The rattling of the typewriter keys was the only sound in the shop and when the machine dinged as I reached the end of the line I was writing, I pulled out the sheet of paper and sat up, stretching my back muscles. I added the paper to the thin stack on the desk. It had been a good afternoon, I realized, as far as writing went -- I had managed to bang out six or seven pages of the short story I was working on, my assignment for the next writing group meeting. Whether they were six or seven good pages, well, we'll see about that, I guess. But it was more than I had managed in any one sitting in ages, which was one of the reasons I had joined the group in the first place: to try to get motivated enough to sit down and actually write out the ideas always bouncing around in my head.
That was why I joined. Why I stayed, obviously, had a lot to do with the fringe benefits, as we've already seen.
A good afternoon for writing it may have been, but unfortunately that meant that it had not been so good for commerce. I managed to get so much done because there had been almost no interruptions from customers, only three all afternoon, one of whom was still poking around among the stacks. I shrugged and drained the last of the cold coffee in my cup. As a businessman I hated the thought of slow days like this -- hated the thought? Hell, was scared shitless by it is more like it -- but I had been in the used book business long enough to know the cycles, the busy weeks at the start of each new term when the students came in with their course lists looking for a break from the usurers at the university bookstore; the busy times at the end of term, when they came in to unload those books, most of them with spines uncracked; and then Christmas gift-givers and summer beach-readers were usually enough to keep me afloat during the academic calendar's dead zones.
I took my cup to the back room and refilled it from the coffee-maker crammed into a corner of a counter piled high with paperbacks. What came out was sludgy and grainy and I poured it down the sink. I looked at my watch -- almost four. Another hour and I'd close up for the weekend. During the school year it was worth my while to open on Saturdays and I even usually hired somebody to work the shift for me, but in the summer there wasn't any point in bothering. Although most weekends I was in here anyway, doing inventory or some other such task that always needed doing.
I returned to my post near the front door and sat down on the worn leather office chair that served as throne over my little nerdish empire. I took the pages of my story and dropped them in a drawer on the small desk that held the typewriter, tucked in behind the main counter at which I transacted my business. I sat absent-mindedly scratching my belly through my T-shirt and staring out the open front door when I was brought back to earth by someone clearing her throat.
"Oops," I said, blushing at being caught in full-blown daydream as I stood and turned to the counter. It was my lone customer, the one who had come in about 20 minutes ago -- pretty, about 20 and dressed in the obligatory college-hippie chick uniform of loose floral dress and sandals, her wrists clinking with thin wire bracelets and fiery red hair, long and wavy, that spilled out from a red bandanna. Her bare arms were stick-thin but her tits were surprisingly -- and pleasantly so -- large and firm, with a nice bit of cleavage showing above the dress.
"Sorry," she said. She smiled and her lips were plump and luscious. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"No, that's OK," I said. I caught myself almost looking at her chest and quickly looked at her face, where those lips were almost as obscene as her tits surely would be, and way softer. God help me. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Not yet," she said. "I was looking for 'Lady Chatterly's Lover'. You know, by D.H. Lawrence?"
"Oh, I know D.H. Lawrence," I said. I came out from behind the counter. She turned expectantly and I had to resist the urge to put my arm around her, my hand in the small of her back to guide her to the shelf she was looking for. "You couldn't find it? I'm pretty sure we have a couple of copies of it."
"I don't think so," she said. "I've looked all over for it."
"Well, I'll see what I can find. We usually try to keep a couple of emergency copies of 'Chatterly' for occasions just like this."
She giggled. "Is this an emergency?"
"If it means sending you home happy, then I can't think of anything that would be any more so," I said. She giggled again. Those lips were driving me crazy and my cock was starting to stir as I imagined what they would be capable of. I had to make a break for it. "I'll go look in the back room. I'm sure there's one there."
"OK."
I found the book -- as I thought, there was a pile of them, I needed to do inventory and straighten out the stacks -- and when I came back out she was standing at the counter. I held the book up and she smiled again. My stomach gave a little jump.
"Here you go. The sticker says 10 bucks, but I'll let you have it for five, because you had to ask for it."
"Oh. Hey, wow," she said. I rang it up and handed her the receipt. She put them both in the canvas bag slung over her shoulder. "Thanks."
"That's why we're here," I said. "Is there anything else I can help you find?"
"Maybe," she said, biting her lower lip and looking down at the counter. Oh please god, I thought, let this be one of those porno moments -- cue whacka-chikka music ...
"Name your title," I said. "This is a bookstore. I'll bet we have it." Way smooth there, Mr. Porno. Holy crap.
"I was wondering if you had any openings," she said. "If you were hiring, I mean."
"Not just now," I said. I imagined her standing on the stepstool, reaching up to stock the top shelves, those tits straining against her T-shirt as she stretched ... "During the school year I usually hire somebody to cover weekends, etcetera etcetera."
"That's cool," she said.
"I don't have anybody lined up yet," I said. "You'll still be around in the fall?"
"Oh yeah. I'm going into my last year."
The phone under the counter rang. I motioned her to wait a second and answered. "Brin Mawr Bookshop."
"Hello, Brin Mawr Bookshop," Colleen said. "Am I interrupting the relentless march of capitalism?"
"Not at all," I said. "Can you hold on a second?" I covered the mouthpiece and turned back to the redhead. "Well, good then. Why don't you bring in your resume, and I'll give you a call? I usually take someone on in late August for the frosh week rush."
"Great. Thanks." She smiled at me again and started toward the door. Her long hair waved goodbye as she walked out into the street.
"Sorry about that," I said. "I just had to get rid of a customer. I've been just overrun all afternoon."
"Uh-huh," Colleen said. "So let me guess: blonde, looking for something by Jane Austen for Dr. Thornton's intro class and by the way, Mr. Bookseller, is that a Lord Byron in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"
"As a matter of fact, wise-ass, it was a redhead and she was looking for Chatterly," I said. "And Dr. Thornton is an asshole."
"Ho-ho," Colleen said. "Chatterly. Oh, please."
