"WYGATE’S USED BOOKS," read the giant, fanciful letters on the sign. Just beneath it hung another, in a plainer, more subdued print: "HELP WANTED."
"Nothing to lose," I muttered honestly, shrugging, and walked inside.
A bell on the door tinkled as I entered. I wished it would be silent so that I could observe while unobserved myself. I’m a quiet person. It’s the way I work best.
The first book I saw was Falling Up by Shel Silverstein. I suppressed the impulse to snatch it up, instead letting it work a favorable impression on me. Another moment’s study revealed Peter Pan, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and various Beatrix Potter stories. I turned my head the other way and saw Jane Eyre, along with other works of Charlotte Bronte and her sister’s Wuthering Heights, as well as a heap of Jane Austen’s novels. Beyond it I saw Verne, Twain, Hawthorne, Shelley, and some poets, all in no particular order. A pleasant, bookish smell accompanied them, starting at the door and rising up a staircase to a second floor.
I loved it. Everything I saw recommended itself to my good graces.
A head rose from behind a stack of animal wildlife books. But whomever it belonged to was paying no mind to me, being utterly absorbed in a letter he was writing. I couldn’t get a good view of the person due to lighting issues, but I leaned over just enough to see a flourishing hand write, firmly in all capitals, "~WYGATE."
I knew a greeting after some fashion was coming, so I shall never know why I jumped when the man glanced up. His eyes looked over me coolly, jeans, hoodie, eyeglasses, and straight brown hair in all, as a superior examines his underling for faults. The man was young- didn’t look a great many years old than I- but I felt myself to be standing in the presence of the offspring of a wizard, like Merlin of old.
I cleared my throat and said, "I’m here to see about the job you’ve advertised."
He returned his attention to his letter, deftly folding and slipping it into an envelope. "Your name?" he said, voice low and with a slight accent that I couldn’t place. It was like a cross between British and Italian, and possibly Scottish. Or maybe it wasn’t. I didn’t know and couldn’t guess.
"Merry McCarthy. M-E-R-R-Y, not M-A-R-Y," I added for clarification.
In a way rather expressionless, he looked up into my face again. "Is that your given name?"
"Is ‘Wygate’ yours?" inserted my troublesome curiosity.
His eyes flickered, and some annoyance showed on his features. "Yes and no. I am Arthur Wygate."
"I am Meredith McCarthy," I said, mimicking him.
"Miss McCarthy, do you have any past job experience? List of references?"
Firstly, I wondered how this interview could be so brisk and stiff, yet informal. Secondly, I wondered why he had gone to all the trouble of finding out if Merry was my full first name if he planned to call me Miss McCarthy anyway.
"None," I answered, not being overburdened with tact. "Sir," I added for good measure.
Arthur Wygate seemed surprised, and as he sat up straighter, into better lighting, I got a better look at his face. Dark, curly hair; sharp, rather unfriendly brown eyes- or were they black?; firm, square-ish jaw; and high forehead, smooth and unlined as his brow relaxed. Decidedly young, at least in age.
Though he was blank-faced as a stone, neither smiling nor frowning, his voice still sounded a bit incredulous. "Not any?"
I shook my head.
"Never read a five-hundred-page book?" he asked.
"Oh, sure," said I, now the confused one. "If that’s the kind of experience you want-"
"It is," he interrupted.
He tossed me a question like a ticking time-bomb. "Who wrote The Princess and the Goblin?"
"George MacDonald," I immediately responded. "As well as The Princess and Curdie, and many, many, many others. All excellent."
"When was the first dictionary published?"
"Eighteen-something-or-other, wasn’t it? Well, before Noah Webster died in 1843, anyway."
"Not good enough. What does J.R.R. stand for in J.R.R. Tolkien?"
"John Ralph Reuel," I said. "No, wait: John Ronald Reuel."
"You hesitated." There was neither approval nor disapproval in his voice.
"I know, sir."
"Call me Wygate, Miss McCarthy," said Wygate firmly.
"If you hire me, I will, sir."
"How many books are you reading for enjoyment at this time?"
"Only two: One by a fellow named Douglas Bond and a biography of Jonathan Edwards."
"There; stop."
Wygate stood up and came out from around the books. He was rather lanky and a good foot taller than I, and he took full advantage of it. "You’ll do," he said, looking down at me, which was extremely intimidating.
"How much do I get paid, Mr. Wygate?" I asked, going on tiptoe so I wouldn’t have to look up so far.
"Just Wygate. None of this ‘mister’ or ‘sir’ or ‘Arthur’ business."
Had I called him Arthur? "Not even King Arthur?" (Or maybe Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? I thought to myself, but did not say aloud, because I have too much respect for Mr. Doyle. King Arthur I like, but there is so much legend surrounding him that I feel secure poking fun at him.)
He paused. "Perhaps occasionally. When I say you can. And not until then."
I smiled. He didn’t return the gesture, and mine faded. I coughed and said, "Understood, Wygate. As long as you call me Merry. I won’t know who you’re talking to if you don’t."
"Agreed. You may start tomorrow. Be here by six thirty a.m.- as you can see, there is much to be done."
"If you please, Wygate, how much am I to be paid?"
"I should think it would be obvious," Wygate said, eyebrows raised. "You’ll be paid in books."
"Nothing would suit me better, Wygate," I said, genuinely pleased.
"Good, good. Now go," he said, taking out another sheet of paper. "And take the ‘help wanted’ sign down."
As I unhooked it, set it aside, and exited, I just caught him writing, again in all capitals (for no apparent reason, unless he like shouting in people’s minds), "TOMMOROW AT 6:30 A.M. MERRY MCCARTHY STARTS WORKING FOR ME. COULD BE HARD TO TRAIN HER, BUT I COULD USE THE SOCIALIZATION. MUST REMEMBER TO SMILE [here his hand blocked my view for a moment] . . .AT CUSTOMERS."
I closed the door behind me, trying not to laugh. I felt mirthful rather than insulted, and my thoughts were similarly light-hearted. What a weird guy. I love strange things. Yes, I really think this job will suit me just fine.