Atlantic City

Atlantic City – Bruce Springsteen (listen in new tab)

It’s 8:00am. Early on a February Friday. Week two of the strike.

K walks up to the picket of cold, tired strikers outside the main entrance of his library. This morning it’s a young woman a little older than him, whom he doesn’t recognize, and an old man from cataloging. Dan or Ken. K’s trying to learn their names, since every day someone has stopped him, handed him a flyer and a stern look. It’s not always someone from his branch.

A few times a week K brings the morning picket coffee. It is his way of saying he wishes he could be out there. He hates crossing the line. Today he holds in his hand two cups, wisps of steam escapes in slow curls from the white plastic lids into the crisp air.

K: “It’s dark roast.”

They mumble thanks. The woman hands K a flyer. He flips it in hand before giving it back. “It’s the same as yesterday. Stay warm guys.”

Later, Candice stops K on her way to lunch. She looks exhausted. Her eyes are dark and soft. Management and the contract workers have been working long hours to keep the library system barely running. She’s been practically living here.

Candice: “I know it may be too soon. But we’ll be looking to fill the hole Jenny left in the roster. You know after all this hoopla is sorted out. You should keep that in mind.” She’s trying to be friendly. She feels alone in this place.

K looks at the floor, says nothing.

Since Jenny died, the library breathes differently. K feels now how much she imbued into the dusty shelves and stained carpet, the shell of the building. And now it echoes as it inhales and exhales him everyday. The building contracts and loosens around her absence, and he comes back for the extra hours.

Leaning at the circulation desk, he looks out at the two strikers stepping back and forth, slapping themselves with crossed arms to stay warm.

At Ulysses’s, Claire sits at a table talking about money with Esther and William Latch, long time proprietors. Esther, her head a frizzy mat of tied back silver hair, sits quietly. William coughs harshly into a paisley kerchief. Claire gestures sedately, but her eyes are kinetic. She writes down a number. Esther nods. Her eyes grieve though the money is good. William coughs again as he stands up. Claire beams and shakes Esther’s hand, then stands to shake William’s.

His voice is gravel: “That’ll make a difference in Cairo, eh, Esther dear?” He puts his hand on her shoulder with practiced care.

Esther is a thousand weeks ago. She thinks about turning the key in the lock for the first time and tearing old newspaper off the windows, letting the sun in. The dust danced in the rays. She remembers righting tables as she imagined what fresh paint would be like. Feels in her hand the first few quarters her mother gave her for the first cup on opening day. This space was nothing once. Now it is a last deep breath.

She looks up at Claire. “I’m glad it’s you.” Both their chests feel like they could burst.

William coughs roughly, his face covered.

Maura closes her books, writes the few short notes for Monday, and watches the last few students walk out of the classroom. She stands, packing what she needs into her purse, then walks out. The weeks with these kids have been passing quickly. She always thinks that on Fridays. Every other day in the week, she feels the days drag into space. But, it’s the weekend and K’s got tomorrow off. For the first time in a week and half he won’t have to work. She breathes out slowly and reminds herself that through the doors she isn’t a teacher.

G.T. stands on a dais in a large conference room. He shakes the hand of Val Percy, founder, with thin fervour. His peers clap cordially in the tiered audience. She hands him a brass plaque. He is a veneer of professional charm, but inside he thinks about what to do with the cheap wood and metal award.

G.T.: “Thank you very much Mrs. Percy. I really try to set an example for my coworkers.”

Val: “Well, your sales record speaks for itself.”

G.T. catches her eye. She’d rather be anywhere else on Friday, too.

Later that night at V.I. Lenin’s. The bar is crowded. Miracle of miracle, G.T. got them a table. Claire slouches in her chair, already a glowing mess. K sits next to Maura. Their knees pressed together make knots under the table.

G.T. appears and lines shots up along the table. Stubby glasses of amber, amidst the pints of beer. “Now, let’s get this started. Courtesy of the top seller in the region.”

Claire: “Hey, where’s Brae?”

G.T.: “She's at a conference in Kingston. Presenting something on bio-diversity voodoo. Drink up!”

The four of them pound back the shot. Slam the glasses down.

Claire gags, coughs: “Whiskey, G.T.? Jesus.”

Maura lets out a quiet cough, as the alcohol heats her throat and stomach.

K washes his down with a chaser of beer. “G.T., how do you get a sales award anyways?”

G.T. drinks from his pint glass deeply. “I show up and go to the washroom a lot. Also, look at me.”

Claire: “Ugh. When are you leaving that place?”

G.T. holds up the plaque. “I dunno. Who wants to watch me throw this under a subway later?”

Claire holds up a hand loosely. K makes his excuses. Maura laughs.

A while later, K and Maura get up to leave. Claire slaps the table demanding they stay. K makes their apologies. G.T. raises a glass casually to their leaving and gives K a knowing wink.

In the night, the clouds have made a rift. The few stars Toronto allows, only the brightest, make their billion year dash through the furrow. The planet inhales their light. Amidst that, K walks with Maura curled under his arm. The street is busy with Friday night traffic.

K: “Winter’s been long enough.”

Maura: “Yeah. It’s cold.” She tries to burrow closer into him.

K: “Where do you want to go?”

Maura: “It doesn’t matter. Some place warm, ok?”

K: “Sounds good. Some place warm, it is.”

End Volume 1: Run to the Lights of the City.