Back a month ago, Mysterious Ink Press
released the anthology, Crimeucopia-Say It Again. The book includes my
short story, Visions of Reality. The story is based on an idea I came up with
while working at Bookstop back in the late 80s. I thought I would give you a
small sample of the tale today. If you like what you read, and I hope you do, you
can get the book from Mysterious
Press Ink, Amazon, and other vendors.
VISIONS OF REALITY
“Look,
John, I just want you to shelve the product.” Mr. Phillpots, the store manager,
pointed with his black pen, jabbing the air for emphasis as he added, “A book
is a book. Nothing more. No deep meanings. Just get them out there. Got
it?"
“Books
aren’t a product like a sack of potatoes, Mr. Phillpots. They mean much more.
All books aren’t equal. Some of that stuff is just trash.”
This
was a losing proposition because the man had no soul. How do you explain such a
concept to a non-book lover? It was
hopeless, and instead of being a good and loyal yes man, I had tilted at the
windmill again.
In
annoyance, Phillpots tossed the pen down on the desk and rocked back in his
expensive orthopedic chair. A chair that
he wouldn't need if he actually did something useful and worked the sales floor
like the rest of us. The money saved could have been used to fix the aging air
conditioning system that was losing the ongoing war with the brutal Texas
summer heat. After staring at me for what seemed forever, he started shaking
his head like I was a bad dog that had made a mess on the carpet.
“Listen,
I know you’ve been having,” his pudgy fingers made the obligatory quotation
marks, “some emotional problems lately.” He paused for a moment, his beady
little eyes gauging my reaction. My face burned in embarrassment and I shifted
slightly in the chair. Phillpots lowered his voice in an attempt to be
comforting and supportive; reminding me of how my calls to the employee hotline
had been handled. “It’s okay, really. I’ve thought for a long time you needed
help. I’m very glad you’re getting it. So, let’s make this simple.” He paused
and then did that stupid little nod he always did right before he issued one of
his edicts. “While you’re here at work, I just want you to do what you’re told.
Just put the product on the shelf. Don’t think about it. The books aren't alive
or anything. They are just product. They can’t hurt you at all. All you have to
do is put the books on the shelf. Just do it.”
The
room spun and then steadied shakily as I realized he knew about me seeing the
doctor. He probably knew all about the dreams and everything else. My life was
not my own or private.
When
the dreams started I tried to ignore them. That just made everything worse.
They got more and more vivid, so real that it was as if I was living them. Then
something happened and I started seeing things when I was awake—or, at least,
when I thought I was awake. I wasn't sure anymore when I was awake and when I
was asleep. Everyone else swore they didn’t see what I did.
Finally,
my primary doctor had insurance approval and sent me to a therapist. I didn’t
get better. I just quit talking to people about what I saw. They all thought I
was crazy. Why give them proof?
Everything
was supposed to be covered by patient/doctor confidentiality. If Phillpots
knew, who else did? It would have been
cheaper to advertise my mental state in the paper.
“Well?”
he asked.
Oh,
great. Not only was I classified as a nut job in his mind and no doubt by now
in the employee records, but now he also knew I hadn’t been listening. Playing
for time, I shrugged.
“Well,
okay then.”
Phillpots
shifted through his papers, picked up his pen, and went back to work. After about half a minute or so, he stopped
and stared at me. He blinked twice as if he thought his beady little eyes were
lying to him. He pulled off his glasses and leaned forward, being sure to make
eye contact just like the employee manual said on page nine. His voice was
angry calm but one could hear the traces of New England in it which always came
through when he was stressed.
Moving
to Texas had been a culture shock in more ways than one for him. I wasn't sure
if it was because Texas wasn't as it was portrayed in the media, or that those
of us who were native Texans saw the world differently than a transplanted
Yankee. Sometimes I felt a little sorry for him. Those moments were fleeting
and far between, as I had been called into his office way too often since he
took over seven weeks ago. The man certainly did like to hear himself talk.
“So,
John, go out there and shelve Romance and Horror. Alphabetize them while you’re
at it. You’re one of the few people I’ve got who can read and knows the
alphabet. Such a rarity here. Remember to police and face out any title that
has four copies or more. Not three. Four.” He tried for a half-smile that once
again reminded me of a constipated rat with a load of cheese. “Make it look
good out there.”
I
stiffened in my seat and swallowed hard. He knew how I felt about those books.
There was something wrong with them. They had a power over me. I gulped for air
and tried to speak, but he wasn’t going to give me the chance.
“Do it
or quit,” boomed Phillpots. "Get out of here and decide while you work."
Quitting
wasn’t an option. I nodded and got
myself together enough to rise from the chair and stumble out of his office,
pulling the door shut behind me. Kathy was waiting outside in the short
hallway. She smirked at me while I moved by her. I wondered how much she had
overheard and then realized it really didn’t matter because she did all the
records for him.
Horror
and Romance—the twin seducers—and I had to shelve them. It was as if those
books spoke to me, pulling me in. The therapist said there was a simple
explanation. I was disassociating from the real world or some such nonsense.
The answer was, of course, medication. Take the little happy pill and all would
be fine. I hadn’t noticed any difference. Maybe I needed the large-sized happy
pill.
Kevin
R. Tipple ©2024
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