Hey everyone, I sometimes have these thoughts that bang around in my head until I get them out. It's more of a blog post. Which I will post there also. But I wanted to share it with all my patrons. This is where most of my writing is done. At the bookstore where the clocks only exist when it's time to go home.
Whisk and I traveled to the great North to visit our bookstore. I sat at the bar facing the wall mural of Lawrence, Wolfe, Faulkner, Miller, and Steinbeck. My back to the mumbling crowd. Sometimes not mumbling. Sometimes full blown personal conversations on the phone at full volume completely unaware of everyone around him or her.
I put on my wireless Bose headphones, Bluetooth it to my phone, find my Amazon music app and the band I'm currently digging. Tonight it was Rival Sons. Turn it up until the noise is blocked out.
My laptop, which is an internet virgin, is plugged in to prevent premature battery failure. Woe to the man who doesn't do this and fails to save appropriately. My flash drive wiggled into place. Do not format please. Click.
Scroll through the files and jpegs of a few dozen maps I haven't used. I find the file. Lean into my keyboard ready to get busy.
Shit, forgot my drink and cookie. Two cookies. It's buy one get one free. These details are important.
It may seem silly driving 35 minutes to spend way too much on a cup of coffee and a pair of cookies to stare at a wall with five dead people. But it helps me forget all the other stuff I have to do. All the distractions of responsibility. They are back there. Behind me. Drown out by my music and adventure writing. Waiting for me to turn around to acknowledge them.
For a few hours I get away with it. I get away with being 12 years old sitting at the dining room table with my graph paper acquired from my mother's office supply closet, my only set of dice carefully placed in a box lid to prevent them from rolling off the table, my dmg turned to the dungeon dressings tables with pages so worn I taped the top of the pages to prevent them from tearing more, and my eyes darting around fascinated by all the possibilities.
What is this thing I found?
What am I searching for?
The hours zoom by. I don't wear a watch. The clock is hidden in my computer. I like to live without clocks while I'm there. When you're 12, clocks aren't important. Just the days. It's Saturday. I own my Saturdays. At least right now. My Saturday without clocks.
Like any good time travel movie things start to break down when I'm there. I notice anomalies. Things that hint I'm not 12 any more. The car keys in my pocket. The ache in my back. The announcement that the store is closing in 15 minutes. The thought it's time to get home so I can get up early. Those responsibilities tap me on the shoulder. They've been patient, but won't be ignored any longer.
The packing to leave is a ritual. The cords, they are packed first. Wound and secured. Check the computer to make sure it was shut down correctly. If not, that battery will drain in the bag. Headphones. Those are important. Then the thumb drive that captured that 12 year-old me at the dining room table and preserves it. A time capsule that I can edit. That goes into my front pocket.
Another alert over the speaker. In 5 minutes the store will be closing. Please bring any purchases to the register at this time. We will reopen tomorrow at 10am for your shopping convenience.
I get excited. I really do each time. Another chance. Another day. A possibility to return to those adventures in my head. But there's a tapping on my shoulder. It's not gentle. It comes with a tension headache and loss of appetite as responsibility reminds me I have too much to do tomorrow. Things must get done. I concede. It's right. To have a semblance of a good work week things must get done.
Saturday will come again. The 12 year-old me owns Saturdays.