When the Sleeping Bird Sings

Live: September 24th, 2017

Candace Rowe enjoys making others feel small. She enjoys making me feel small.

"Go wash the windows," it's a demand, not a request.

"Unload those crates from the truck," never with a please.

"I need you to set up for the reading tonight." Some progress, but after taking thirty steel chairs out from the closet, hooking up the sound system and receiving a generous splinter from the flimsy podium, I half expected a 'thank you'. Oh, and one more thing. "Head down to Smith and deliver these notes to Michelle for me." I peeked at the file on the walk over to South and Smith. That could have been sent in an email.

I almost stopped getting my hopes up around there.

"Bryn, how about you shelve some books today," was the first acknowledgement Candace gave when I burst through the double doors five minutes late. Too busy frantically tying the apron around my waist, I wasn't sure if I heard correctly. I tried to speak. "Well," she said, finally looking up from the stack of papers on the countertop. Candace pushed her small framed glasses from the bridge of her nose up into her graying hair. "Your face is red," she told me. I reached up to touch my heated cheeks.

"Oh. Must. have been. the ride o.ver." I had to put the pedal to the metal when I realized I overslept what was supposed to be a twenty-minute powernap. So, I blamed it on my high-speed bike race rather than the embarrassment I'd suffer from Candace's displeasure.

"I see. Well, there's no need for that apron today. Lisa called in sick." 

"Is she o.kay?" Lisa isn't one to call into work.

"She sounded fine to me. Here, follow me."

I thought about pinching myself to make sure I wasn't stuck in that overextended powernap, but the square brick building, Literary City, seemed to remain stationed on its axis, overlooking the universe of Iowa City from the highest peak in Iowa.

Candace led me across the store, towards a locked door inhabiting a side hall in the back. I always knew the basement was where the books were stored but there was never a reason for me to go down there. Candace only lets her closest employees on the salesfloor have access. Pulling out a keyring from the pocket of her knit cardigan, Candace unlocked the door and jolted forward with a push. Splashes of her black coffee and the ghost of a "shit" still fill the doorway.

I mirrored my boss, gripping onto the splintered railing as each step creaked beneath us. She turned on the lights when we arrived at the bottom of the endless pit.

Books. So many books. Like a snapshot in my mind, I insert myself back into that image of that cold, deep basement. Tall metal shelving units cover the high walls, disrupting the darkness with a collage of colorful book jackets and literary classics. Along the Northern wall are second editions, each occupying their own glass casing, their bindings in complete disarray. Austin, Dickens, Hemingway, including modern names such as King and Patterson, fill the space between the shelves. For as many books as there are on display, there are twice as many within the cardboard boxes scattered along the floor.

Perhaps it was because Candace had her afternoon coffee or maybe it's because books have this mystical way of bringing people together, but the day continued to feel even more surreal as it progressed.

Candace let me in on her personal life for the very first time. She explained how her father used to own the bookshop and had a passion for collecting early editions. When I asked Candace how she felt about them she almost shrugged. "I can't say it means as much to me as it did to him," she said. "It's a business now. I can't afford to collect, so I sell. That's the mistake my father made. He was too poor to be collecting."