Turns out, I had to ask a clerk and follow finger-pointed directions to a small room connected to the massive brick and glass waiting room. On two walls were banks of brown, metal lockers, each with a number. I found #25, because the highest number was #57, so the other numbers in the clue must be something else. The lockers were managed by a single touchscreen, which I had to find, and then navigate some menus before it asked me for a code—the rest of my coded message! I shakily entered those numbers, diligently saying them aloud like it was necessary for the machine to actually hear, and locker #25 popped open with a snap.
I felt like a kid. My skin was tingling. I found myself bending to peer into the tiny space as if a snake might jump out. As if Imight have found a portal to another world and didn’t want to be sucked in. Lying flat in the locker was a small envelope, much like the one I had found on my doormat. Reaching in, I grabbed it carefully, tentatively flipping it over in my hands. My name was scrawled on the front. Same blue pen. Same sloppy hand.
I flipped open the flap, again not sealed, and slowly slid out the contents.
Inside was a gift card to Maple Leaf Books in the amount of twenty dollars. The gift card was just like you would purchase it from the store, glued to a small card with the regular “a gift for you” message printed next to the Maple Leaf logo. On the inside of the card were written the words, “Unspoken Thingsby Tim Bauler.”
My mind immediately went crazy with the million things this could be. It’s obviously a book, but what kind and why? I grabbed my phone and Googled. Sure enough, it’s a book written by Tim Bauler calledUnspoken Things. More Googling revealed that it’s a romance book and some plot details which couldn’t really find a place to land in the storm happening in my brain.
Speed-walking back through the train terminal, I ran through my could-this-be-a-killer checklist and it checked out: Maple Leaf Books is a public place, lots of people, someone would certainly help me fight off my secret attacker. And poisoning? Extremely unlikely at a bookstore.
So Maple Leaf Books was my next stop. I found myself breathing heavily all the way back through the train station, most definitely not because of the mysterious envelope burning a hole in my pocket.
Which brings me here: the bookstore.
Turns out, the romance section of Maple Leaf Books is huge, wrapping around several shelves in a way that doesn’t seemvery intuitive. It takes me several back-and-forth trips to orient myself and find the “B for Bauler” section. It’s been forever since I’ve been in a bookstore, and I’m remembering that the books used to be smaller, and shinier and possibly embossed or something. And you used to be able to know it was a romance because there were scantily clad people on the front. But here, if the “romance” sign hadn’t been posted above this shelf, I would’ve never guessed these were romance books based on their cartoon-like, simple covers. And as paperbacks go, the format is larger than it used to be. Weird how things like that can change over time. I guess they sell more books this way.
I double-check the gift card instructions for the millionth time to verify the title and author for absolutely certain. He’s written a lot of books which occupy a large section of the shelf. I seeThe Outlier,Wings over Westburg, andRow Champions, but noUnspoken Things. I take my finger and slide it physically across the books as if that will actually help increase my ability to conjure up this darn book. It doesn’t. It’s not here. There are no copies of this book on this shelf.
I stand for a minute and let the colorful spines blur together like modern art. What now? There’s nothing I can do. The book simply isn’t here. My mind retraces my book-hunt prep. Bauler only writes romance books, so I’m in the right section. There’s only one Maple Leaf in town, so that’s not a variable. There’s no date or time on the gift card clue, so there’s not a specific time to be here. There’s nothing to reassess.
It’s moments like these that I begin to reclassify my life as a waste of time. What was I thinking? Why am I even here at this bookstore? What kind of loser am I that I actually thought I should follow the instructions on a coffee cup from a stranger or a random message in a train station locker? I take a few steps back toward the sci-fi section and let my eyes refocus. I look again on the shelf. Nope, didn’t magically appear like theketchup in the fridge does sometimes. I turn and head toward, well, nowhere. I’m just walking away because, um, what else can I do?
I get to the tables in the middle of the store with stacks of sorted hardcover books when it occurs to me just how out of place I feel. I’m painfully hyper-aware of the people around me. Is anyone watching? Does anyone avert their eyes quickly when I make eye contact? Just then, an employee in their perfect black shirt, with their perfect black pants and their perfect gold nameplate asks me: “Is there anything I can help you find?”
It takes a few seconds for me to realize that I’m not responding. He waits patiently, the small stud in his nostril sparkling in the overhead lights.
