by Rich Hayden
Amil scored a job driving a forklift for a local paper plant. He enjoyed the work, and the pay was better than he had anticipated. The modest wage would never compare to the game checks he was once destined to cash, but it would get him and Ali by. He got on well with his coworkers, as most of the guys liked to talk baseball with him like he was Nolan Ryan. But most of all, the rugged Southerner liked the fact that he could wear jeans to work and keep the shaggy beard that obscured his chin.
As he returned home from an ordinary day at the plant in the late afternoon under the burn of a July sun, Amil found Ali on the porch. Encased in red, weathered brick, solid as a castle’s fortification, the porch was shielded on all sides by a brown and moderately tattered awning. Suspended above the cool, concrete surface was Ali, as she hid in the shade within the cradle of a canvas swing. Wearing a tank top, a pair of fuzzy boots, and short-shorts, she lay easily on the fabric, chatting away on the phone. A cigarette hung from her fingers and an ashtray that had long since been conquered by exhausted Newports sat upon the ground. Casting the butt into the mass grave of its fallen brethren, she smiled and gave a girly wave of her fingers to Amil. Before he could exit this vision, Amil smiled too, but not back at Ali, necessarily. The joyful feeling he felt was born from the very condition of their situation. Perhaps leaving his elbow out there on the surface of PNC Park wasn’t such a bad offering to fate after all. It then occurred to him that normal life was the treasure he had needed most all along.
There they stayed on Middle Street for the next handful of years, and life for the young couple played out in a predictable, but pleasing, fashion. The little apartment played host to a lot of parties. Beer was drank, cops were called, and every once in a while, a streaker would be traced back to their home. They stayed up late, played music much too loud for the taste of the elderly woman who lived upstairs, and developed a regular sexual routine.
But more went on between the walls on their apartment than the rowdy exploits of twenty-somethings. Ali and Amil had a future plan. Some detours were taken, and the distractions of maladroit spending were a bit too strong to resist at times, but eventually, their dreams began to take a tangible shape.
Part 7. The days of farewell
Two weeks before Amil’s 31st birthday, he and Ali purchased a house on Delafield Avenue in Aspinwall. It was large, a full three stories, each of which demanded a great amount of care and attention. But for all its shortcomings, the new owners could see the future, and longed for the day when the building would realize its full potential. Smack in the middle of the street, the house rose from the light color of the brick road and was shaded under the watch of a large maple tree. A set of cement steps grew from the sidewalk, and they ascended to a brick-enclosed porch that bore a striking resemblance to the one at the old place on Middle Street. The difference here, though, was that this charming area had not been savaged by a life spent accommodating the likes of youthful renters. The wood trim that framed it boasted a fresh application of blue paint, and a variety of hanging baskets, which overflowed with life, were left to sway with the breeze. A set of chimes dangled from the ceiling, and a brand new welcome mat graced the threshold.
With all the money the pair could scrape together, and with many of youth’s whims sacrificed on the altar of adulthood, the house quickly became a place that Ali and Amil loved to call home. They refinished the hardwood floors, updated the tacky light fixtures that grew from the walls like tumors, and tried their hands at the adventurous art of plumbing. They paid to have a new roof installed after a late-summer storm decorated the yard with shingles, and discovered that wiring is best left to electricians.
Finally, after three years and nary a penny spent on anything else but the house, Amil and Ali had the first floor renovated. The entrance level had been outfitted for a business, while the couple made their home on the upper floors. With nothing more than a few loans and a shared passion for the printed word, the couple, who had never bothered with the formality of marriage, opened a used bookstore.
They stocked their shelves with hard-to-find and eclectic titles, hoping that the outré vibe they chose would attract customers. They plundered garage sales and flea markets, and ordered any volume that was both bizarre and affordable. A sizeable portion of their library was comprised of books with faded covers and tattered corners. This influence of use added to the character of the traveled volumes, and set their little shop apart from the glossy sheen of chain stores. They didn’t have a set theme. Ali and Amil preferred it this way. As they collected books on subjects that ranged from the occult to cooking and everything in-between, the couple was flush with excitement.
