//------------------------------// // Chapter 1: The World's Most Interesting Bookstore // Story: A Man out of Place // by Thanatoaster //------------------------------// The sound of my alarm clock clawed me from Hypnos's comforting embrace. I checked the time sleepily. 7:30 a.m., Sunday. It was my day off, and I had forgotten to mute the alarm the night before. Untangling myself from the sheets, I silenced the infernal alarm clock, using all of my willpower to keep from hurling the thing across the room. Having spared the timepiece from my early-morning wrath, I shambled my way to the Land of Milk and Cereal that more wakeful mortals call a kitchen. After sleepily making a bowl of cereal, I settled down at the cluttered dining table and began to appease the growling, cavernous pit that had replaced my stomach. I dutifully ignored the pleading eyes of my pet dog, knowing full well that my landlady had fed him before leaving for work earlier. "Go lay down, Strider, you know Mom already fed you," I said at him through a mouthful of cornflakes. I referred to my mother as my landlady whenever conversation turned towards living arrangement. I loved my Mom to death, but telling people that you're twenty-one years old and still living with your parents is embarrassing, no matter how much rent you pay. After finishing my meal under the watchful eye of my labrador mutt, I placed the used bowl in the dishwasher and moved to my small bathroom to see to my daily grooming. "Christ I'm a sidewinder, I'm a, California king..." The shower was warm; it soothed my cramped muscles and made me feel a bit less like a disheveled corpse. It was also an excellent place to recite some Red Hot Chili Peppers, my tone-deaf voice free from scrutiny. Rinsing shampoo out of my hair and straightening the cowlicks, I reviewed my list of plans for the day. "Let's see, I need a new speaker for my iPod, finally got Arkham Knight, gonna play the crap outta that, need to do some laundry... might as well start that, then head over to the bookstore for the speaker, maybe pick up something new to read while I'm there..." It always seemed pleasantly strange that a bookstore would have so much else besides books. Never really bothered with the mini-Starbucks, though. There were enough of those around already. I finished washing myself before the warm water ran out, dried myself off, and wiped off the mirror above the sink to examine my face. English-American features with a Roman nose. Stubble on my jaw, emphasizing my cheekbones. I was pale from all the time I spent indoors, not that I minded. My eyes were brown, the same shade as hazelnuts, with thin gray rings just before the sclera. They were alert now, the last traces of sleep had been scrubbed away moments ago. My hair contrasted my complexion; it was a brown so dark that it seemed black under the right lighting. Gonna need another haircut soon, I mused, noticing the way my bangs nearly reached my eyebrows. I liked my hair longer, but my usual mop made the summer heat that much worse. Overall, my face was what some folks would call "grumpy". I preferred the term "contemplative". I brushed my teeth, flossed, used mouthwash, and generally did everything I could to avoid having to sit through one-sided small-talk with a person intent on drilling holes in my face. Cavities aren't fun. Once the last traces of morning breath had been exterminated in Dalek-like fashion, I returned to my bedroom to swap the towel at my waist for more appropriate street clothes. My room had little furniture, most of the cramped space being occupied by my twin bed and my desk, which was only slightly smaller, if more unwieldy. The rest of the floor belonged to my dresser, a table-lamp combo, a hamper for my dirty clothing, a swivel-chair, and my bookshelf- stocked nearly to bursting with comics, novels, movies, CD's, even a few textbooks, not one of them unread, unwatched, or unheard. I almost felt bad about wanting to add another book or two to the overtaxed piece of furniture. Almost. I tossed the used towel into the hamper and donned a fresh pair of underwear, followed by denim jeans and a belt. I picked out my favorite shirt, a dark gray tee with a Batman emblem on the chest, the one from the 90's animated series, and pulled it over my head. Next, I grabbed my phone, keys, wallet, a comb I never used, and my iPod (I'd need it with me to make sure the speaker I bought was compatible), and pocketed everything but the keys. With my inventory almost fully gathered, I laced up my nearest pair of shoes, threw on my hoodie, placed a pair of sunglasses over my eyes, and headed to the kitchen for one last stop before venturing forth. As I stepped outside, the sun beat down on me and the small, plastic tub that was rapidly cooling in my hand. The tupperware container I had plucked from the kitchen and filled with ice-water wouldn't venture with me very far; its destination was the largest, shadiest tree in my front yard. Its quest: to create a humble respite for any squirrel, bird, or stray animal that happened across it. Even cats, allergy-inducing, needle-toothed monsters though they are. Obviously, I'm more of a dog person than a cat person. But regardless of my possibly irrational dislike for the feline species as a whole, the homeless critters of the area shouldn't have to suffer through this ungodly heat any more than I had to. The sun's