I stood waiting for the subway. It was already fifteen minutes late. People were starting to pack the platform. I don’t like crowds. I felt my pulse quicken. When would the subway arrive?
As per usual, I’d left home a little too late. I should have given myself more time, but I’m loath to leave too early. When determining when I needed to leave, I added half an hour to the Google Maps trip time. By the time I actually left home, only twenty extra minutes remained.
I had an interview. After months of searching and countless fruitless interviews, this one seemed promising. The opportunity arose as I was flying back to Montreal from yet another joyous family occasion, and happened to be seated beside Larry and Barb. They owned a used bookstore in Montreal. Larry had worked as a management consultant for over two decades. Barb had worked as a software engineering freelancer, specializing in security infrastructure. They were both highly accomplished in their fields, but were looking to change pace. Their shared love of literature was a big factor that drew them together at the start of their relationship. Twenty years on, they both still loved reading for pleasure. When Barb suggested they open a bookstore, Larry was very enthusiastic. What if they made a hip espresso bar as well in the bookstore? Though Barb was a tea drinker, she thought it was a good idea, as long as tea was offered as well.
They both quit their jobs and started looking for a location. They wanted somewhere hip, with enough space to shelve an eclectic book selection and prepare single-origin, local-roast coffees. They found it in St.Henri. Nestled between a taqueria and a bakery, it was perfect.
With the location set, they started traveling to fairs and buying up books. They realized they wanted help sorting and maintaining their growing book collection. That was when I met them on that fateful flight. My interest in esoteric histories, such as the history of salt and of cotton, piqued their interest. I told them it had always been a dream of mine to work in a bookstore. We exchanged contact information, and I promised to follow up.
Now I waited for the subway. I wanted to make a good impression. I needed to. It seemed the STM was conspiring against me.
Finally, twenty minutes late, the subway arrived. The train was full. All the people that had been waiting at earlier stations were packed inside. I had to wait another five minutes for the next train. I got on. My nerves were like a dangerous chemical, corroding my stomach. How was I going to explain my tardiness? I was conflicted, torn between the rational idea that Barb and Larry would be understanding and the emotional one, that they would immediately revoke my candidacy.
I arrived at my station. I wanted to rush out, but was blocked by slow-movers. Why is it that the unhurried old ladies with short legs are always the ones closest to the doors? I walked at a pace orders of magnitude more leisurely than I felt. I followed the flow of the crowd up the escalators. Once I was outside, I glanced around, trying to get my bearings. I finally identified a street with the right name, and started walking quickly along it. I hoped I was going the right way.
Finally, I arrived at the bookstore, sweat running down my back. I took a deep breath and went in.