Like most ventures, this plunge into entrepreneurship started slow, and the utter dearth of business had Ali terrified that she and Amil had cast themselves into an inescapable pit of debt. But time rewarded their commitment and all the sweat put into the raising of the store. Soon, a small but loyal clientele kept The Back Shelf Bookstore afloat, and, once word began to spread, things began to look truly promising.
They both had to keep full-time jobs, and the bookstore was still just an elaborate hobby, but the verdict was in on Amil and Ali’s little venture. Write-ups in the local papers, and public endorsements from the alt element of Pittsburgh’s indie scene, made their shop a hip place to visit. The bookstore gained the recognition and status usually reserved for shops in the trendy neighborhoods of Oakland and Shadyside. It gained appeal across a broad spectrum of people. Uncommon it was not to view a greyed and seasoned college professor standing shoulder to shoulder with a punky goth chick as they both set their fingers in the pursuit of strange tomes.
A boom of business was soon the result of the couple’s endeavor, and although it was welcome, the unforeseen rise of popularity caught Ali and Amil a bit unprepared. It was a constant grind, as they were forever engaged in the search for unique and affordable titles. The research required to maintain such a high standard became an interminable, albeit rewarding, journey for the new entrepreneurs. In these whirlwind days of nurturing a fresh business, the couple slept less than during the more energetic times of their twenties. But for all the untold challenges that were unearthed, the experience only served to bring Ali and Amil closer together. Although their love was always genuine, it was fused by tragedy and a common pain. At long last, after years with one another, they were finally bonded by positivity.
As money came in on a more regular basis, Ali was able to take a breath. She quit waiting tables and devoted all her attention to The Back Shelf. With this uninterrupted commitment, she slowly transformed the miniature library into a cozy sanctuary for her guests. Thanks to thrift stores, an unconventional collection of furniture, descriptions of which ranged from the elegant to the wickedly strange, made themselves comfortably at home among the shelves. Framed artwork, both bought and graciously donated by customers, was hung from the walls, as were the replications of obscure quotes. A surround sound music system that whispered sonatas was installed, and the ambient air was lusciously fragrant with the aroma of scented oils.
As time wore on, the dedicated couple took out another loan and rolled the dice again as they introduced a small coffee bar to the busy interior of the first floor. An array of sweets and frothy drinks found their place at The Back Shelf. This new addition brought with it more demands, but it also generated a rather steady flow of revenue, with most of the credit going to the seemingly irresistible taste of the blueberry muffins.
All throughout the end of a gentle spring and on into the depths of summer, The Back Shelf swelled with activity. It was a trying feat to keep the bare minimum of necessary materials behind the counter and upon the shelves. It seemed as though their tiny business was destined to become a must-visit hot spot for book enthusiasts of all walks. All this adulation filled Amil with a sense of pride. He never would have dared to imagine such success after enduring the setbacks of his upbringing. Coming from a place such as Fog Lake, and having his dreams of a baseball car
eer evaporate, this life that he and Ali led felt impossibly good. The pace was hectic, but all the activity and buzz kept Amil moving and upbeat. But Ali didn’t fully share her mate’s sentiment, at least not anymore.
The past few months of their feverish vocation left Ali overwhelmed and exhausted. She felt a pride as deep as Amil’s, but to her, being busy felt like being cornered. She started to have minor panic attacks, and withdrew from life spent away from the duties of business. She hadn’t told Amil how difficult a time she was having. Ali couldn’t find the heart, as she knew how much he loved to watch the shop develop and expand. In pained secrecy, she had hoped that he would pick up on her distance and reach out to her. His focus torn from her, it was as if he had become completely absorbed in their business and the desire to fuel its already substantial growth.