persistent waves of fiery death were already making me sweat in my jacket, so I set the vessel of life-giving water down on the most level patch of ground among the old oak's roots, then hurried quickly to my car and the promise of A/C. Once in the safety of my Chevy Cobalt, I shed my coat, roused my faithful four-wheeled steed, and cranked up the climate controls to the coldest setting as the radio sprang to life in the middle of the station's obligatory news spiel. "... delays on the highway until late this evening. See folks, this is why you shouldn't text and drive! In other news, today, June 21, 2015, in case you just woke up from a coma, is the summer solstice! Don't know what the heck that is? Well, for those of you too busy with your social lives and your girlfriends to study obscure astronomical events, don't worry, I've got yer back. Basically, it means that the summer's half-over already."- a booing soundbite -"I know, I know, but hey, try to think positive! There's still a whole half of a summer left! Plus, the solstice is the longest day of the year, so plenty of time to hit the beach, or the bar, or both. Also seems like today's tryin' for the hottest day of the year, too! I mean, can you feel that sh*t? Definitely beach weather. So, get out, work on your tan, and try to stay hydrated out there. Yeah, it's humid, but it doesn't really help if the water's not in your body-" I switched the station and tried to coax more frigid air out of the A/C. I hated the weather in Florida. I never liked heat to begin with, but I had a personal vendetta against the climate of the Sunshine State ever since the first summer my family moved down here. That summer brought with it the hottest week in decades, a hundred and five degrees Fahrenheit at one point. That was also the week the house's A/C broke down, which was just wonderful. It wasn't so terrible for my sister or my landlady-mother, as both of them had indoor jobs to go to in their comfortable, climate-controlled cars. As for myself, unemployed and only eighteen at the time, I had to suffer in heat-ridden lethargy with my loyal canine compatriot on the tile floor of the kitchen beneath a blanket of bagged ice and freezer blocks. Once my car was sufficiently chilled, I buckled my seatbelt (safety first) and rolled out on my way to the local bookstore. As I did, I thought of everything I could to distract me from the fact that I had neither a girlfriend nor a "life". The fact that Billie Joe Armstrong was singing about lonely roads and broken dreams through my radio didn't help matters. "Dammit, forgot to start the laundry" I said to myself, parking in the nearest space that wasn't a handicap, "Ah, well. I'll start it when I get back." As I climbed out of my car, I glared balefully at the cloudless, sunny sky, challenging it through my shades for being so unbearably muggy. Satisfied that the miasma of incandescent plasma my favorite planet orbited around had been sufficiently cowed, I headed to the store, catching sight of my reflection in the glass doors. I looked for all the world like an ill-prepared tourist. Five-foot-six, pale, thin, with dark clothes and hiking boots, my chestnut-colored fleece jacket draped over my left arm and fluttering in the breeze like the cape of a Florentine Assassin. You wouldn't think someone who looked like me had lived here for as long as I had. That was the point. I liked mountains and snow, not beaches and daily rainstorms. Dress for the environment you want, not the environment you have, right? Something like that. I reached the door and held it open for an old woman and her grandson. I was born American. That means my ancestors bled for my right to spell color without a "u", be a stubborn ass towards the immutable forces of nature, and put ice in my tea-flavored sugar-water if I really wanted to. It does not mean, however, that I have the right to disrespect my elders or ignore the rules of common courtesy, no matter what some other members of my generation might say. Upon entering the sacred halls of that storehouse of ink and paper, I inhaled deeply through my nose. I could almost smell the knowledge and imagination in the air. It was probably just stale coffee. There was a display for ebook readers just inside the door; I didn't give it a second look. A wise old guy once said, "Comics are like boobs. They look great on a computer, but I'd rather hold one in my hand." Oh, Stan Lee. What a card. I moved to the front desk and flagged down the cashier, a cute girl my age with blonde hair and glasses. "Good morning," she said in a false-happy tone I recognized from my own experience behind a cash register. I looked at her suspiciously. "What do you mean, 'Good morning'?" I said in my best Sir Ian McKellen impression. The blank look on her face told me she didn't get the reference. No respect for quality acting. I continued regardless. "Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning, whether I want it or not?" Still nothing. I coughed awkwardly into my hand. "I'd like to check on an order I placed a while ago, Spider-Man and the X-Men, Vol. 1, it'd be reserved under John Chambers." The X-Men books were my favorite comic publications, and Spider-Man was one of my top three fictional heroes. Putting the two of them together was like mixing chocolate and peanut butter. I'm surprised Marvel didn't try it sooner. "Hmm," she said after a moment