A short story by Bryant Rogers
Ben stood behind the register at Page & Prose, running a dry cloth over the glass countertop. The bookstore had opened early, the faint scent of paper and coffee lingering as sunlight angled through the tall windows. At thirty-six, Ben had worked here for almost a decade, his mornings carved into routines: shelving new arrivals, adjusting displays, answering the occasional question about translations of Proust or where to find books on mushroom foraging. The work was steady, not really exciting but stable, and though he sometimes felt a nagging tinge of disappointment, he usually just shrugged it off. It was a job. You did the job. That was enough.
Around mid-morning, a girl entered. No, not a girl, young woman. Nineteen, maybe eighteen. She wore a faded denim jacket and had white earbuds visible in both ears. She lingered near the self-help section at first, then drifted to the classics. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as if she were putting on a performance of indecision. Finally, she approached the counter, a thin paperback in her hands.
“Is this, like, any good?” she asked, holding up the book. It was a cheap edition of "The Great Gatsby," the kind of volume that sold for a few bucks and whose cover design shifted every few years. He had just restocked that same copy earlier that day.
Ben studied her face, trying to read what she really wanted. Some customers asked questions as a kind of script, a cue for the clerk to affirm their choice. Others genuinely sought a recommendation. And then there were those (he suspected this young woman might be one) who weren’t sure what they wanted at all.
“Well,” Ben said, taking the book and flipping through its thin pages, “My wife knows alot more about The Great Gatsby than me. I mean, it’s definitely a classic for a reason. Some people read it for the love story, others for the critique of wealth and social status. It’s also just beautifully written.”
She tilted her head, her earbuds still in her ears. “Do you really think it’s a critique of wealth? Or does it just, like, glorify it?”
Her question caught him off guard, not because he hadn’t heard it before, but because he wasn’t used to hearing it from someone so young. “I think it does both, in a way,” he said. “It shows the allure of wealth, but also how hollow it can be. Wealth’s not just about having things, but about what we think those things mean.”
She frowned a little, not in disagreement but in thought. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”
Ben slid the book back to her. “It’s worth reading. But if you’re not sure, we have other books that might speak more to what you’re looking for. Something more contemporary, maybe?” He gestured towards a display of recent releases.
“No, this is fine,” she said. “It’s for a class anyway.”
Something about her tone… the casual dismissal of the book itself, the way she framed her choice as an obligation rather than a desire, it made Ben pause and think of his own work. How many mornings had he rung up someone’s purchase, smiling automatically, only to watch them stroll out without a second glance? The books here had become commodities. Customers came in, plucked what they needed, and left. But each book also represented hours of labor: the author’s writing, the editor’s revisions, the printer’s machines humming late into the night. Ben’s own labor and energy, unpacking boxes, arranging displays, dealing with customers, was another layer of effort that went largely unnoticed. The girl in front of him saw only the end result: a glossy cover, a famous title, another thing to be acquired.
And yet, Ben couldn’t blame her. She wasn’t unique. This paperback wasn’t just her story; it was a piece of the culture she was told to consume. Buying it was a performance, and his role was to applaud, to nod, and to facilitate the transaction.
“You’ve read it, right?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts. “Like, do you really think it’s worth all the hype?”
He pulled off his glasses and slid a lens cloth out of his shirt pocket to wipe a smudge that had been bothering him. “I’ve read it, yeah” he replied. “It’s not a perfect book, but there’s something in it that sticks with you. Even if you don’t love it, it might make you think differently about things.”
Her face softened a little, and she nodded. “Okay. I’ll take it.” She held up her phone to gesture that she wanted to tap to pay.
Ben rang her up and handed her the book, watching as she turned toward the door. The paper bag rustled faintly against her coat as she pushed through, the bell above the entrance chiming softly. He turned back to the register, noting how her steps had quickened toward the end, as if she couldn’t get out fast enough. A quiet tension lingered in the space she’d just left. He caught himself thinking that neither of them had said anything especially profound. She bought a book; he sold it. But the exchange had carried a weight that neither of them had acknowledged directly. She'd judged the value of the book not only by its price but by what it represented: just a passing grade. He, in turn and out-of-reflex, had judged her as another customer whose decision would likely be forgotten as soon as the assignment was done. It wasn’t just her, though. The more Ben thought about it, the more he realized how often he slipped into this same pattern with others. He started noticing every hurried glance at a price tag, every mention of a required reading list, every moment someone bought a book only to mention, almost offhandedly, that they’d probably never finish it. The bookstore was full of these fleeting interactions, transactions that seemed to reinforce the idea that books weren’t stories or ideas, but objects to be acquired, displayed, and discarded.