“I’m just looking, thanks.” I look at the floor. Muscle memory is taking over. Just as he turns away, I reach out a hand toward him impulsively and make some strange guttural sound. “I’m looking for a book!” I blurt. Obviously. The employee turns and looks at me, I guess waiting for me to finish whatever sentence I’ve started, or possibly say something less obvious.
“I’m looking for…” I pull out the envelope and gift card with the sloppy message, showing it to him, referencing it like it has the answer to a math problem that I don’t exactly believe is the actual answer, and repeat the name of the book, “Unspoken Thingsby Tim Bauler.” The employee smiles for a moment, looks from the blue scrawl on the card to my face as I breathe a giant sigh. Why am I so nervous? Can he tell that I am nervous? Did I just breathe in his face? Does my breath reek? My hand involuntarily covers my mouth.
I turn on my heels as he makes some noise that I translate as “follow me” and he heads directly back to the section of the bookstore I was at previously.
“All of Bauler’s books will be right here,” he says, sliding his similarly-unmagical finger down the spines of the books,much like I had. “But it appears that we don’t have any copies of that one.” He tilts his head and looks at the ceiling through the top of his eye sockets. “I could’ve sworn we had two copies this morning.” He returns his gaze to me with a smile. “I can see about ordering you a copy. Would you like me to do that?”
I smile politely. “No thanks.” I’m not sure if I actually say the words, sigh them, or just think them, but he smiles, turns, and heads away, his hefty shoes clunking the floor in a way I hadn’t noticed before.
I stand frozen, wondering what to do. Is this the end of this whole crazy adventure? Does this, whatever I have built this up to be, come to a crashing halt right here? I immediately begin trying to talk myself down from this stupid ledge I apparently put myself on. Worst case scenario is that I’ll have to wait for another secret message. Actually, worst case scenario is that it’s over, and I’ll never know what happened or who this was. Or why I’ve made this to be so important to me.
I watch my feet begin to head toward the door. They are moving slowly, I notice. In the subconscious eye of my mind, I see the coffee-shop guy staring at me through his dark glasses. What must he be thinking? I see the manga lady. Does she track my movement toward the door? Does anyone else care that I’ve hit a dead end and there’s nothing I can do? I’m left wondering if this dead end doesn’t transcend every aspect of my life.
I notice my feet have quickened their pace, and I catch another vision of something subconsciously: The bookshelf, it had gaps. In my mental replay, I recreate my magical finger-tracing of the shelf looking for titles, and it’s clear to me that, right where my book was supposed to be alphabetically, there had been a definite gap where the noticeable cattywampusness of the nearby books highlighted the negative space that used to be my book. Which means…
My gaze switches from my feet to the cashier, the one in the fitted sweater. It’s black, I notice, and her name tag tilts delicately near her left shoulder. She is mid-conversation with a customer, but she’s looking at me. I’m surprised to discover I haven’t stopped walking as the conversation occurring at her register comes into focus. I’m walking straight toward them.
“No I haven’t,” the man is saying as he plucks out a credit card and begins to tap it on the payment machine, which beeps three quiet beeps. “I haven’t read any of his books, I’ve just heard this one is the best to start with.”
“It’s great,” she replies, “My favorite is the college rowing team one, with the two guys from Boston, but this one is great too.” She glances my way again. I can’t tell if she’s really tall, or if the platform behind the counter is raised, but I suddenly feel like she’s looking down at me. The customer also turns toward me as everyone begins to acknowledge that I’ve thwarted the small maze-of-impulse-purchase-shelves that’s organizing the other waiting customers, many of whom have also looked up from whatever books they are holding to watch me. Had I been more alert, I might even think there was sneering involved.
“Is that a copy ofUnspoken Thingsby…” I hear myself speaking, and it surprises me so much, I stop mid sentence.
What am I doing?
The clerk looks from me, to the book, to the customer and back again.
“It is,” the man says, eyes darting back and forth as he returns his credit card to his very teeny wallet, which he deposits in his rear pocket. He smiles. “A friend recommended it to me. Have you read it?”
The cashier rips the receipt from the machine, and begins to tuck it in the front cover of the book and I see it for certain, it’s my book! The title in big yellow letters across the front. The author’s name running down the spine. The clear blue comic-style cover of two men on the front facing away from each other, each holding something. And, clear as day, as she opens the cover to place the receipt, I see that now-familiar sloppy writing in blue pen on the cover page.