Eighty Days to Elsewhere Page 2

  By the time he’s got his coat off and the pastries under the glass display domes on the tea counter, Merv’s told him the whole story. Tommy bursts into tears at the news.

  This is no help at all.

  In the end, I tuck Tommy into the comfy sofa in their tiny apartment behind the bookstore. I leave a cup of tea, a plate piled in chocolate éclairs, and his favorite telenovela on to distract him. Hurrying back into the shop, I find Merv has summoned our neighbor, Mrs. Justice Rosa Ruiz, in the interim.

  Mrs. Justice Rosa—seriously, that’s what we call her—is eighty-six, and a retired circuit court judge. She’s among our regulars, stopping by weekly to pick up her copies of the Times and Hola Latinos, a cup of tea, and whatever sweet treat Tommy can entice her into. Today, she’s wearing a tracksuit in vivid magenta and a pair of Birkenstocks that show off her turquoise pedicure.

  It’s hard to decipher some of the document’s legalese, but once I find her a magnifying glass, Mrs. Justice Rosa lends us her thoughts and we determine the extent of the bad news.

  The new lease spells out that since Venal’s acquisition has negated historic rent controls, he will now be charging triple the rent, something the bookshop can never sustain. Two Old Queens needs to pay up by May 1st—less than seven weeks away—or face eviction.

  I spend the rest of the very long day running back and forth between the cash desk and the little apartment behind the shop, bearing fresh cups of tea. Mostly this is in aid of keeping Tommy calm, as his inclination to burst into tears is upsetting to Merv.

  Tommy and Merv have run this Lower Manhattan bookstore together for more than thirty years, and the thought of losing it is horrifying to all of us. After Mrs. Justice Rosa leaves for her daily nap, the two of them huddle in the back, knees together on one of the overstuffed sofas, reading and rereading the new lease document in hopes of finding something the old lady judge has missed.

  When the midafternoon lull hits, I tiptoe into the back to see if the uncles have made any progress. I peek around the corner to see Tommy has fallen asleep, head tilted against the back of the couch, mouth open. Rhianna is curled on his lap. Merv is still holding the document, but he’s not looking at it. Just staring blankly into space.

  As he catches sight of me, Uncle Merv tries to manufacture a smile.

  “Any breakthroughs?” I whisper, not wanting to wake Tommy. His tear-stained face is propped against one wing of the sofa, and at the moment, he’s snoring gently.

  Merv shakes his head. “I think we’re screwed, honey,” he says, and even through his whisper I can hear the catch in his voice. “You know our Rosa is the sharpest in the business, and if even she can’t see a way out . . .” His voice trails away.

  I tuck myself in between the couch and the old coffee table and drop to my knees beside Merv.

  “Listen,” I say quietly. “I’ve got twenty-seven hundred dollars in my film school account we can put toward the rent. It should help for a month or two, at least.”

  The look of horror on Merv’s face dries up everything else I was going to say.

  “Absolutely not,” he hisses, and then freezes as Tommy stirs. Rhianna shoots me a dirty look and leaps lightly to the back of the sofa.

  “You’ve looked after me since I was thirteen years old,” I manage, barely holding it together. “Let me help you for a change.”

  Merv reaches across and pats my knee. “We’re not touching your money,” he whispers fiercely. “But we’ll find a way, I promise.”

  The front doorbell jingles, and as I leave, Merv is tucking Tommy under one of his tulip-pattern crocheted throws.

  The customer out front wants to hunt through our Nora Roberts collection to find one she hasn’t read before, so I leave her to it, and risk the cardinal sin of pulling out my phone on the sales floor. With one eye on the back door to make sure Merv isn’t about to catch me, I speed-text the only person I can think to talk to in this situation.

  Jerz—you busy?

  About to give a talk. Call u 2nite?

  Can you come over? Things are bad

  Shit. Emergency?

  NO. Not really. It can wait til tonight

  I can call after 8

  Okay! Talk then

  I manage to tuck my phone back into the drawer under the cash desk when Merv emerges. A close call, but worth it. Talking things through with a friend always helps. Jersey will know what to do.

