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The Newsstand
Jan. 9th, 2012 01:51 pmChapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter I
Remember when we used to go down to that newsstand right next to the supermarket and steal porno magazines? the owner had a fake leg, but he'd still chase us half way across the neighborhood.
a long set of coincidences years later led me to purchase that newsstand, with an inheritance from my aunt who died in a fire. the owner didn't remember me as a teenager, but i mentioned in passing about our childhood antics, and he scowled and told me he had to get a new prosthesis because he chased us so much. then he paused and said the new one fit him much better, and he could stand up all day without pain, and perhaps we'd done him a favor.
after buying the newsstand i began a steady routine. i woke at 5 am and made a cup of coffee. then i walked or rode my bicycle over to the stand. the news trucks had come by and delivered the days papers. i unlocked the steel gate and rolled it up, and then unbundled the papers and placed them in the racks. i straightened up and then brewed a fresh pot of coffee for the customers.
it took a few weeks to sort out the regulars. there was an old man who bought the times; he had a large gray mustache and cane. a teenage girl with sunken eyes and pale skin. she bought the tribune and a large coffee, light and sweet. a small man, in his twenties, always cheerful, bought gum and cigarettes, and wished me a good day. the cast of characters grew by five and then ten more.
after the morning rush there was a lull. initially i found myself restless and took to reading magazines and newspapers, but found it only increased my isolation. then, my imagination began to drift, and i started entertaining stories about my customers. since i knew them so little, except for their image, quirks and mannerisms, it was easy to amuse myself by filling in their background and daily activities. i imagined the teenaged girl lived in an old shack with a faithful dog and an alcoholic mother. the small man lived alone in an inherited penthouse on the north-side - except for a pet lobster who he had named 'fitzgerald' and had late night conversations with, about mathematics and alchemy.
a month went by and the season grew cold. i experimented with different types of coffee and breakfast snacks. i changed magazines as one type became popular, i ordered similar ones based on what i thought my customers wanted. gradually the shop became more successful, and a steady stream of money added some peace of mind. i began having light conversation with some of the regulars. at first, the weather and 'how are you's. later, after a bit of insight here or there, some inquires into school or business. some of my younger customers would be easy to spot on friday morning with hangovers, and i'd hear about their parties. as the winter came, it seemed people were reluctant to rush off, and conversations grew more elaborate - girlfriends, ex-husbands, a terrible boss, a new baby, a family tragedy, or a random bit of luck.
i rarely disclosed much about my own life. perhaps it was too routine, and i had little to share about my present situation. i had taken on a bartender's role - a sort of unofficial therapist for regulars to come to and vent. i enjoyed the simple friendships - the five or ten minute exchanges never went beyond the newsstand. i wasn't invited out of the safety of its enclosure. late at night, i would close the stand when nobody was around, and head home alone. i'd prepare a small meal and read on the couch until i fell asleep. in the morning the routine would start the same, as always. i found this life to be pleasingly simple - i could be in the world purely as an observer. a steady stream - real or imagined - of other lives to get lost in. in quiet moments - with slowly unfolding disclosures from the customers - my imagination built up complex stories about their lives.
it was early january when the snow started. there was a two-day blizzard that dropped five feet over the whole city. i could not reach the stand, and resigned myself to stay in and relax as a little vacation. that evening while reading i noticed an unpleasant sensation: i could not shake the image of my customers standing around my newsstand waiting for me to return. i saw them there, in the darkness and snow. i tried to dismiss it as ridiculous and self-serving - as if my coffee and magazines and buttered rolls were keeping these people alive. as if my listening to the superficial details of their lives was saving them from crisis. i thought i was a fool, but all night the image remained. i finally drowned it out after several glasses of whiskey and fell asleep.
the next morning i looked out my apartment window. over night the plows and shovels had cleared paths through the snow. my head hurt from the drinking, but i was determined to get back to the routine, and to my customers.
