“Well, take it out, and let me treat you to Thai. I’ll pick it up and bring it over, then we can watch your reality TV shit show together and talk shit.” She frowns. “Please?”
“Okay, fine.” I take the lasagna out of the oven and wrap it, planning to eat it tomorrow. Let’s be real, this lasagna didn’t stand a chance against Thai takeout. “But you don’t have to cover it. It’s totally fine.”
“Nah, I’ll cover it because you’ll deserve it after listening to me rant endlessly about my last class of the day. It was brutal.”
“Ah, well, I’ll cover it next time.”
“Don’t worry about it! I’ll be over soon.” I can see her opening her car door and stepping out. She must have already been parked at our Thai place. She hangs up, and I sink back into my sofa when I hear a knock. To my surprise, I see my chipper friend holding takeout and a bottle of wine through my peephole. I answer the door, and we both burst into laughter.
“Okay, so maybe I initially called you just to make sure you were dressed and okay with company.” I don’t think Callie enjoys alone time very much. Although I fancy alone time, I thrive in clamorous environments, which she is great at providing.
Five
Jasper
From behind the intricate hand-carved wooden counter, I gaze around the room to find the chestnut grandfather clock. Some would call this clock “antique.” Personally, I think it looks prehistoric. Thankfully, vintage is timelessly popular. Otherwise, I am not confident Aged Emporium would still be in business.
Squinting to see the time, I sigh in relief.Hallelujah. My favorite time of day has arrived: closing time. I stride away from the counter and walk upstairs, skipping one step at a time. My closing routine is simple. First, I saunter around the entire shop to ensure no soul is in sight, starting with the upper level. Afterwalking up and down each aisle and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I trudge downstairs to continue my regimen. Passing by the vinyl records, old British tea sets, and creepy glass dolls, I don’t see anyone. Once I determine no one else is still here, I lock the front door, turn off the Welcome sign, and secure the old-timey register. There is a reason why the shop is named Aged Emporium—everything inside is archaic, including the register itself.
I find old items neat. They’re fun to hold and interesting to look at—especially old records, I’m a big fan of classic rock. However, I can’t quite pinpoint why our customers often go out of their way to collect items like this. I can’t complain, though; those same people are the ones keeping my old man’s business afloat—well,mybusiness now, I suppose.
After locking everything and flicking the warm-lit lights off, I head out through the back door. My home is practically calling my name, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a sense of anxiety surrounding the topic of Aged Emporium. Sales have gone down significantly over the last couple of months.
When my dad first got injured, sales skyrocketed for a solid week and a half. I remember my dad saying that if sales continued like that, I could retire by age 40. But the momentum didn’t last. By the end of August, the initial hype died down as people began to forget why they supported us in the first place, and our sales decreased significantly. My days at Aged Emporium have been slower more often than not. I don’t want to consider what will happen if things don’t improve from here.
You can’t let them down, Jasper.
I feel refreshed as the crisp cool air surrounds me like an old friend. Determining it’s time to stop thinking about work, I shift my thoughts to the forefront of my mind—tacos. I’ve always enjoyed cooking. I find it gives me time to decompress and think. Over the last several weeks, my typical nightly routineconsisted of dinner, working out, showering, then heading to the local bar if I'm in good spirits.
Rest assured, I don’t go to the bar to get plastered every night. In fact, I like to think I drink fairly responsibly. I got all of that partying out of my system in college—which I’m not particularly proud of—so I mainly go to the bar to have a drink or two and watch whatever game is playing. As surprising as it may sound, I sometimes evensocializeat the bar. Old-fashioned, I know. I do have a few old friends who never left the Cove, so I meet with them from time to time. Oh, the joys of returning to your hometown when you’re pushing 30. I only go to the bar two or three times a week. Nothing too crazy.
Chrysocolla Cove has grown a lot over the last decade.A lotbeing a subjective term. My high school graduating class was composed of only one hundred students. Now, the graduating class sits at a little overtwo hundredstudents. Look, I know it’s still a relatively small number of graduates, but it’s doubled within just ten years, which is thrilling to most of the Cove's locals.
After a quick drive home, I pull into my garage and get to work on those tacos. I gather the ingredients—chicken, pepper, salt, cilantro, lime, bell peppers, jalapenos, seasoning, rice, cheese–the good stuff. I take my time in the kitchen. The more time it takes to cook a meal, the more time I have to think. My mom is the one who taught me the basics of cooking, and she’ll never let me forget it. At about age 5, I asked my mom if she needed help in the kitchen one evening while my dad was working late; she accepted my offer. She loved having a helper in the kitchen. I continued joining her throughout my life because she enjoyed cooking with me. It just stuck. I know cooking isn’t for everyone, but my mom’s face lights up when we cook together. We don’t have much in common, so cooking is something we’ve always been able to fall back on.
As I chop the onions, my eyes water outrageously, and my mind drifts back to the yummy sandwich I ate at Little Falls.What was in that sandwich?It’s been a couple of days since my less-than-ideal encounter at Little Falls, but it still plagues my thoughts during every quiet moment. To distract myself, I finish chopping the onions, wipe my hands, and check my inbox. When I worked in finance, I had to check my inbox nearly every hour of the work day.
With my career transition to Aged Emporium, I no longer have to check my inbox more than once a day, which is undoubtedly one of the most positive things about the transition. However, every now and then, I fall back into old habits and check my inbox during a particularly uneventful evening. Looks like I received an email from an unrecognized emailer.
Subject Line: Soi Marketing Agency Events
Mr. Alcott,
I hope all is well. I’m Iris Greene, the Head Events Director for Soi Marketing. I am writing to you to gauge your interest in Aged Emporium partnering with Soi Marketing in an upcoming fundraiser project. I could explain more via email, but I feel it would be best to discuss this proposal face-to-face. Do you have availability to meet anytime soon? I’m at your disposal, so let me know what day and time works, and we can coordinate from there. Thanks so much for your consideration.
Warmly,
Iris
There’s no way. Could this be the same Iris I ran into at Little Falls? What are the odds?I set my phone down on the counter tobegin plating my tacos. After arranging three tacos on my plate, I grab my phone, stroll over to my mahogany dining table, and sit at the head of the small table. I take a bite—I knew I should've added more cilantro to the rice. While eating, I read the email I received from Soi Marketing again—Iris Greene. I respond:
RE:Subject Line: Soi Marketing Agency Events
Ms. Greene,
I’m happy to meet with you to learn more. How does meeting for coffee at Little Falls at 10:00 a.m. sound?
Jasper
