Part One
I wish I could say that I stayed calm throughout the entire ordeal. I really do. I had prepared for years to do this and in my head I thought that it would go just the way I wanted. I had waited a month and a half, after all. Plotting taking down the person who did this.
It began, as many things do, quite happily. I finished work, my uncomfortable, congested, desk job, and was driving home when I pulled into a fast food joint on the corner of the busiest two streets in the city. The drive thru poured out almost into incoming traffic. I made the decision to go inside to eat.
Surprisingly, I only saw about ten people in line. Three registers were being worked, so I got my order in within about three minutes.
"Okay, sir, that'll be $10.97." I handed the woman a gift card with about $12 on it from Christmas three months ago.
"Okay, we'll bring it to you." She beckoned for the next person in line. Seemed like it was getting busy just as I ordered. Fine with me.
I walked over to a two-person booth, choosing to be polite to whoever wanted to bring there family to the corner booth across from it. They were the only two open seats. The restaurant was clearly designed to earn most of its money from the drive thru.
Sitting down, I watched the silent TV and its ten-second late subtitles for about twenty seconds until I heard my phone vibrating. A lot.
Maybe someone was calling? This was a work phone. Nobody ever called this but work. I just freaking left work!
I took out the phone, and saw notifications flooding in. (My work couldn't stop me from subscribing to countless newsletters with this phone, even if they paid for it)
New from Anthony Wellington. Read one online retailer.
Wellington drops surprise title. A newspaper app replaced that notification.
Master of suspense makes triumphant return in Signed and Sealed. My actual bookstore reminder finally showed up.
At first it was shock. There was no way. But yes, there had to be one. But he retired. Didn't he? Guess not. Why am I still here? Why am I not at the bookstore?
A good minute passed before I shot up, rather sudden, drawing looks from fellow diners, and almost broke into a sprint. The woman I had ordered from was bringing out my meal: Chili chicken cheese curly fries and an extra large triple thick caramel milkshake. (Trust me, it had been a long work day.)
I grabbed them both, a few fries falling as I picked up the box. I nearly missed the plastic fork before picking it up and hastily walking as orderly as I could towards my sedan, waiting for me at the back of the parking lot. I was honked at twice during the blur that was reaching it, but I made it and got in. I placed the milkshake in the cup holder and the fries on the passenger seat before put the keys in the ignition and racing out of the parking lot.
Of course I was met at a stoplight as soon as I pulled out, but even my favourite author coming out of retirement for one last hoorah did not warrant running through a red light. However, it did warrant vigorous honking at the man in front of me as soon as the light turned green.
I went straight, then had a green on my right turn, and finally made it through a risky yellow before being stopped at another red. My milkshake stared at me.
"Don't let me become a meltshake!" My stomach grumbled in agreement, and seemed to nod towards the fries.
"Come on man," it pleaded. "Chili and chicken and cheese curly fries!"
I told them, out loud in my madness. "It isn't worth a few seconds more between me and some new Wellington." It had, after all, been thirteen years since his last full length novel, and ten since the 1600-word short he put out online. I memorized that one for university.
My phone buzzed again. What if it's work? No, not the time. This could be worth more than my job. This was Anthony freaking Wellington.
But the red light dragged and dragged and my conscience got the best of me and I pulled out my phone. Another notification for this book. But my regretting of temporarily letting my guard down left me as I noticed that such-and-such department store's exclusive edition had a never-before-seen novella set in the same universe as his most acclaimed series (also my favourite). I moved to the right-turning lane to go to that store. Customer loyalty was no longer a factor.
I turned right on the red, which was legal, and zoomed five kilometers over the speed limit to get this book.
I pulled into parking lot and realized I had forgotten that other people also enjoyed this author. The scene was a mess. I got cut off twice before peacefully finding a parking spot. Running in, there was a straight going to the books aisles, and the way there got gradually more hectic the closer you got.
