The anarchist bookstore opened lackadaisically at 11 or eleven-thirty or sometimes noon, so he’d brought along a nice old John D. MacDonald paperback with a gun-toting bikini girl on the cover to read. He liked MacDonald’s books: You could always tell who the villainesses were because the narrator made a point of noting that they had fat asses. It was as good a way as any to shorthand the world, he thought.
The guy who came by to open the store was vaguely familiar to Alfred, a Kensington stalwart of about forty, whose thrifted slacks and unraveling sweater weren’t hip so much as they were just plain old down and out. He had a frizzed-out, no-cut haircut, and carried an enormous army-surplus backpack that sagged with beat-up lefty books and bags of organic vegetariania.
“Hi there!” Arnold said pocketing the book and dusting off his hands.
“Hey,” the guy said into his stringy beard, fumbling with a keyring. “I’ll be opening up in a couple minutes, okay? I know I’m late. It’s a bad day. okay?”
Arnold held his hands up, palms out. “Hey, no problem at all! Take as much time as you need. I’m in no hurry.”
The anarchist hustled around inside the shop, turning on lights, firing up the cash-register and counting out a float, switching on the coffee machine. Alan waited patiently by the doorway, holding the door open with his toe when the clerk hauled out a rack of discounted paperbacks and earning a dirty look for his trouble.
“Okay, we’re open,” the anarchist said looking Alan in the toes. He turned around and banged back into the shop and perched himself behind the counter, opening a close-typed punk newspaper and burying his nose in it.
Adam walked in behind him and stood at the counter, politely, waiting. The anarchist looked up from his paper and shook his head exasperatedly. “Yes?”
Alan extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Archie, I work with Kurt, over on Augusta?”
The anarchist stared at his hand, then shook it limply.