  All the same, for the rest of the workday, as I hunt down books for customers and sell several pots of tea, I worry. I know, even though Merv did not point it out, my gesture is futile. With the increase in rent, my savings can buy us little more than a month’s extension to Venal’s threat.

  A sense of doom settles on the place like a shroud. It’s so bad that when Jonah Dross walks through the door before closing, I actually agree to leave with him.

  chapter two

  IMAGE: China Teacup

  IG: Romy_K [NYC, March 14]

  #TimeforTea #AnUnwelcomeOffer

  5

  So. Jonah Dross. Every woman knows a Jonah Dross. I mean, he’s a nice enough guy, I guess. Tall in a gangly way—all large feet and pointy elbows. Manages a call center in one of the buildings across the street. He works nights, so he stops by almost every day before closing to buy a cup of tea.

  No books, because Jonah Dross doesn’t have time to read. He’s a working man, isn’t he?

  Which, quite frankly, says it all.

  I happen to know he lives with his mother, in an apartment overlooking one of the runways outside of Newark, but I’m completely unwilling to ever bring this up in his presence.

  A typical visit from Call Center Jonah starts something like this:

  Bell rings at front door and then Jonah slopes in, hands in pockets. Around him floats a miasma of Axe, or maybe its dollar store cousin.

  “Morning!” he shouts, cheerily, to whomever might be in the shop that day.

  It’s never morning.

  Of course, if a customer dares point this out, he beams, pats them on the shoulder, and says, “Maybe not for you, but it’s morning for me!”

  If there is no unfortunate customer around, Jonah will nod at Merv, who returns the nod, says “Jonah” in an undertone, and goes back to whatever it is he’s doing.

  In the meantime, at the first ring of the bell, I’ve bolted to hide behind the tea counter. Jonah, after pausing at the graphic novel display, will spot me—particularly if I’ve been slow off the mark—and then veer straight over. He’ll smack his hand on the counter and smirk.

  “The usual, wench!” he’ll say.

  Every day.

  For the first year, I inevitably replied, “Please don’t call me wench, Jonah.”

  To no effect. Jonah has a litany of excuses, including “I’m only ribbing you,” “It’s just banter,” and the ever-popular, “Jeez, Romy, can’t you take a joke?”

  Worse—Jonah is a toucher. Nothing serious, of course. He’s never copped a feel or even brushed against me in a questionable way. He merely wants to touch my arm when he talks to me. Pat my hand when he pays for his tea. Squeeze my shoulder when something good has happened at his work. I cannot count the number of hugs I’ve dodged on statutory holidays when the shop is open, and he’s so delighted, he must “thank me properly.”

  I’ve tried ignoring him, heading for the back room as soon as I spot him, and even patiently explaining my problems with his behavior. Nothing works. After a while, I caved. For the past six months, I’ve made his tea and collected his money in silence, trying, at the very least, to minimize our interaction time.

  The only result is that Jonah has added “Cat got your tongue?” to his store of stock phrases.

  However, two months ago, someone called immigration on Jonah’s company. I watched the ICE sweep from across the street, my stomach in knots.
When the dust—or in this case the snow, since it was just after Christmas—settled, half of Jonah’s team was gone. To his credit, Jonah was horrified by this. Three of the staffers who ended up deported had worked at the call center longer than he had. He stepped up and vouched for a half-dozen workers who were legal but had misplaced papers or other legitimate excuses. But mostly, he hugged people goodbye and scrambled to fill the positions with documented workers.

  Since the raid, he’s been after me to come work for him. It has become part of his regular repertoire:

  “Morning!”

  “The usual, wench!”

  “Whatsa matter? Cat got your tongue?”

  “C’mon, Romy—I can give you a better job than this. Work for me and we’ll have a riot every day. What do you say?”

  And up until now, I’ve said nothing. Usually, after he’s loaded his pockets with sugar packets, he winks at me a couple of times before finally heading in to his work.

