The Helper

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She doesn’t know it yet, but she needs his help.

The special kind of assistance only he can provide.

He’s in a used bookstore, pretending to browse. She’s behind the counter, pretending she hasn’t noticed that her favorite customer has graced her with his presence. Which would be difficult, seeing as he’s the only customer here. He was the sole customer here last time, too. And the time before that.

He wonders how the hell this place manages to stay in business.

It’s called Brownlow’s Book Emporium, which makes it sound like something straight out of a Dickens novel. Not that Mr Fuzzypubes or Ebenezer Scrotum or whoever would seem out of place in an antiquated dump like this. Listen carefully and you’ll swear you can hear the scratching of ink-dipped quills on parchment.

The tiny store is squeezed incongruously between a Laundromat and a massage parlor, here on East Tenth Street. Farther along the street there’s a place offering tarot reading. The owner of Brownlow’s might be well advised to drop in there for a quick peek into his future. Alternatively, he could compare the present with the past by turning the corner onto Fourth Avenue. The stretch running from Astor Place up to Union Square was once known as Book Row. In its heyday it offered a home to something like four dozen bookstores. Now they’re all gone, which says something about the book trade. And when even the big players like Borders are struggling with the recession, how the hell does the owner of Brownlow’s Book Emporium even manage to pay the staff?

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