There are many stories of how bad Black Friday can get. This was Black Friday in spring. In two aisles.
And as soon as I got there, the crowd seemed to be leaving. There were bare shelves. All of them except for one. Three books were left when I saw it. There were two left by the time I got there. One was taken as I reached for them.
The cover was bland, just black with white text for the title Signed and Sealed and the author's name. This, however, just made the gold Signed by the author sticker and line at the top of the hardcover indicating its exclusive collector's edition status. As I put my hand up to grab it I also saw another hand touch it at the same time as me, savagely ripping it off the shelf and running off with it.
It was a pale, middle-aged women maybe five years older than me, and five inches shorter. She was very skinny, and wore a uniform from a nice restaurant downtown. She'd come right from work, like me.
I was right behind her, and when she turned her head to look back, I saw a flash of her nametag. Julia.
I slowed down, not wanting to make a fool of myself. Even if it was Anthony Wellington.
Part Two
I left the store and went back to the one I was originally going to. I ate my lukewarm chicken chili cheese fries and my cold cup of meltshake.
I found the last copy of the book and read it and it was good. Of course it was good. It was the best book I had ever read by him. No, it was the best book I had ever read. Still is. It's my favourite book of all time. As soon as I finished it, I read it again and again.
It turned out, though, that the exclusive edition sold on the first day that it surprised everyone would never be reprinted. There were only ten thousand copies overall. The day after this, the author, Anthony Wellington, died from a heart condition he had been battling for years.
A week later, I saw online that somebody with the username College_gurl_Julia was selling the book I had come so close to buying for three hundred and fifty dollars. It was that Julia. I could tell by her profile picture.
I was overcome with anger and it overtook me. This anger welled up in me day after day, for forty days, until I finally decided to do something. I went to the restaurant where the woman who had taken the last copy worked, The Socialite, and when asked if I wanted to have a certain server, I asked for Julia.
I sat down at a booth, and saw what I knew would be there. A survey. For the server who had me. After she took my order of iced water and a nacho appetizer, apparently not recognizing me, I got to work.
Server Name: Julia
How would you rate your experience today? Zero out of 10.
What was your favourite part of your experience today? Leaving.
Would you recommend your server to a friend/colleague? Not unless they had stolen my girlfriend and left the country with her, and taken my job. And stolen my car.
Would you recommend The Socialite to a friend/colleague? See above.
Is there anything you would like to say that The Socialite could do better? Too much for space allotted.
What is the probability of you returning to The Socialite? Zero out of 10.
Only, I'm sad to say, I did return. I would wear sunglasses or a funky hat, or use a deeper voice. Every time I asked for Julia, and gave more unfavourable criticism. And whenever it asked for my name, I always fancily signed Anonymous.
On my sixth visit, right after work, like I did every Friday, I entered The Socialite to an unpleasant scene. Julia, purse in hand, out of uniform, was storming out of the front doors, being followed by her manager. She was almost in tears.
They were both yelling when I stopped by the entrance. I watched and waited for an oppurtune time to interject. It came when Julia told her manager she didn't know why she was always hated.
At this, I took off the sunglasses from my face and looked at Julia, tears streaming down her face. "Maybe it's because your a terrible, disgusting human being!"
She looked at me and gasped, but kept up her tone. "What kind of child are you? I took a book to read it and you didn't get it! This is my job that you took from me! I have student loans and an apartment to pay for, you monster!
"Are you struggling so much that you have to profit over a beloved author's death? Who is trhe real monster here?"
"You aren't even worth my time." She ran away, struggling in her high heels, to her ten-year-old pickup truck, and her tires screeched as she zoomed out.
I looked at the manager with the same gaze he gave me. Disbelief.
Then I got back in my sedan, left as well, and went home.
I opened the door, all of my feelings almost bubbling over, and put my keys down gently on the table. I got myself a glass of water, drank it all, refilled it, went in my room.
And thought about it.