CHAPTER ONE
Joel is Lonely
With his back facing toward the non-fiction section and the front door of Bound to Please, Joel carefully slid the 78 of The Old Dixieland Jazz Band out of its protective paper sleeve and placed it down onto the turntable of the record player. This was by far his favorite record in the store. An original pressing from 1917, it was actually the first ever jazz recording, a fact not many people knew, and that he generally kept to himself. After all, this wasn't the literal first record, but from the first pressing of this record, like a first edition book.
Joel tapped his foot to the beat, drumming his fingers on the counter. He had an affinity for older things–older books, furniture, and albums pressed onto slate instead of vinyl, but any record would always do over a CD. He wasn’t necessarily even into jazz, but this was one of the old things, things that smelled like they had a history, things that had stories to discover. He loved going to estate sales and yard sales to see what he could find. Joel loved to touch and smell all the items people decided they no longer needed, so he could try and feel their stories. It would break his heart though, standing in a packed up living room on a Los Angeles Sunday, looking at family albums someone had painstakingly assembled and kept for generations, only to be left behind by ungrateful grandkids and sold for a couple of dollars.
Of all the items he found at those sales, his favorites were the Bibles, and Joel bought as many as he could. Not the modern ones you could get for $9.99 at any chain bookstore, but the old Bibles, the family Bibles, bound in leather or some even in wood. The Bibles that had marriages and deaths recorded in the faded ink from a fountain pen. Jane and George got married in 1846, their daughter Mary was born and had died in 1847. Why didn't anyone want to keep their family history anymore? Why didn't anyone care about the importance of legacy? Of history? All you had was what was left behind. And all Joel wanted was for himself to be that important to someone. After he had come and gone, who would care, who would remember him? He wanted someone to pick him up with strong hands and offer him a place of honor and reverence in their home, look inside of him and turn page after page until they'd reached his end together and then put him back in his place to keep him safe when there wasn't anyone else to look after him. But as the days passed, it seemed more and more unlikely he would find that. Joel's bright red hair slipped loose, covering his left eye, and he let it stay. He’d found hiding was much easier than leaving himself open for people. They would be disappointed with what they found anyway.
Before he’d even realized it, Livery Stable Blues had ended and the record was spinning blankly around the turntable. He gently took the record off the deck and slid it back into its sleeve, put on a longer playing Sidney Bechet album, then picked up a stack of books that he needed to shelve.
The sound of the phone ringing interrupted the music, and he pulled the portable handset out of his back pocket, “Bound to Please, this is Joel.” He listened, closing his eyes and rolling his head around his shoulders to release built up tension while listening to the caller on the other end of the line, “No, we don't sell that here. We sell books and records... Yes, really… Okay, I'll be sure to let the owner know that, thanks.” He pressed the end button and slid the phone back into the pocket of his gray jeans. He picked up the books he’d been shelving and resumed placing them back into their vacated slots.
The time passed quickly, and as he noted he had two hours to go before his shift was over, the bells above the door chimed and a customer walked in, followed by a gust of hot city air. Joel shouted over the stacks of books, “Hey, welcome! Let me know if you need any help. I'm back here with Browning and Frost!”
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both…” a deep baritone voice rumbled, approaching where Joel stood between the stacks. He swiveled his head around to see the customer walking toward him. He couldn't have been more than six foot tall, but he easily towered over Joel's five eight frame. And where Joel’s hair was dyed bright red, hanging low over his left eye, the customer had dark blond hair, slicked back to reveal flawless skin and clear blue eyes. Blue eyes which were doing a full body appraisal of Joel, from his tattered Converse to his gray skinny jeans and burgundy t-shirt. The man smiled.
“I think everyone knows that line.” Joel laughed, turning to look out of the window at the under-construction Starbucks across the street. Joel loved living and working in Echo Park, but it was starting to get a little too gentrified for his liking. He could barely afford his rent as it was, and with only minimal hours at the bookstore and his inability to stop going to estate sales, he was stretched thin.
“I could quote you After Apple Picking or Nothing Gold Can Stay, if you’d rather,” the man said, walking around the poetry shelf to come alongside Joel and look out of the window.
“Well, since you probably aren't after the collected works of Robert Frost, what can I get for you?” Joel asked, trying to shake his hair out of his eye, only for it to fall back in place.
“Your phone number.”