With him still working full time at the paper plant, Ali felt like she was losing Amil. They rarely fought, and a common love went with them to sleep each night, but a space of nothingness was spreading between them all the same. As she lay awake at night, Ali watched the chasm yawn. It was then that she realized far more had been bitten off than she could chew. The last year and a half passed by as if flashed away on a bolt of lightning. And during that seemingly compressed portion of time, The Back Shelf had turned on her and became a burden. There was too much activity, too much responsibility, just too much of everything. Ali felt guilty. She felt like a failure, but she couldn’t go on like this. She wanted Amil back, and the small life they once had.
Late on a Friday night when the store would have usually been closed, the doors remained open and allowed the warmth of a late summer’s night to drift inside. About twice a month, and to the silent chagrin of Ali, another new element introduced itself to the bookstore. Local bands added color to the air as they performed before small audiences. The flavor was a bit mild for Ali’s metallic taste, but Amil found affection for the introspective nature of many of the singer-songwriters. The personal retelling of hardship and the enriched layers with which the yarns were woven spoke to his sensibilities. He could relate to the loneliness and alienation that was spoken of as he was made to remember the limitations of his beginnings in Fog Lake.
As they held longer hours on these nights, Ali and Amil employed the help of a neighborhood girl. She was barely old enough to drive, but she could handle a cash register and watch the store while the bands kept most of the customers occupied. Tonight, her assistance felt angelic as Ali sat outside on the bottom step and smoked what had to be the day’s thirty-seventh cigarette. She tapped her feet stridently upon the rigid surface of the sidewalk, a march of defiance over the soft chords of the music being played, as she witnessed Amil parking his truck some distance down the street. As he approached with a Taco Bell bag in his hands, Ali flicked the butt into the street and rubbed a hand across her face.
“What did ya bring me?” she questioned.
“Who says I got ya anything?” he joked in return.
“If you wanna have any teeth left to chew that taco, you’re gonna produce a burrito from that bag.”
“I got soft tacos.”
Ali laughed. She unwrapped her meat log, and poked Amil in the ribs as he took a seat next to her.
“Ya know...” she started, with a mouthful of processed food. “That was the most you’ve said to me all day.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve been with you almost all day,” he said truthfully, ignorant as to the source of her statement.
“Work doesn’t count. I mean, that’s the first time today that you’ve talked to me like I’m still your girlfriend. I think this is getting to be too much. I’m tired, Amil.”
“I’m tired, too. No one ever said this would be easy.”
“No, I’m fucking exhausted.”
“I thought you loved this place. It’s ours. It’s something we’ve made-”
“I do love the shop, but I love you more. And now it seems like we only see each other on the first floor of our own home. We barely talk about anything but what goes on in there. It sounds kinda sick, but I sort of miss life the way it used to be.”
“You mean when you used to work for other people?” asked Amil, a little sour.
“Yeah...I do love what we’ve made, but I’ve also realized something. You can be in love and be miserable at the same time.”
“You’re just having a bad day. You were like this when we first opened the shop too,” Amil reminded her.
“Some chick came in today and bought a book on ‘50s pinups. She wants to be a model. She said she’s gonna resurrect the classic pinup and sounded real confident about it too. Like I give a fuck. Look at my face, Amil!”
“It’s alright. She probably just didn’t know,” he said softly, hoping to calm Ali quickly, as the volume of her voice was getting quite loud.
“Inconsiderate little bitch,” Ali whispered, tears in her eyes.
“They’ll be done in there soon. Let’s just chill out with a movie, we’ll clean up in the morning,” offered Amil, as he kissed the side of her head.
“Yeah,” responded Ali with a thin breath, as she pulled another smoke from her depleted pack.
Winter arrived, and it was busy business as usual at The Back Shelf. Ali always wore a smile before her customers and lightly chatted with the regulars, but underneath, she was deeply unhappy. The source of her emotional disfigurement was something she could not pin down. Her misery seemed to have been born from a myriad of troubles. The heightened responsibility she took on with the bookstore felt overwhelming at times, and the demands of home ownership wore her down. Her distant moods served to crack the solid relationship between her and Amil, and, as she grew older, Ali began to look back on her youth through the lens of regret.