  But today? I crumble like a New York cheesecake.

  On the dot of 4:45 p.m., the bells attached to the front door jingle. I sigh and put down the books I’m shelving. As I trudge over behind the tea counter, the expected voice rings out.

  “Morning!”

  Merv is not behind the cash desk, and so by the time I pull out the tin of Earl Grey, Jonah has made it to the counter. He slaps his hand down.

  “The usual, wench!” he says, smirking.

  “Earl Grey?” I reply, interrupting before he has a chance to bring up the damn cat.

  A look of stunned surprise crosses his face. “Yes!” he says joyfully. “That’s right—Earl Grey. Thank you, Romy!”

  He’s so thrown off, he actually accepts his tea before reengaging his autopilot. “C’mon, Romy,” he begins, but before he can get the rest out, I cut him off.

  “Okay,” I say.

  He stares at me, mouth open, and then twitches with shock. This sends a small wave of boiling tea across both his hand and the counter, which he apparently does not even register.

  “Wha—what?” he mutters.

  I pass him a wad of napkins for his hand, and use a rag to wipe up the spilled tea.

  “Okay. I’ll come with you and have a look at the place,” I say. “No promises, though.”

  Jonah leaps behind the corner and grabs my hand, shaking it in both of his. “Wonderful news,” he says, looking dazed. “I can’t believe it!”

  “Neither can I,” I mutter, and toss the cloth into the sink.

  By the time I grab my coat, Uncle Merv is back in his spot behind the cash desk. His stunned expression echoes the one on Jonah’s face.

  “I’m going out,” I say. “I’ll be back in time to help balance the till.” And I march through the door.

  * * *

  —

  Call Center Jonah is back on form even before we make it across the street.

  “This is so fantastic,” he cries, squeezing my shoulder. “We’re going to have a riot every day, I promise you!”

  I pinch my lips together and manage to dodge the spontaneous hug he tries to extend while we wait for the light. I do, however, allow him to hold open the door for me when we get to his building. Between his tea and the door, it means both his hands are busy.

  I need to take these tiny wins where I can find them, okay?

  The call center is even more depressing than Jonah himself. Five floors below ground, the place has McJob written all over it. The elevator doors open into a giant space, entirely divided up into hundreds of small cubicles. The air smells of dust and something chemical—maybe old Freon? Most of the cubicles are populated with folks whose glazed expressions don’t even flicker as we walk by. The ceiling is grey, the walls are grey, and the fabric of the cubicles is—you guessed it—grey.

  Someone has strung up grimy, pennant-style flags that sag limply from the acoustic ceiling tiles. Each flag boasts a different motto: “Be the change!” “The promise of tomorrow is today’s joy!” “Get in the zone!” My favorite is “Think Different!” which I’m almost sure has been lifted from Apple. Maybe all the flags were lifted from somewhere, but if they were, it wasn’t recently. It looks like they’ve been hanging around for a long time.

  This dank atmosphere is filled with a low drone made up of one-sided conversations, humming air conditioners, and buzzing fluorescent lights. The place holds none of the musty joy of our old bookshop, and seconds after I step into this low-ceilinged office, claustrophobia begins to squeeze its stealthy hands around my heart.

  As Jonah enthusiastically tours me through the call center, he so thoroughly mansplains the details of the position, I can’t even work in a single question. When at last we end up in the small glass box that is Jonah’s office, he presses me to take a seat, so he can fill out my application on the spot. I only make my escape by taking a paper copy, promising a decision by the next day, and enduring one last, overlong, congratulatory hug. He’s offering what seems to be an impossibly high salary, but at what cost?

  After the meeting, I stumble out of the building and back across the street to the bookshop. Merv brightens when he sees me, and waves away my proffered help with the cashing out. Instead, he cheerfully inquires about what he refers to as the “call center opportunity.”