________________________
©2013 px0. all rights reserved
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Remember when we used to go down to that newsstand right next to the supermarket and steal porno magazines? the owner had a fake leg, but he'd still chase us half way across the neighborhood.
a long set of coincidences years later led me to purchase that newsstand, with an inheritance from my aunt who died in a fire. the owner didn't remember me as a teenager, but i mentioned in passing about our childhood antics, and he scowled and told me he had to get a new prosthesis because he chased us so much. then he paused and said the new one fit him much better, and he could stand up all day without pain, and perhaps we'd done him a favor.
after buying the newsstand i began a steady routine. i woke at 5 am and made a cup of coffee. then i walked or rode my bicycle over to the stand. the news trucks had come by and delivered the days papers. i unlocked the steel gate and rolled it up, and then unbundled the papers and placed them in the racks. i straightened up and then brewed a fresh pot of coffee for the customers.
it took a few weeks to sort out the regulars. there was an old man who bought the times; he had a large gray mustache and cane. a teenage girl with sunken eyes and pale skin. she bought the tribune and a large coffee, light and sweet. a small man, in his twenties, always cheerful, bought gum and cigarettes, and wished me a good day. the cast of characters grew by five and then ten more.
after the morning rush there was a lull. initially i found myself restless and took to reading magazines and newspapers, but found it only increased my isolation. then, my imagination began to drift, and i started entertaining stories about my customers. since i knew them so little, except for their image, quirks and mannerisms, it was easy to amuse myself by filling in their background and daily activities. i imagined the teenaged girl lived in an old shack with a faithful dog and an alcoholic mother. the small man lived alone in an inherited penthouse on the north-side - except for a pet lobster who he had named 'fitzgerald' and had late night conversations with, about mathematics and alchemy.
a month went by and the season grew cold. i experimented with different types of coffee and breakfast snacks. i changed magazines as one type became popular, i ordered similar ones based on what i thought my customers wanted. gradually the shop became more successful, and a steady stream of money added some peace of mind. i began having light conversation with some of the regulars. at first, the weather and 'how are you's. later, after a bit of insight here or there, some inquires into school or business. some of my younger customers would be easy to spot on friday morning with hangovers, and i'd hear about their parties. as the winter came, it seemed people were reluctant to rush off, and conversations grew more elaborate - girlfriends, ex-husbands, a terrible boss, a new baby, a family tragedy, or a random bit of luck.
i rarely disclosed much about my own life. perhaps it was too routine, and i had little to share about my present situation. i had taken on a bartender's role - a sort of unofficial therapist for regulars to come to and vent. i enjoyed the simple friendships - the five or ten minute exchanges never went beyond the newsstand. i wasn't invited out of the safety of its enclosure. late at night, i would close the stand when nobody was around, and head home alone. i'd prepare a small meal and read on the couch until i fell asleep. in the morning the routine would start the same, as always. i found this life to be pleasingly simple - i could be in the world purely as an observer. a steady stream - real or imagined - of other lives to get lost in. in quiet moments - with slowly unfolding disclosures from the customers - my imagination built up complex stories about their lives.
it was early january when the snow started. there was a two-day blizzard that dropped five feet over the whole city. i could not reach the stand, and resigned myself to stay in and relax as a little vacation. that evening while reading i noticed an unpleasant sensation: i could not shake the image of my customers standing around my newsstand waiting for me to return. i saw them there, in the darkness and snow. i tried to dismiss it as ridiculous and self-serving - as if my coffee and magazines and buttered rolls were keeping these people alive. as if my listening to the superficial details of their lives was saving them from crisis. i thought i was a fool, but all night the image remained. i finally drowned it out after several glasses of whiskey and fell asleep.
the next morning i looked out my apartment window. over night the plows and shovels had cleared paths through the snow. my head hurt from the drinking, but i was determined to get back to the routine, and to my customers.
________________________
©2013 px0. all rights reserved
