Books on Michigan Ave

Papers fluttered idly along the counter, dancing around the glass surface, propelled by the wheezing air conditioning that they didn’t have the funds to be paying for. The flimsy receipt paper had Daisy swiping the mess into a nearby drawer, just to stop the racket.

Slumping along the cash counter, she inhaled the scent of old books, smelling less like a comforting blanket of paper and more akin to festering mold. The scent rose with the heat, with the debts, with the stress. Her father filed more books onto their display tables, unpacking a box of new stands and decor that he convinced himself time and time again would be the thing to finally pull in the customers.

Daisy was used to how this dance would go. They repeated it in sporadic cycles. Scraping together monthly funds for more inventory, her father would sweat over the display, his work blending into the midwest humidity, customers would come in to leech off the AC, inspecting the latest display as her father’s eyes glimmered with hope before they decided they had enough of the big city indie bookstore vibe with a comment about how Amazon had the same things at half the price.

She picked at the split ends of her hair, brown roots peaking out from the black crude she periodically slugged over her head, though both box dye and hair cut had been forgone to pay for the newest novels that would finally make all their hopes and dreams come true.

“I’m going to go pick up some food, the Thai place we love,” He clarified, as if they ate many other places. Daisy didn’t ask him if that was in their budget. He knew it wasn’t, yet he shoved that thought so far from his mind that the money would be gone by the time he remembered he had to worry about it.

“Sounds good,”

“You hold down the fort, alright?”

Yes, Daisy thought, I’ll hold off the hoards of customers beating our doors down. Maybe if you take the long way around, we’ll be millionaires by the time you’re back. Despite the sarcasm lacing her thoughts, Daisy only replied with a curt, “Mhm.”

It wasn’t more than three minutes after her father left when the bell above their door dinged. Daisy barely looked up from the sketchbook she was doodling in, only lowering the noise of her audiobook slightly in case anyone were to ask the odd question or–even odder–attempt small talk.

Only the thump of boots sounded purposeful as they strode right to the check-out counter.

Daisy paused her book, looking up, “What can I help you with..sir” Her voice went limpt at the end as she took in the clean shaven man in front of her, pressed suit and cufflinks that glinted–real gold–in the shoddy store light, only that barely snagged her attention, the clearer sign being the emblem embossed on them, the lion head of Chicago Finacial.

At once, her doodles were forgotten, fingers suddenly numb.

“Hello, miss, do you know where the owner is?” His voice was anything but soothing, sending shivers along her spine.

“He’s my dad. He’s out at lunch.” Daisy gripped her jeans beneath the counter to keep her trembling from being noticed.

He looked around the store, Daisy thought she saw him sneer, noticing the flickering lights over the childrens section, the dust that coated some of the older shelves, his lips peeled up to reveal a sliver of nicotine yellowed teeth.

The man checked his watch, a fancy device with gold that was no doubt real. “Listen, kid. I’ll be back in 30, let your father know I’m coming. We need to chat. Hasn’t been returning our calls.”

Daisy’s stomach dropped, their conversation would no doubt be less chat and more threats. The man readjusted his sleeves over his watch, Daisy’s eyes following the movement, only seeing the piled-up rent bills in their drawers as he hid the accessory.

He walked away, leaving no room for Daisy’s words, syllables insignificant to a man such as him. Part of her wanted to return to her sketchbook, these were adult problems, they shouldn’t concern her, yet the panic welled up in her gut.

A lingering cigar scent carded through the air. Sharp, acidic when Daisy got up from her seat. The door bell still swayed softly and quiet from where the man had left.

The books watched with their silenced words and closed off narratives as she flipped the sign to “closed”. Closed on a chapter that no one would witness, to erase a character that shouldn’t return.”

Another day running the store alone, no customers, no father, AC humming along to the beat in her earbuds, that days paper splayed in front of her.

She’s never read the news paper until recently, the mystery of what she had done painting the headlines for one precious morning. It was old news by night. Nothing stayed prevalent in Chicago for long. Another finance minster dead? Another Saturday. It was a copy Daisy had scrounged up off the sidewalk by the rich apartments, quickly growing bored as she confirmed that the suspicion was still being carried, only far away from her.

Daisy let the rumors circulate, becoming old news before her clipped nerves began to fray. Often times, people are so eager to avoid the gossip mill that they accidentally bury the truths that the mill digs up.

She set the paper down at her counter, the once headline breaking title now confined to small colums from gossip tabloids on the back page. Barely sparing it one last glance, Daisy chucked the paper in the trash, her bitten apple quickly following.

As she was about to engross herself into her latest read, the bell on the front door rung, a gaggle of girls coming inside.

Daisy was prepared to ignore their polite looking until a few minutes later something was placed on the counter. Looking up, the girl in front of her shone with excitement, blonde hair tucked up in a bun and the Chicago humidity plastering a glow across her face. Two novels laid between them.

“I’d like to buy these, please.”

Cradling the top book, Daisy brushed her fingers along the one underneath. The blue cover stark against the oak counter. The rich blue of the book her name was peeled from.

The American Dream. Not riches nor passionate burning love, but the strength which comes from the ability to take your future into your own grasp.

Her grasp on the books was gentle, careful not to crease the paperback cover or disturb the unmarred sight of the book's spine. There was no force behind her hands.

Daisy turned down an alley she’d normally avoided, the normal Chicago traffic not reaching to the shaded side roads and cool breezy drafts.

The man’s suit looked too out of place. A rusted metal pipe lay abandoned against the alley’s dumpster. It was unyielding and hefty in her grip.

Daisy read The Great Gatsby for English her freshmen year. It hadn’t been the first time she’d read it, of course. It was the first time, however, that she saw it beyond pretty words and prettier people dancing through the paper.

There was power, not in money, but in the perception of wealth. If you fake it enough, that power is yours. Money is only paper. Paper people killed for.

He didn’t hear Daisy coming up behind him.

He probably thought no one would dare sneak up on him.

Poor puppets on strings as he collected all their nickels in dime. Just paper.

All of this for paper, Daisy thought. And still, that paper made Daisy swing the pipe above her head. It crunched when it hit the man’s skull.

Bones cracked like the broken seal of a checkbook, like a broken book spine. A broken spine cord. He went down.

Dark blood leaked from his skull like syrup, metallic as pennies and rusted quarters, her fingers adopting the same smell as she plunged into the man's pockets, pulling out a paper with the bookstore’s name. Daisy didn’t even read it before she tore it to pieces, dropping the shreds into the pool of ichor, red swallowing the evidence.

Just a piece of paper torn, and it was done.

Daisy’s fingers smelt like she’d sifted through the cash register.

Dipping his fingers into the compartment, Daisy pulled out a few coins.

“Your change is 37 cents.”

Wrapping in coins in her receipt, Daisy carefully placed it on top of The Great Gatsby.

Daisy felt pride well in her. She was not wealthy.

The girl left with her books, “Have a good day!”

But she could create her own American dream.

Her fingers smelled like pennies.