  I don’t dare tell him the salary Jonah’s quoted. Instead, I mumble something and flee up the stairs to my tiny apartment above the bookshop. Worse than the situation itself, is seeing how thrilled my uncle seems at the possibility of my impending employment elsewhere. One less worry for him.

  It’s a sickening thought.

  chapter three

  IMAGE: Cookbook Aisle

  IG: Romy_K [NYC, March 14]

  #BookshopLove #HOTReader

  2

  It’s ten past eight by the time my phone rings. My friend Jersey is two months and two days older than I am. She has russet skin, round brown eyes, and a smile that’s wide and white and warm. She’s also an inch taller, and shares my general disregard for any kind of team sports. Two tall girls who don’t play basketball. It is a friendship for the ages, I promise you.

  “Look, I’m sorry I can’t come over and drink wine with you. My advisor needs to see me at eight thirty. What’s going on? Tell me everything.”

  Since my own bottle of wine is already open, I take a big sip and do exactly as directed.

  The most important thing to know about Jersey is she’s smart. Like rocket-scientist smart. We met and bonded in secondary school; two nerdy girls who loved to read. She, in defiance of her name, actually hails from Long Island, but moved to the East Village when she turned thirteen. Our friendship endured, in spite of the fact she shot past me in school. By the time I was into the first year of my B.A., Jersey? Was starting her master’s in art history.

  These days, she’s getting ready to submit her dissertation in museum studies. The actual title is “Suppressed Identities: The Role of Race in Contemporary Collection Curation.” This is her second dissertation, to be perfectly clear. She’s going to be a double doctor at age twenty-seven. A double doctor, and a friend who gives good advice.

  After I finish my tale of woe, she’s so quiet, I’m worried I’ve lost her.

  “No, I’m still here,” she says. “Is—is Call Center Jonah really so bad, Romy? I mean—can you choke down working there for a few months, maybe?”

  I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it for a minute. “I guess there’s really no other choice,” I whisper, at last. If Jersey can’t see a way out, all hope is lost.

  An uncomfortable silence falls, and I hear a knock on her end of the line.

  “Shit,” she hisses. “It’s my advisor. I’ve got to go.”

  “Thanks for talking it out with me,” I say, but she’s gone.

  I sit on the couch and last ten full minutes before I start to hyperventilate. Since it’s to
o late to go to the library, I pull out my bullet journal and make a list.

  Jobs I’d take over the call center:

  1. Library reshelver

  2. Barista

  3. Library cafe barista

  4. Janitor

  5. MTA station employee

  6. Library bag checker

  Available jobs that pay better than the call center:

  . . .

  When I can’t think of a single item to add to my second list, I flip open the lid of my computer and look through the job listings on Monster, and even—universe forgive me—LinkedIn. But the city’s in a downturn. Even after scrolling all the jobs I can find, there’s still not one that pays better than the call center.

  Maybe Jersey’s right. Maybe Jonah’s not so bad.

  In the end, I fall asleep on my couch and dream of working for an octopus.

  The slimy thing has eight arms, and the face of Call Center Jonah.

  * * *

  —

  Sometime after two, I wake with a start. Staring up into the dark, I remember where I’ve seen Venal’s nephew before. It was in the shop, of course, since I’m rarely anywhere else. At the time, I thought he was an ordinary customer—but was he? Could he have, in fact, been checking us out on behalf of his Evil Landlord uncle?

  I lie back in bed and replay the whole interaction in my mind.

  It was last Tuesday, I think—or maybe Wednesday. I remember I had been sorting through a newly donated collection of fantasy paperbacks. The books were in pretty good shape, which was a bonus. They’d been bequeathed by a regular customer I knew only as Old Harold, to his daughter Janice. Janice is a customer, too, but while she’s a reader like her dad, her tastes run more to Judith Krantz and Danielle Steel. In fact, I only learned that very morning that Old Harold had passed, when Janice lugged in a big carton of her dad’s Wheel of Time and Game of Thrones books. After giving Janice a hug and seeing her off to the funeral home, I’d spent the rest of the morning sorting through her late father’s collection.