of checking, "Doesn't seem like we've gotten it yet, you should get a call from us when it does come in." Yeah, I thought, but when I ordered the latest book of The Dresden Files I never got a call, and they would have sent it back if I hadn't asked about it. "I just like to be thorough," was all I said. "Alright. Well, is there anything else I can help you with?" "H-how about one of those speakers?" I asked, pointing to the row of boxes behind the counter, each with a circular device secured to it by lengths of wire coming from the device's base. I suspected they were security features. Take the product out of the store with the thing still attached, and the wires would retract, crushing the item into uselessness. I thought that was cool. A very all-or-nothing security system. "What brand?" the girl asked, glancing at the display behind her. "Whatever will work for an iPod touch," I replied as I pulled from my pocket the little white rectangle containing nearly every song I had ever heard. I liked music. All music. I still had preferences, but more often than not, if you played it, I would listen. "So basically, any of them," she deadpanned. "Uh, yeah, I guess. Which has the best audio quality, do you think?" "Probably... this one'" she picked up a box and handed it to me. It was sleek, modern looking, and had the name of a famous rapper on the side. It also looked very expensive. Better get the extended warranty. "All right. Do you mind if I hang on to this while I browse? You've already got my name and all my contact info in your system if you think I'm going to walk out." "Mmm," she pondered that for a moment. "Eh, why not? Just to verify, your name is John Chambers, C-H-A-M-B-E-R-S, right?" "Yep," I nodded. She asked me to recite the rest of my info, checking it against what was on file. "Ok, since you check out, I don't think it'll be a problem, just don't open-" "Don't open the product before you pay for it, yeah. I'm a cashier, too. I hate when people do that." "Oh I know," she gushed. We retail folk know each other's pain. Granted, I worked at a convenience store, but it's close enough. "Well, looking for any book in particular?" "N-not really, just whatever catches my eye." A line was forming behind me. "Okay, well, hope you find something you like!" Obviously waving me off so she could deal with the growing number of customers. I thanked her and turned, heading deeper into the store. As I scanned the shelves for a Batman comic I hadn't bought and read, I thought back to the girl that helped me. She was pretty; nice hair, nice smile, nice attitude, and she had glasses. I have a thing for girls who wear glasses. I don't know why. I palmed myself in the forehead when I realized I never learned her name. I'd have to ask her when I paid for my stuff. Maybe even ask her out for coffee, or something. Yeah right, a voice in my head scoffed, like you could even work up the nerve to ask her favorite color. Not with that attitude, jackass, I growled back, switching my train of thought before I began arguing with my own mind. I stalked to a different section of the store, as if trying to physically walk away from my own low self-esteem. I found myself in the poetry and literature section. Modern reprints of classic tales stretched before me. My eyes gravitated naturally to the shelves dedicated to Shakespeare, The Bard of Avon himself. I had watched a modern-dress production of Hamlet on DVD the other day; the performances of David Tennant and Sir Patrick Stewart were phenomenal. I also admired the young prince's ability to insult people to their faces without them realizing it. My hand wavered over the "store-brand" edition of the world-famous play. "Edited by?" I said to myself, scanning the cover. "How about no. If it was good enough for Globe Theatre, it's good as it is." I picked up a different version, this one claiming to be the complete play, no editor in sight, with a translation I didn't really need included, and flipped through until I reached a certain piece of dialogue. "Heh. Country matters," I chuckled to myself at the four-hundred-something year old innuendo. If more people realized how violent and vulgar Shakespeare's plays were sometimes, they sure as hell wouldn't be having elementary school kids study them. Which would be a crime against Literature and all of Humanity, so, thank God for ignorance, I guess. I juggled the speaker and the book in my hands until they were in a neat pile in my arm, then added a copy of the Sonnets (who knows, maybe I'll learn something about talking to women) before starting back towards the front desk again. Okay, so how do I start? "Hi, didn't catch your name before"? Good, good- wait, what if she has a name tag? Uh, Okay, we'll come back to that. How do I move the conversation to going out with me? "Hey, do you want to get coffee with me?" No, no- she's working right now, stupid. "What time do you get off?" Gah! No! That sounds way too stalker-y. My pace slowed and I began to meander through the aisles, frantically trying to determine the best way to ask the girl I barely knew if we could hang out and talk sometime. I stood staring at a wall of cookbooks, a neutral look on my face, while internally, I quaked in apprehension as doubt gnawed at me and the list of reasons why this was a terrible idea began to pile up. Just as I was about to give up, I heard something. It was hard to