Once in her thirties, the lines of age coursed their way around her mouth, and her thin thighs of yesterday revealed themselves to be unattainable relics of the past. Ali lost her tolerance for high heels, and her nails, which once changed their shade almost daily, rarely were given any attention.
With Amil out running errands, Ali sat all alone on the couch in a pair of sweats. The Monday Night Football game was on, but she paid little notice to the TV. As she stroked her aged cat, her mind recalled all the mistakes she had made. She had ruined a lucrative career, cut her family out of nearly every aspect of her life, and behaved in a reprehensible manner for years. She and Amil had achieved quite a bit, and they carved out a nice life for themselves, but these thoughts did little to assuage Ali’s discomfort. If anything, it only made her mood worse. She should be happy and content, but she wasn’t. There was something inside her that was unsettled, something that yearned for a life more spectacular. But that was a life that thirty-something Ali would have to accept as a fantasy never to be. Like a teenager who’s furious about being normal as opposed to being a rock star, she felt resentment creep into her.
As she sat slumped over, feeling sorry for herself, Ali envisioned all she could have been. Up against an invincible foe, she couldn’t stop the carousel of memories of all the sordid sexual acts she once performed as it spun around her head. They made her feel disgusting, but above all things, they made her think of drugs.
Ali pulled a small bottle from behind the couch and shook up the pills inside. Unknown to Amil, she had obtained a prescription for depression some time ago. She took a few here and there, but nothing seemed to help. While on the medicine, Ali felt like a zombie, staggering on slowly while trapped inside a wheel. She popped the lid open and clicked it shut. Snap, click, snap, click. She hungered for something with a bit more of a bite. After a few minutes had been spent inside the darkest places of her mind, she walked into the kitchen and flung the pills down the throat of the garbage disposal.
Into the cold night, Ali sped off for the nearest bar. Although a sip of alcohol found her lips on occasion, going to a bar alone was something that she hadn’t done in over a decade. A tight, knee-length leather skirt hugged her legs, which were adorned with a pair of
black stockings and matching set of go-go boots. Her hair tumbled down her shoulders, and the deeply split top she wore attracted more than a few looks as she stepped into a local tavern. She took a seat at the end of the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. Curls of smoke swam among her locks, and smeared recreations of her lips appeared on her glass and on the ends of one cigarette after the next. She stared at the TV in front of her, but, as she anxiously bounced one leg over the other, her seductive vulnerability cried out to the sharks. Although the pub wasn’t very crowded, it didn’t take long before a caveman in a polo shirt decided to try his luck on the lonely chick already halfway through her fourth drink.
With the brutal concoction of depression and the buzz of booze, Ali’s muddled mood enjoyed the attention that was being paid to her. She flirted with the man clearly ten years older than she and managed to score another couple of free drinks. The man, who introduced himself as Larry, stroked Ali’s leather-clad leg, and his eyes lingered upon the vision of her breasts. It was an obvious look, and one easily noticed even in an inebriated state, but she didn’t mind. It felt good, all of it, the alcohol in her blood, the hug of her revealing top, the touch of a strange man.
“Hey,” she whispered to Larry with a stripper’s disingenuous smile wedged in the corner of her mouth. “You got any coke?”
He smiled back, like any proper cretin might do. “Nope, but I got these.”
“What are they?” asked Ali, as a few pills swam around in a plastic bag that Larry allowed to poke from his pocket.
“They’ll do the trick.”
“Good enough for me,” Ali stated, as she swiped the bag.
As she rose to a rickety stance from her stool, Ali giggled. She smacked Larry on the ass as she made her way to the bathroom. She set the pills out over the porcelain sink and crushed them into a powder. She sucked the line up her nose and felt the backs of her eyes burn with the touch of something toxic. As she washed her hands under the condemning light of a fluorescent bulb, Ali stared into the streaked mirror. Tears welled in her eyes, and as they fell, they carved canals through the thick layer of makeup that she wore. She stood there, bracing herself on the porcelain, and crying endlessly into the sink. When she stepped out, Ali cast a set of daggers over to Larry and shot him her middle finger with its red painted tip.