“Lending:” A Flash Fiction Story

Here’s a story I wrote as part of a workshop last year. I never did anything with it, but I kinda like it.

Keith’s plane home would depart in four hours, so he couldn’t peruse the old neighborhood for long. He exited the Uber at Simmons Avenue, near African Methodist Episcopal, and strolled west.

He had told Stephanie he wouldn’t do this, but he was in town. He had time. Foster Heights had called to him, to the boy he was, who came of age here, among the fast food restaurants and vacant lots strewn with trash and the streets with potholes.

She made him promise to go during the day, though. That wasn’t feasible—too many panels to attend, people with which to network—but it was only five-thirty.

He loosened his tie and looked around. The basketball courts on Twentieth Street had received a paint job that made him wanna barf. A new playground replaced the jungle gym and the see-saws, which weren’t broken the last time he checked. There went Nappy Headz on Nineteenth, where Jamar always talked trash to everybody with a laugh. Last Keith heard, he was in and out of the hospital with diabetes. Damn, where the Dairy Queen at? The bodega on Sixteenth with the arcade games? The Toyland where Pops bought Keith his first bike?

Weren’t no Barracudas around. The graffiti on the storefront grates was from some youngbloods who probably never heard of the baddest mothers to walk Simmons Avenue. For damn sure they didn’t care.

Keith scraped dirt on his new shoes with his feet. Them old habits returned like they never left. He could always sense where the ‘Cudes were, but they gone now.

And God only knew what their replacements be like.

Keith frowned. He should’ve sequestered himself in his hotel room after the conference and never stepped foot in Foster Heights. Nothing remained for him here.

Then he approached Fifteenth Street and there it was: Rivendell Books. Of all the places he didn’t expect to remain… the friendly elf on the sign above the door, the tie-dyed drapery beneath the books displayed behind the window, the rust, all as he remembered. Was she still there too?

He hustled inside. The chimes above the door tinkled. He was the only customer. 

Mrs. Delmonico looked up from her Margaret Atwood paperback. He gasped; her hair had gone white, but he’d know those freckles anywhere.

“Can I help you?” she said.

“Mrs. D, do you remember me? Keith Edison. I.S. 29? I used to wear huge glasses?”

She squinted.

“You recommended Babel-17 by Samuel Delaney to me,” he added. “The book report I wrote on it won an award.”

At that her smile grew. 

“Keith?” She emerged from behind the counter. “Wowie, I never woulda recognized ya. How are ya, man?”

They hugged. Her shampoo smelled the same as the day he’d said goodbye fifteen years ago, when he moved. She’d put on some weight also.

They rapped about old times. Rivendell was a safe space for a nine-year-old boy bullied for not playing basketball or not listening to the same music as other kids. Within their store, Mr. and Mrs. Delmonico showed him other worlds through their books. Better ones.

Mr. D had passed before Keith moved. He had feared Rivendell would follow.

His foot nudged the dollar crate near the door. One way Mrs. D maintained business was by leaving used paperbacks for sale there.  Sometimes, if he had no money, she would lend him one. He never abused the privilege.

“Rivendell made a difference to me.” He set the crate on the counter and flipped through the titles. “I don’t think I ever told you that.”

“Sure ya did. Maybe not with words… but we knew.” She looked around. Her love beads rattled. “I’m gonna miss this place, man.”

Whoa. Where’d that come from?

“You’re not retiring, are you?” said Keith.

“‘Fraid so. After thirty years, I’m ready to pack it in, man.”

No. This day had to come someday, but he wasn’t ready!

“Ain’t nobody you—I mean, can’t you sell it to someone?” Yeah, like anyone ‘round here had the bread to buy a used bookstore when folks could click on Amazon.

“Wouldn’t matter if there was. The city’s gonna demolish this whole block and put up high-rises. I’ve been the last holdout for months, man.” She ran her hand along the edge of the crate. “Lotta the old businesses moved out: the soul food joint, the record shop.” 

He had noticed the record shop’s absence before he came in here. He didn’t want to acknowledge it.

“Remember that bakery on Strawberry Avenue? Jewish family ran it… what was their name?”

Yeah, what was their name?

“I can still smell their bialys.” Mrs. D closed her eyes. “I’d buy one every Friday before comin’ here. To treat myself, y’know?”

Foster Heights was no utopia, but places like Rivendell, people like the Delmonicos, made it home, despite the bad stuff. He had to get out, but he stayed away too long. Couldn’t the memory of this place be preserved, at least?

He studied the crate of books. Then he had an idea.

“You ever heard of a lending library?” he said.

“What’s that?”

“We have them where I live. They’re kiosks full of donated books people can take for free. They can leave more, too. When the high-rise goes up, a kiosk on the sidewalk will make this a spot for books again.” He picked out a Cormac McCarthy hardcover and tapped the crate. “You can start with these.”

“Hmm. I’d need some way to unload all this inventory, that’s for sure.” She eyed him. “Groovy. Tell me more, man.”

It wouldn’t be the old store, but it would keep Rivendell Books’s memory—and that of the Delmonicos—alive. He could accept that.

Keith would have to come back again to see her. And her kiosk.