BANANA CREAM SODA [Chapter 15]

When it came to shelving new books, or re-shelving books that customers had perused and left scattered about the store, Kirby’s favorite section was unquestionably the travel guides. Even if there were ten different books for the exact same country, their vivid, scenic covers were always unique. This gave him a distinct advantage in remembering their designated homes. Unfortunately, travel was Frank’s favorite section as well.

On the opposite end of that spectrum, and therefore Kirby’s least favorite section to reorganize, were the computer books. There was a multiple volume set claiming to be written for stupid people which all had almost identical covers, and yet another expansive set claiming to be written for completely stupid people which all had almost identical covers. Even the ones that weren’t specifically tailored for the feeble minded were largely indiscernible.

There were some workdays when Kirby was so focused on his work that he wouldn’t take either of the two paid breaks the labor laws provided for him. They simply slipped his mind. Sometimes he even skipped lunches because the hours zipped by so quickly. Days when he shelved the computer books were not those days. In fact, Kirby had not only taken the first of his tens, but he’d also escaped the floor for three lengthy bathroom breaks. Only one of which was necessary. And all that before lunch.

As he was coming out of the restroom, he had to push himself back against the door to keep from getting bowled over by Frank, who lumbered past wearing his beige windbreaker and stocking cap. His outdoor wear. Kirby found this disquieting. He checked his pocket watch, confident that he hadn’t been fake pooping long enough for it to already be closing time.

It wasn’t an emergency run to the bank for change. Nor had Frank taken an early lunch. If he had, then he must have died eating because he didn’t come back for the remainder of the day. He simply left. However, Frank’s abrupt departure did mean is that Kirby could sneak in and finish the travel shelving rather than continuing on with the spirit-crushing drudgery of the computer section.

He weaved through the aisles, hoping to find the cart Frank was working from before Ernie or Beth got to it, but it wasn’t on the sales floor. He rushed to the stock room. Without looking up from the inventory he was checking in, Jorge, the shipping and receiving supervisor shouted, “Hello, my friend, is there something I can help with?”

For quite some time, Jorge was the youngest of the Libra’s Books staff. A year and several days younger than Beth, but he had started working there long before she had been hired. Jorge got the job when he was eighteen. One of Frank’s first hires, and the only one aside from Ernie to still be around, Jorge was the sole employee to have a static Monday through Friday shift. He arrived at six every morning, and after the end of his shift, he drove to a strip mall a few miles away where he would work until midnight running the restaurant he owned.

“Hey, Jorge, did you see what Frank did with the cart he was pulling from?”

Jorge turned around, hooked his thumbs behind his mammoth rodeo buckle, and offered a broad smile. “Oh, hi Kirbs. Yeah, he cleared it off and put it back with the other empties. Wasn’t a whole lot on it today. Maybe nobody’s traveling, huh?”

“Except Frank. Did you see him race out of here a few minutes ago?” Kirby had seen no evidence to support his theory, but he suspected that Jorge and Frank might have had something resembling a friendship, since they had worked together for so many years. If this did happen to be true, then maybe the squat and stocky shipping supervisor could act as an oracle.

“I didn’t even know he was gone,” Jorge admitted with a shrug. “I hope it’s not another of those last minute investors meetings. I told Frank, from my experiences getting my own place up and running, you can’t trust anybody who tries to make you jump through hoops like a… like a… animal in a circus, or whatever.”

“What’s Frank investing in? Is he getting into the stock market?”

Jorge laughed. “No, man, he’s not invest-ING. He’s looking for someone to be a silent partner in the bookstore.”

“Why?”

“This place is broke. How did you not know that?” Jorge shook his head with more disappointment than Kirby felt he deserved.

Yes, business over those past many months wasn’t as robust as it had been in previous years. The fact that the staff dropped from thirteen employees, when Kirby first started, down to just four hourly and Frank should have probably raised a red flag. Kirby had simply dismissed it as some kind of market trend thing he didn’t have the education to understand.

“What are you two gossiping about?” Beth inquired playfully as she pushed her cart through the swinging doors.

“Kirbs was asking where Frank went,” Jorge reiterated, “and I said he was probably meeting with an investor.”

“Not that it’s any of our business,” Beth suggested while fully preparing to make it their business. “But Frank had a household emergency. Some woman called, talked to him for less than a minute, and he said he had to leave right away.”

This caused Kirby immense anxiety. Some woman? The only woman Frank knew, aside from Beth, was his daughter. Or at least that’s what Kirby could conclude based the evidence he had seen. Worst case scenarios flooded his head.

Calliope had insisted on keeping their PG rated love affair a secret from her father, or anyone who might whisper either rumors or truths in his ear. She said that Frank was very strict and overprotective. Kirby didn’t keep their secret out of fear of Frank, or even out of concern for his employment. It was all for her. She was authentically cowered by her father, a man who Kirby found to be entirely unintimidating. However, he didn’t know Frank behind closed doors. Perhaps he was an iron-fisted disciplinarian?

Maybe Frank had found out about Calliope and Kirby’s romance? Maybe he was on his way home to confront and punish his daughter. Kirby wanted to be able to throw open the door of Frank’s house and heroically place himself between tyrannical father and lovelorn daughter. Unless, of course, there was no confrontation. Then Kirby would just be making a complete ass of himself.

Next, Kirby’s mind turned to the possibility that Calliope had been injured or had fallen terribly ill. The panic attack swept over him again. And again, it concluded with speculating how foolish he would look if he dashed off to save someone who wasn’t in danger.

The remainder of the work day was like a roller coaster through hell.

Even by walking with purpose, it was still a twenty-five minute trek from the strip mall to the corner of 156th and 20th, where he took a right and hiked up eight blocks of serious hill, then a left onto the winding residential streets that eventually brought him home. The stinging January rain and heavy, brisk wind felt adversarial. By the time he got to his front yard, Kirby’s face was numb and his spirit was frayed.

There was no ambulance or fire truck in front of the St. Benedict house. No police cruiser either, although that seemed like the most preposterous of the worst case scenarios that had played out in Kirby’s head for those past six hours. There was, however, an SUV — or what Kirby liked to call a suburban assault vehicle — parked on the street near their mailbox. Black and ubiquitous. The type driven by TV special agents and real world helicopter parents. Whoever parked it there was from out of town. This wasn’t a stroke of master detective work on Kirby’s behalf; the frame on the license plate had the rental car company’s logo on it.

The driver was seventies action star rugged. A mop of sandy blond and silver hair; desert island tan despite it being a dismal wintertime; and in shape, but without any prominent muscle definition. The kind of man who belonged in the fur lined bomber jacket he was wearing. He sat behind the wheel and licked his thumb to turn the page of his paperback. Kirby recognized the book. He’d shelved it many times. Sci-Fi and Fantasy. A. Adams. The green, noodle-armed smiley face on the cover gave it away.

The rugged man noticed Kirby and gave him a quick but congenial nod.

Kirby waved like he was a four-year-old at a parade.