Joel turned, shocked, and barked out a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“I was on my way to meet some friends for dinner at El Conquistador when I saw you through the window, and you took my breath away. I had to come introduce myself, and hopefully ask to see you again sometime, when I'm not pressed for time and you're not on the clock.” He extended his hand. “I’m Davis, by the way. Davis Forrester.”
Joel took the extended hand. “Joel Reading.”
“Joel.” Davis rolled Joel’s name around on his tongue before smiling. “It’s nice to meet you, Joel. I would love to take you to dinner sometime. Assuming I've read you right, that is?” Davis cocked his head to the side, reluctantly dropping Joel's hand.
“You did, you did.” Joel cracked a shy smile, and looked down at his feet, then back up to see Davis twirling his keys around in his hand, the distinctive Tesla key fob moving smoothly between his slender fingers.
“Well?” Davis prompted, playfully nudging his shoulder against Joel's and flashing a huge, toothy smile. Joel nodded his head slowly, then picked up the pace and nodded faster.
“Yeah, okay. I'd like that.” Joel looked back up to Davis’ face, trying again to push his hair out of his face. Davis wasn’t a bad-looking guy, and could it hurt Joel to try one more time? He turned to head toward the front register, so he could write his number down on a business card, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. He turned and Davis looked at him quizzically, pulling a cell phone from his pocket and waving it at him.
“Oh. That too. My phone is broken, so I didn't even think about it. I rarely use it anymore.” He laughed, extending his hand for the phone to put in his number. “So I may not answer, but I will eventually. Maybe. Probably. You have nice eyes, but I'm sure you knew that.” Joel passed the phone back, tucking in his shoulders, and glancing away. He watched as Davis pocketed the phone and started to walk backward to the door of the store.
“Well then, Joel Reading, bookstore employee with limited cell phone usage, I hope to see you again soon.” Davis tipped his head as he walked out the door. Joel turned his back to the door as the bell above it chimed, signaling Davis’s departure. He resumed stacking books when the door bells chimed again. He listened, but didn't hear anyone come in. Davis was the only customer he had helped, well, not really helped if you were being literal. But either way, there hadn't been anyone else in the store. Joel startled when there was a quick rapping on the glass, and turned quickly back to the window to see Davis standing there, offering him a quick wave goodbye before heading down the road. Joel smiled, and headed toward the front of the shop again to check the door. Closed.
In the silence of the moment, Joel noticed the record was running blank, so he flipped it to the other side and got back to work, ears perking up as the door bells chimed again. He walked around so he could see the door and watched his statuesque best friend–in reality, his one and only friend–Athena glide into the shop looking like a six foot tall tornado of black clothing on fire.
Joel had met Athena Smith on Hollywood Boulevard one night shortly after he’d graduated from high school. Joel had recently moved into his own apartment in Echo Park, and even though he was too young to go into any of the clubs, he was sitting on a curb eating a bacon wrapped hot dog, which locals affectionately referred to as “street meat,” when he noticed a towering pair of shiny black boots come to stand next to him. A surprisingly deep and scratchy voice asked the vendor beside him for one with everything, and the body belonging to the shiny boots folded down to sit beside him on the curb.
“Those are huge shoes.” Joel remarked, half to himself, as he turned to look at the woman next to him. Woman? Girl? He wasn’t sure how old she was, but she was one of the most beautiful people Joel had ever seen. Her skin looked as white and smooth as a dish of undisturbed milk, and she had what appeared to be miles of fire engine red hair piled on top of her head. Joel self-consciously patted his own hair, which at one point had been that red, but now was a failing sort of magenta.
“These are my small shoes! Oh hey! We match!” the girl said, pointing at Joel’s hair and shoving the end of a hot dog into her mouth. Somehow, the lipstick she was wearing that matched her hair didn’t even falter as it was assaulted with overflowing globs of condiments, and she wiped the corner of her lip with a long and pointed purple fingernail as she chewed. Joel stared at her in shock, watching as she switched her hot dog to the other hand, licked an errant patch of mustard off her thumb before wiping her hand down the sleeve of her dress, then extended it for a handshake.
“I’m Athena.”
“Athena?” Joel hadn’t ever met someone with such a dramatic name before.
“Athena Marie Smith, at your service.” She moved her hand up and down in the handshake motion, and Joel belatedly took the cue and slid his hand into hers.
“Joel. Nice to meet you.”
