you back,” said Mike #2.
“Calling yourself by some other name,” said John.
“Well, it worked,” said Mike #1.
“It worked for Henry,” said John.
“Precisely,” said Mike #1.
All week, men had been coming into the Dragonfly claiming to be Henry. They all seemed to have some sort of collective memory of this wildly romantic version of themselves—after a heartbreak, a divorce, a particularly good acid trip—when they did such things as start a correspondence in a book with a woman they’d never laid eyes on.
“Nineteen sixty-one,” said John. “The date above the first note says 1961. Did you time travel during the seventies as well?”
“Apparently, I’m not supposed to remember,” said Mike #1.
They went on and on, taking three times as long to fix the shelf as I would have on my own, while I gazed up at the Self-Help section for guidance.
It was my second full day as a Dragonfly employee, but having spent so much time here, it felt like much longer. The Dragonfly catered to a broad clientele, who occasionally showed the charming eccentricities of Dickens characters. There was Miss Miranda, as tall as she was wide, who was overjoyed when Hugo found a copy of the cookbook her husband kept throwing away in hopes of never having to eat that meatloaf recipe again. And the woman with a pug she carried in a front-facing baby carrier who liked Janet Evanovich and Ian McEwan and had taken up with Steinbeck on Hugo’s recommendation. There was the man who sat on my Kik-Step in the back corner, reading through the stacks of sheet music like they were novels. Hank, another regular, who only last Wednesday bought How to Win at Craps , A Cultural History of Masturbation , and four Agatha Christie novels. And, of course, there was Gloria, who came in twice a week with her NPR tote bag, Tuesdays for Mystery and Fridays for Romance. She always paid in loose change she kept in a plastic bag. And the CIA Bathroom, who had to constantly remind one another of what books they’d already read.
After Mike, Mike, and John finally finished with the shelf, I accompanied them to the front of the store and wrote up their purchases in the big leather binder Hugo kept at the counter.
“So Mike,” I said. “If you’re Henry, where did you ask Catherine to meet you in the last note?”
“That wasn’t on the website,” Mike #1 said.
“I know,” I said. “I didn’t post that part. For just this reason.”
Mike #2 and John turned toward him, looking smug and hopeful at the same time.
“The bar at the Fairmont Hotel in San Jose,” Mike #1 said.
“Enjoy the Cherie Priest,” I said, smiling and handing him his books. “If you run into the real Henry, send him my way.”
“Working here has turned you into a cruel woman, Maggie,” Mike #1 said as his two friends pushed him toward the door.
“Just the way you like me,” I called back.
Jason came out of the stacks to drop an empty box by my foot before disappearing back into the stacks. As far as I know, he and Hugo had never exchanged a word about his indignant resignation. He had just come back into the store yesterday, grabbed a stack of books, and started up where he left off.
I looked up at Hugo, who was sitting in his chair reading another of the Waverley novels.
“Sorry about Jason,” I said.
Hugo waved me off. “He quits every couple of months or so. He spends a day in Pioneer Park reading comic books and waiting for his friends to get off work. Then he comes back here out of boredom.”
Pioneer Park.
Sunday is the first day of summer. Meet me in Pioneer Park, by the fountain, noon. —Henry
It seemed odd that the scene of Henry and Catherine’s meeting would also be the spot for Jason’s sulking.
I took a left at Biographies, a U-turn around Twentieth-Century History, and a sharp right at Poetry to get to Romance. In my first cleanup project, I’d arranged the Romance section by genre—bodice-busters in Historical Romance,
“Calling yourself by some other name,” said John.
“Well, it worked,” said Mike #1.
“It worked for Henry,” said John.
“Precisely,” said Mike #1.
All week, men had been coming into the Dragonfly claiming to be Henry. They all seemed to have some sort of collective memory of this wildly romantic version of themselves—after a heartbreak, a divorce, a particularly good acid trip—when they did such things as start a correspondence in a book with a woman they’d never laid eyes on.
“Nineteen sixty-one,” said John. “The date above the first note says 1961. Did you time travel during the seventies as well?”
“Apparently, I’m not supposed to remember,” said Mike #1.
They went on and on, taking three times as long to fix the shelf as I would have on my own, while I gazed up at the Self-Help section for guidance.
It was my second full day as a Dragonfly employee, but having spent so much time here, it felt like much longer. The Dragonfly catered to a broad clientele, who occasionally showed the charming eccentricities of Dickens characters. There was Miss Miranda, as tall as she was wide, who was overjoyed when Hugo found a copy of the cookbook her husband kept throwing away in hopes of never having to eat that meatloaf recipe again. And the woman with a pug she carried in a front-facing baby carrier who liked Janet Evanovich and Ian McEwan and had taken up with Steinbeck on Hugo’s recommendation. There was the man who sat on my Kik-Step in the back corner, reading through the stacks of sheet music like they were novels. Hank, another regular, who only last Wednesday bought How to Win at Craps , A Cultural History of Masturbation , and four Agatha Christie novels. And, of course, there was Gloria, who came in twice a week with her NPR tote bag, Tuesdays for Mystery and Fridays for Romance. She always paid in loose change she kept in a plastic bag. And the CIA Bathroom, who had to constantly remind one another of what books they’d already read.
After Mike, Mike, and John finally finished with the shelf, I accompanied them to the front of the store and wrote up their purchases in the big leather binder Hugo kept at the counter.
“So Mike,” I said. “If you’re Henry, where did you ask Catherine to meet you in the last note?”
“That wasn’t on the website,” Mike #1 said.
“I know,” I said. “I didn’t post that part. For just this reason.”
Mike #2 and John turned toward him, looking smug and hopeful at the same time.
“The bar at the Fairmont Hotel in San Jose,” Mike #1 said.
“Enjoy the Cherie Priest,” I said, smiling and handing him his books. “If you run into the real Henry, send him my way.”
“Working here has turned you into a cruel woman, Maggie,” Mike #1 said as his two friends pushed him toward the door.
“Just the way you like me,” I called back.
Jason came out of the stacks to drop an empty box by my foot before disappearing back into the stacks. As far as I know, he and Hugo had never exchanged a word about his indignant resignation. He had just come back into the store yesterday, grabbed a stack of books, and started up where he left off.
I looked up at Hugo, who was sitting in his chair reading another of the Waverley novels.
“Sorry about Jason,” I said.
Hugo waved me off. “He quits every couple of months or so. He spends a day in Pioneer Park reading comic books and waiting for his friends to get off work. Then he comes back here out of boredom.”
Pioneer Park.
Sunday is the first day of summer. Meet me in Pioneer Park, by the fountain, noon. —Henry
It seemed odd that the scene of Henry and Catherine’s meeting would also be the spot for Jason’s sulking.
I took a left at Biographies, a U-turn around Twentieth-Century History, and a sharp right at Poetry to get to Romance. In my first cleanup project, I’d arranged the Romance section by genre—bodice-busters in Historical Romance,
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