a good trade since then — valuable books and some that you could buy cheaply. Are you sure that I cannot help you?”
“No, no. I think that I will continue looking.”
“Are you from Boston? I have to say that you are dressed strangely.”
“Yes, I am.” Then I turned again.
I did not get far. I suppose that I was curious, but it was more than that. I suppose that I was terrified, but it was a familiar kind of terror, if you know what I mean. It was as though, I was certain, that I had felt this way before.
When I had turned again and approached what I thought to be the counter, I noticed that the overhead lights were off. They were still there, but they were turned off.
I walked toward an old lamp. There were several of them. The clerk, or owner, was older than I expected. He was dressed in a frock coat from the Civil War era.
He nodded at me but did not smile as his fingers went to his face to touch his mustache.
“Good afternoon. May I help you with anything?” He laughed nervously. “We just opened, you see, and we may have problems with our stock.” He spread his hands out and gestured toward the crisp new books in front of him. I can’t say that he looked familiar.
“No, I am just here to look.” I was surprised that I spoke so clearly. I must not have been as frightened as I had been.
The man looked closely at me, not harshly but almost kindly. “Have you been to our shop before? Of course we are new.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
He continued to speak, slowly and deeply, in sentences that reminded me of a Henry James novel. My mind was in chaos as I tried to put the men, the images together. But for now I felt that nothing dangerous would happen to me.
“I see that you are worried about something.” He laughed. “Of course there is nowhere for you to lie down.” I said nothing and listened, but all I could hear were the footsteps of people outside and the clattering of horses and wagons. I had this damaged memory that I had been there before. I knew that if I stayed with him, I would be there forever. What concerned me wasn’t that I would not know what would happen, but that I would.
As I turned back toward the shelves, the man reached at me, almost grasping me.
“Stay, stay,” he said quickly.
But I was gone by then. I was unfamiliar with the topic and subjects I passed. Still the store had to cater to all kinds of customers and interests.
When I got to the end, I know what would happen. It all swirled around me — jobs, deaths, dreams, and books. I knew what would happen and what had happened here, over and over.
The overhead lights were back on.
As I walked toward the front, I knew who would be there.
I knew it would be Bill.
—
Jeremiah Minihan lives in Rochester, New Hampshire with his wife Peggy and their Boston terrier, Belle.
He has worked as a software developer and project manager in the insurance and banking industries, both in New Hampshire and Boston.
Previously, he taught high school English in Virginia.
He writes short stories and essays, and has previously published short stories in Pif Magazine, Dark Dossier, Yellow Mama, Blood Moon Rising, Literally Stories, and CommuterLit.
He and Peggy enjoy spending time with their three children and three grandchildren.
Those pesky time loops! Nicely done.