Living Well off the Refuse of a Former Elite
It was nothing more than a dreary day. The sun shone far too brightly, warming even through the turbulent bluster that was picking up. She picked up her blue jacket and satchel and bid the cats adieu as if she was the star of a black and white, leaving her lover at a train station. The cats ceased to be amused, but regardless of their indifference she giddily skipped down the stairway and popped out of the coldly dorm-like apartment complex where she kept her belongings.
Waiting for her was her little red gomobile, covered with stickers of all shapes, sizes and colours. It was once a car of great status driven by a manager type but it has frown old and less valuable to the degree that someone as low on the class ladder as she could afford it. Though it showed its wear through dirt and tears, it did its job in taking her to work and school and sometimes on fanciful midnight excursions to nowhere in particular. As she pulled into the asphalt wasteland surrounding the place she worked she turned off the pasty Scot on her stereo and leered at the bustling storefront with a sense of peril settling in. Coming to terms with the fact that it was only a matter of time before she got over her theatrical fear of the place and started to chortle with glee instilled by the charming childish wit of her cohorts, she tried not to worry to much.
Her workday began as uneventful as any other. This shift was governed by two of the more kindly, understanding managers who didn?t give her much trouble as long as she carried with her the pretense of working. She didn?t ever really have much trouble with this as she tended towards the more motivated side of the bookmover?s spectrum, but she was a little more tired than usual from the previous night?s failed adventure excursion.
Time passed quite slowly for the beginning of her shift. The counter was happy enough to support her while she waited for customers to approach her and stared up at the ceiling while thought about the different incarnations of the name Stacy. As soon as she became bored with the subject a dapper young man with indispensable charm reached the top of the staircase and started towards the desk. As he asked his question and she looked up the answer of the dull grey computing machine in front of her she smiled at the care put into his ensemble. The worn but nice suit matched the black tie and cleanly pressed white shirt brilliantly. In addition to this remarkable step up from the dull attire of her usual clientele, he was wearing freshly shined wingtips, a wonderfully old fashioned monogrammed ashy scarf and a driving cap skillfully tipped to an inquisitive angle.
As finding the well dressed young man?s book seemed to decrease in likelihood, the quality of the young woman?s day seem to be headed for the stars. To her great surprise, the young sir found the book he had come for without her help and it soon became obvious another excuse to linger about him would soon become necessary. Out of shyness the girl choked and silence ensued. Just when the pit in her stomach was about to overtake her and make her flee the scene in shame he spoke up. He spoke up and then she spoke up and soon there was a little less silence to go around.
As they discovered kindred interests and gave knowing looks time continued to pass, and picked up its feet to take great leaps and bounds to make up for how it crawled earlier. The young man looked at his sterling pocket watch worthy of the elite of a long dead time and exclaimed. With all the care of a long lost friend about to become long lost again they bid delicate farewells and clasped for a fleeting moment.
As quickly as he had swept in he was swept back out and she was alone again, but this time she had something more fanciful to think of. With his memory he had built a bridge for her to a kinder place.
She set out to write his story, or the story she thought he had lived and spent the rest of the night somewhere up there on the ceiling that she had spent to much time just looking at. In the story she put happiness and fancy, his charm and wit and even a surprise ending which was sure to put anyone who read it at the foot of the bridge to the ceiling he had left for her.
As she finished her story and floated back down to where she spent her less heart poundingly charming hours and let out a wee sigh. It was always sad to return to the drabness of an everyday norm, but armed with ?his? story and an Yves Montand album she knew that his bridge to the ceiling was ready to be rebuilt any time.
Look at this number. It's the secret to goo living!
FIN
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