Quincy's Passage Through Time

Mr. Quincy had been a college professor for so long that he could remember when being a "professor" was an actual job to aspire to. He was an old man, and his health was not what it once was, but he still went to work every day, because that's what you did. You went to work. No work, no paycheck.

He lived alone in an apartment with creaking floors and water stains in the ceiling that seemed to grow larger every year. He liked his apartment, but the more he thought about retirement the more he realized that he didn't have much of anywhere else to go. Every time he imagined himself at his daughter's house, all her nieces and nephews running around, he would feel a sharp pain in his chest and have to breathe deeply until it passed.

The days were getting shorter now, and the leaves on the trees outside his window were turning gold and red. It had been a good day at work; most days were good days at this point, but even so he felt good as he walked home through the park. The park was mostly empty now, just a few people strolling by or sitting on benches reading books. There were kids here during the summer months, but they had all gone back to school by now.

Mr. Quincy turned down a path between two huge oak trees and spotted a small wooden shack just off the main path. The sign said "Antiquarian Bookstore". Curious, Mr. Quincy crossed over into the shop's path and peered through the windows of the tiny building. It looked like most other bookstores; small tables shoved together with piles of books stacked haphazardly on top of them. A young woman with long curly hair sat behind one of the tables and Mr. Quincy could see another table with a cash register on it through an open door between the two rooms of the shop.

Mr. Quincy thought about walking away- there wasn't much money in his wallet- but then something caught his eye inside the store itself: a wooden box with intricate patterns carved into it sitting on one of the tables in front of him. He pulled open one of the front doors and stepped inside.

The owner of the antiquarian bookstore walked out from behind her desk: "Can I help you?" she asked pleasantly enough, although her eyes darted quickly over Mr. Quincy's shoulder to where her coworker was standing behind her desk counting out some bills at her register out of sight behind where Mr. Quincy stood blocking her view of him. The woman who worked at the register made a *shh* sound with her tongue against her teeth without taking her eyes off her work or interrupting whatever she was doing; clearly, she wanted someone else to deal with Mr. Quincy while she went back to counting out bills from their last sale.

"I'm looking at this box," Mr. Quincy said, indicating the box on the table in front of him with a slight gesture: "Do you know anything about it?"

The owner sighed and approached Mr. Quincy: "Are you interested in buying it?" she asked cautiously, eyeing the leather-bound book clutched in Mr. Quincy's hands.

Mr. Quincy looked up from inspecting the box curiously: "I want to buy it." He paused: "That is if… Well… I guess I never really bought anything before… Oh well!" He shrugged as though realizing for himself how silly his question must have sounded: "Anyway, can you tell me how much it costs? I don't think I've ever bought anything from anyone before." He put down his leather-bound book gently onto one of the tables closest to his spot near where he stood now, looking back up expectantly at the owner.

The owner, feeling slightly frazzled, managed a polite smile and said, "Of course, let me check the price for you." She went to look for the information, her mind racing with thoughts of her coworker's inefficiency and how she desperately needed a break. Glancing back at the cash register, she spotted her coworker finally finishing counting out the receipts. "I apologize for the wait," the owner said, turning her attention back to Mr. Quincy, "the box is priced at $45. Would you like to purchase it?"

Mr. Quincy nodded and headed to the cash register to complete the sale. The shop owner took a deep breath, trying to let go of the frustration she felt towards her coworker and focus on the customer in front of her. After all, it was not every day that someone came into their quaint bookstore tucked away in a quiet corner of Central Park West.