describe. I had never heard anything like it before, but the closest thing I could think of was a metal wind chime. Like the instrument, but instead of the notes ascending or descending in scale, they moved seemingly at random, and reminded me of waterfalls and forests. Overall, it just sounded very mystical. My downward emotional spiral abated, or at least postponed, I moved towards where the strange sound seemed to be coming from. As I moved past the world history section, I thought I heard voices coming from the same direction as the tinkling chime, though I couldn't make out the words. One sounded male, a baritone that commanded respect, even in the soft tone its owner was using. The other was definitely a woman's voice, melodious and full of passion, responding to the first voice with a tenderness and affection that almost couldn't seem real. I passed through an aisle full of texts about theoretical physics and quantum mechanics, and I wondered if this was some kind of audio ad, the voices belonging to paid actors shilling some product I wouldn't care about. But the more I listened, the more it sounded like a secret conversation, maybe a reading of some scene from Romeo and Juliet. As I stepped quietly between shelves packed with fantasy and adventure novels, I managed to pick out a few words. Oddly enough, they didn't sound like the Early Modern English that Romeo and Juliet was written in; whoever was talking still sounded like star-crossed lovers, they just sounded modern. Part of me wanted to turn away; this conversation was private and I had no business sticking my nose into it. But that damn shimmering sound was hypnotic. It compelled me to move forward, to find its source. I turned the last corner, back into the poetry section and found- Nothing. No people standing there, no talking displays that I had missed, not even so much as an overhead speaker."Quod the fuck?" I whispered, borrowing a line from Eddie Izzard. The voices and the sound seemed like they were coming from the air in front of me, clearer than ever before. I walked down the row, thoroughly confused. "The Hell's going on, here?" I took one more step towards Shakespeare's works, and then it happened. The world around me was ripped away, replaced by a swirling, cascading torrent of every color imaginable and more. My ears were filled with piercing noise, six kinds of laughter, quiet music, and the deafening sound of silence all at once. I felt like someone was repeatedly ripping me apart and putting me back together the wrong way, with little bits left over each time because they were too stubborn to read the manual. I felt the urge to vomit, but my stomach couldn't tell which way was out any more. Barring the sensory overload, it was surprisingly painless. Go figure. Somewhere between a nanosecond and a century later, the barrage of sound and fury ended, replaced with a feeling of forward momentum. I had no time to process that, as I was immediately hurled into what felt like every hard surface in the universe, before coming to rest with my head on something large and mercifully soft. My head felt rattled and my mind was numb. The rest of my body had yet to report in, beyond stating its presence and that whatever the Bloody Blue Hell that was, I never wanted to do it again. I dully noticed that the large something my head was resting on was actually two large somethings, were warm, and were rising and falling in a rhythmic fashion. On an average day, I would have been astute enough to make certain logical assessments and respond to this obvious situation in a respectful and timely manner. This was not an average day. When my battered mind finally figured out that I was atop a living thing, I managed to get my deadened arms beneath me and push myself up. I cracked open my eyelids, unable to see anything but colors and blurred shapes. I looked first at what my head had been resting on and saw mostly white, the blurs forming a curvy shape that I would have found both alluring and very embarrassing had I the ability to do so at the time. What wasn't white was a shade of red that I knew was supposed to be disturbing, but couldn't remember why. I kept it in the back of my mind as I looked to either side of me. I found more white there, long shapes forming... arms? Yes, arms, but also something else. I imagined they were a giant pair of dove's wings, cradling around me and the fuzzy-feeling white thing beneath me. I missed the fact that I had regained some of the feeling in my arms as I looked up at this strange creature's face and into her eyes. Her eyes were a light magenta, and deep in a way I failed to grasp. A rainbow of soft colors formed a halo around her countenance, like the corona of the sun. To my addled mind, her expression seemed surprised as we stared at one another. "You're bleeding," I stated, trying feebly to stand up and find help for her. I had finally figured out why the red on her chest was troubling, and had assumed the blood was hers. My limbs began sending signals again, reporting all sorts of injuries. My head began to pound, warm red liquid pouring from somewhere above my eyes as darkness swallowed my sight. My fading consciousness still refused to link me to the blood that was ruining the elegant dress of the creature I had fallen upon. I gave voice to one final thought before I fell into oblivion. "...Didn't know angels could bleed..."