Although I'm startled by the crime scene, I keep the coincidence to myself until far into my workday...
I work at The Shop, an antiques place. Antiques actually may not be the best word. Knick-knacks?
Antiques tend to be things crafted with fine detail and kept in fantastic shape.
The Shop, on the other hand, deals in what's left of an estate once the antiques have been sold. This and that from an old lady’s shelves. The embellishments of a failed yoga studio. The remnants of an abandoned warehouse.
Many of the objects retain their original cobwebbing.
’Dust, but do not repair nor cleanse.’ That was my cryptic instruction by Mr. Pendragon, the store’s owner.
Apparently this means cobwebs, scum, blood, and other sundries remain wherever they originally developed, grew, or spilled; new stuff was bad.
’Our clientele appreciates a certain level of authenticity.’ He would offer as justification, even though I never questioned him. About anything, really.
There's a reason I do whatever he says. Mr. Pendragon has never once asked me anything. I return the favor. That how it's been since I started here, a year ago.
I had just been dumped by my girlfriend. I arrived to her brownstone in Greenwich, and my key wouldn't work. Suddenly, the thud of plastic landed behind me. I didn't mind the trash bags of my clothing flying out of the window. At least she didn't aim for me.
Don't worry. I deserved it.
Three trash bags. That's all it took to get me out of her life. That, and a new lock.
After wondering for about ten minutes how to deal with the bags, I decided to open them up on the street outside her townhouse. I picked my favorite plain brown hoodie, my over worn and very faded Led Zeppelin shirt, and a pair of cargo pants. I look for my baseball cap, but it's gone. I figure she finally got her chance to throw it away.
I stuffed the cargo pockets with spare socks and underwear and abandoned the rest of my refuse. Not wanting to see familiar sights, I left Greenwich and headed to the East Village. New territory for me.
I longed for something to distract me, but nothing seemed important.
Then I saw The Shop. It shook me from my daze, to see a store which altogether looked as if it were hiding.
The windows were filmed over with soot leftover from the days of indoor smoking. Books and magazines. Stringed pearls dangling from old lamps. And rusted copper stacked to the ceiling, wherever I tried to peer inside.
Then I see the advert in the corner of the glass. In faded curly red script on an index card:
’Seeking Assistants,
Seeking Assistance, and
Seeking Assistants
Seeking Assistance’
The black, windowless door has a heavy knob which demanded a hard strong pull to dislodge from the frame. But I entered to the chime of poorly tuned jingles. Immediately the scent of incense overtook me. Nothing smelled nearly as moldy as it appeared but I kept my hands to myself to avoid infection.
I heard Mr. Pendragon’s cane pound muffled against the carpeted run leading from the door to the back room. It was the only clear path through The Shop.
When I took a glance at Mr. Pendragon, it was cursory, but he was fully examining me while I faked browsing the wares uncomfortably.
’You're not here to buy anything,’ barked Mr. Pendragon, ’please don't insult my intelligence.’
His voice: vibrant and educated. I became aware of my pockets stuffed with underwear, my greasy hair, and overall homeless reality. I apologized at once.
’Nonsense,’ he replied with a wave of his hand. ’Pick up that copper rod by your feet and put it over here with the others.’
I did as he said. He asked me to move another product. So I did. Eventually he sat down and continued barking orders from behind his puzzle. I accomplished whatever task he requested, and then the next task, and the next.
At the end of the day. He handed me some cash and said, ’Thank you,’ with finality.
The money lasted for one day of eating and a little left over. I felt like he was the kind of person who might need help on the daily, so I returned the next day and nearly every day thereafter. Eventually I had enough for a dive in Brooklyn.
Mr. Pendragon demanded nothing personal. No tax information, no social security card. He never even asked my name, but I told him once.
With a steely blue look piercing over the rims of his rectangular glasses, he sucked his teeth at me.
’A pleasure to meet you... Mikey,' his lie held absolute disinterest. His attention barely left the sudoku puzzle before him. 'That name is ridiculous,' he said once he thought I was out of earshot.
I believe anyone could have easily worked in my position, and it would have made no difference.
That's why, when I encountered a stranger standing in my spot behind the desk one weekend, I was not surprised.
She looked at me in a way that made me feel like I was late.
I raised my brows and said, ’Mr. Pendragon...’
’Mikey!’ she said as if she knew me for ages, ’He’s out.' Cheerful yet with a jaded expectancy to her tone, I didn't know how to take the news.
Her flat, black hair and pale foundation was a well executed gothic princess look. It reminded me of a young Maleficent. Cute, dark, soft, and off putting. She belonged in a store like this. I suddenly realized I looked like a mall rat.
I was about to leave, assuming I had just met my replacement.
’He left you this, Mikey.' Her bored tone still had a semblance of curiosity to it, like an old song bird long since given up on finding a mate. It was strange on such a young girl.
She placed an index card on the counter.
Her behavior was just so alien to me, so it was a distrusting look I issued as I took the paper into my hands.
It listed errands in Mr. Pendragon's familiar red cursive script. Locations, names, shops, and items to get from each.
’He must really trust you,’ she said knowingly, but sounding like a question. She wanted to know why.
I didn't have her answer, so I ignored the accusation. I just nodded as if I knew what she meant, and performed my tasks.
That was three months ago, and the new girl whose necklace read ’Aine’, slowly became a confidant to my thoughts.
She taught me to pronounce her name as Anya, though she spelled it with traditional Irish lettering. She told me a little about that heritage, something she was very proud of even though she lived in New England all her life.
In exchange I told her how I got dumped, that I grew up in New York, and that my brown hair and brown eyes must have been "from somewhere European".
Eventually casual conversation had me telling her about my first three dreams, the ones with people using magic and being killed.
She never paid much attention until I brought up the coincidence this morning. I captured her attention before I even mentioned the subway crime scene.
Her eyes thin as someone offended by a joke, but who wanted to hear more.
I don't like the look: ’Never mind,’ I say, and dismiss myself back to checking in rented books.
Aine lets the silence sit for a moment, clearly thinking. Of what? I have no idea. But it's a painful minute for me before she finally spits it out. ’Okay, look, I think you should tell Pendragon what you just told me.'
Now with that on my mind, we are all but forced to work in silence for the remainder of the day. I hated her way of making any situation awkward just by saying one of her strange little insights.
I wished she would change the subject to distract me, but she doesn't. She just keeps looking at me with a suspicious concern. Like a hospital patient who might be faking.
I decide to do my best to ignore her and wait for Mr. Pendragon to return.
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