Note: This short story has nothing to do with other narratives presented on this blog previously.
Clearance
“It Was the
First Time I Killed a Man” by Wade Lewis. The book’s cover was adorned with the
face of the man himself, staring blankly out, trying his best to look sinister.
It was a round, otherwise handsome face, but in my opinion, thoroughly lacking
any intimidating qualities. Wade, when I knew him, was never intimidating. I
remember how he used to always talk about writing a crime novel, a cross
between Sherlock Holmes and Die Hard,
as he would describe it. There would be a murder of course, a seemingly impossible
one at that. The investigation of which would send Wade’s hero-detective on a
calculated campaign of deduction and confrontation.
I’ve
never really been one to read mystery novels. I’m more of a sports history kind
of guy, maybe some Stephen King when I’ve got the occasional craving for
fiction. But Wade’s not like me. He always devoured books. From an early age
there was hardly a time when wade wasn’t walking around with an Anna Katherine
Green, Raymond Chandler, or a Doyle, Christie or even a Poe tucked under his
arm, or opened on his lap. Maybe it was because of his parents, but when we
were growing up, Wade was always sticking his nose into the worlds of the great
detectives, blocking the noise around him with “ratiocination.” Their stories made
sense in the end, there was always a reason for every dastardly deed or
fiendish plot, a reason that always explained how and why these people would
have cause to hurt one another. Reasons Wade never got in real life.
I picked
the book up and glanced again at the cover. No, Wade wasn’t sinister or
intimidating, but he had the look of a man that knew something. Something
terrible and altogether mysterious. It had always looked kind of like that.
Perhaps that was why the publisher had chosen to put Wade’s face on the cover,
somehow it seemed to fit. It was a good cover. Wade wouldn’t have liked it of
course, he hated pictures of himself. He also hated the manuscript for this
book, last time I checked, he hated dealing with his publisher too. He hated
doing book tours, he hated giving interviews, and he hated being told what to
do. In fact, he had hated most things that involved deviating from whatever he
had previously planned out. “Obstinate,”
his father had often called him, along with “insolent,” and perhaps his
favourite “Dissatisfactory.”
I put the
book down, but then I second guessed myself and picked it up again. I wanted to
peel off the 80% off! Final Clearance!
sticker from the front cover, but saw little point to it. The store itself was
busy, last minute shoppers crowding the rows and rows of books and home décor
items, picking over underpriced cookbooks, and overpriced reprints of all the
classics. I tucked Wade’s book under my arm as I attempted to make my way to
the front of the store, bumping into shoulders, a stroller and a display as I
went.
I waited at
the back of the line near the front of the store. Light had faded outside since
I had come in, the doors now looked dark and cold. As the shoppers in line
waited their turn, many of them began to put on hats, gloves and coats,
preparing for the inevitable blast of cold air they’d all surely face
momentarily. The counter stood just to
the right of the door. Every time the door opened to admit a satisfied shopper
into the outside world, the cold wind whipped inside and slapped me across the
face with an icy hand.
A bearded
man wearing the red sweater-vest of an assistant manager had flipped the open
sign to a closed one on the front door as the store began to empty out. I
watched families exit ahead of me, old ladies too, clutching each other as a
teenage boy held the door open. Behind them was a portly man in a fur rimmed
coat and a group of young women chatting eagerly each of them bristling against
the cold of the open door. At the head of the line was another girl who looked
an awful lot like Lindsey, so much so that I had to stare at her for almost a
minute before I realized it wasn’t her.
I wished it
was her. She was holding a copy of A
Study in Scarlet. One of the many books Wade never convinced Lindsey to
read. She wouldn’t read detective stories, or really many books at all, never
saw the point. To the outside observer, their marriage didn’t seem to be built
on anything. They always seemed to be between fights, despite both of their
best efforts. Wade never wanted to become his parents, like most of us I
suppose, but there you had it. I often wondered about what would have happened
if they had had any kids. I was glad that I didn’t have to find out.
The girl
who looked like Lindsey but wasn’t went out the door, looking back at me as she
went, perhaps trying to see if she knew me. She had noticed my starring. But it
didn’t take her as long to figure out that I was a stranger to her. She was
young and beautiful, I would have liked to talk to her, but she disappeared
into the night same as the rest.
There were
only a couple people still in front of me in line now. The line had been moving
quickly despite its length. The store itself had emptied out as well, I watched
the last of the people in line filter their way out the front doors. A man with
a face tattoo, an old grey man in an all camo patterned outfit and a middle-aged
woman who looked like a nurse, judging by the scrubs under her coat. They all
paid, and sidled out into the night, disappearing into the gathering force of a
biting north east wind, carrying their purchases with them.
Finally, it
was my turn, the last customer of the night, standing there holding a book I
already owned. The cashier was shifting her weight from one foot to the other,
subtly bouncing on the balls of her feet to ease the pain of standing all day.
The practiced move of the experienced retail worker. I handed Wade’s book to
her and asked how the night had gone. It had been long and stressful, but she
said that it had only been busy. She looked down at what I had brought to the
table and her eyes lit up. She loved detective novels, she’d been meaning to
read this one but never seemed to have the time.
It happens,
I never seemed to find time for books like this either. But this one was
different.
How?
It’s a long
story, and not a happy one.
Short
version?
I knew him.
Personally?
I’m pretty
sure he based a character off of me.
Which one.
It’s the-
well it’s the victim, actually.
That’s
good, you can identify with him better then, most of the time people just
forget about them, now you won’t.
Our eyes
met. Hers were young, curious, beautiful. Mine, tired and worn. I paid, but
when she bagged up the book, I didn’t take it. I looked at the doorway, feeling
the piercing cold wind without the door being open.
No, you
keep it. I’ve read it anyway.