Sometime that week, as Ben opened a new box of novels, he took a moment before shelving them. He picked up one of the books and ran his fingers over the cover, tracing the raised lettering of the title. He flipped through the first few pages, noting the texture of the paper, the layout of the chapters. Instead of stacking the books quickly on the shelf, he paused to consider how they had come to be there; every step, every person involved. He dwelled in this realization, and over time, it gradually consumed him.
Even in his personal life, he became more aware of the interconnectedness of the world and he began to realize the roles others played in providing him with the necessities of life. He couldn’t visit a store or restaurant without contemplating the labor and lives involved in his purchases. He found himself wincing every time a customer commented on a price, and had to walk to the back of the store any time he heard someone mutter the dreaded phrase, “I can find it cheaper on Amazon." He hated hearing this. He thought of the Amazon warehouses, full of boxes and packages being carried and shipped by robots and underpaid, overworked employees. The transactions mediated by screens and images with promises of free shipping, money-back guarantees and exclusive discounts. He thought about the data they collected, the decades of workers’ rights violations, the systemic disruption that led to thousands of brick-and-mortar bookstores closing their doors. “This is the world they want,” he started to repeat to himself.
One morning soon after, Ben found himself lingering as the delivery driver wheeled in the week’s shipment. He thought about how the driver likely started his route every day before dawn, maneuvering through pallets of freight in warehouses, checking manifests in cold storage bays, and braving early traffic to get the books here on time. The usual quick exchange of nods felt hollow, so he forced himself to spit out, “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask.. what’s your name?”
The driver straightened, surprised. “Oh, it’s James.”
Ben smiled. “Thanks, James. Appreciate all the work you do getting these books here.”
James hesitated for a moment, then nodded and smiled back. “Sure man. Have a good one.”
It wasn’t a long conversation, but as James pushed the cart down the hall, Ben felt a faint lightness from this shift in his usual routine. Later that afternoon, Ben also caught sight of his co-worker, Emily as he was walking past the back office. Her desk was cluttered as usual, her catalog open, sticky notes poking out at odd angles. A mug of tea sat untouched, the rim lined with faint brown stains. Ben paused in the doorway. “Hey, Emily. Thanks for getting that order in so fast last week. People have been buying up those new titles all day.”
She looked up, startled. “Oh. Well, it’s part of the job.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, but there was a flicker of something in her expression, a bit of surprise, maybe even a little gratitude.
“It’s not just the job,” Ben said looking her in the eyes. “It’s a lot of work. And it’s appreciated, thanks.”
Emily gave a small smile and nodded as Ben turned around and headed back to the sales floor.
A few weeks later, Ben was restocking a display of recently released memoirs when the same young woman walked into the store again. He recognized her immediately. She had the same faded denim jacket, and the same blue hair now pulled into a loose ponytail. She didn’t glance around the shelves as she had last time. Instead, she walked straight to the counter and removed the earbud from her left ear.
“Hi, Carlie. Remember?” she said, though Ben had no recollection of her ever saying her name in their last encounter. “I need another book for class. Also…” She set the thin, uncreased copy of "The Great Gatsby" on the counter. “Can I return this? I didn’t end up using it.”
Ben blinked, unsure he’d heard her right. He looked down at the paperback. The spine was still stiff, the cover glossy. It didn’t seem like it had even been opened. “Didn’t use it?”
She shrugged. “Not really. I mean, we talked about it in class, but I mostly just looked up the summary online. I don’t need it anymore.”
Ben’s chest tightened. Normally, he would have shrugged it off and taken the book back with a polite nod and processed the return. But something in her casual tone, the way she dismissed the novel as if it were nothing more than a piece of disposable packaging, struck a nerve. It was as if the effort, the artistry, the care that had gone into crafting the story meant nothing at all. The book, written literally a century ago, had been reduced to a symbol of a grade, a requirement, a task to be checked off and forgotten.
“Why did you buy it in the first place?” he asked, his voice sharper than he intended.
Carlie blinked. “What?”
“Why did you buy it if you weren’t going to read it?” he said, the words tumbling out now. “It’s not just some product you can return like a pair of shoes that didn’t fit. This is someone’s work, their thoughts, their art. You just…looked up the summary?”
Her expression shifted from surprise to defensiveness. “It’s just for class. I didn’t have time to read the whole thing.”
“That’s not the point,” Ben said, shaking his head. “You’re treating this like it’s meaningless. Like it’s just another box to tick off so you can move on. But it’s not meaningless. It’s a story. A perspective. It’s—” He stopped, realizing his voice had risen. He never raised his voice at customers. Never. But now it was out there, and Carlie stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Why are you so mad about this?” she said, her voice quieter. “It’s just a book.”
“It’s not just a book,” Ben said, his tone softening now, though the frustration still lingered. “It’s not just an item you buy and return. It’s a way of seeing the world. And when you treat it like it’s nothing, it… it makes it feel like what I do here is nothing, too.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than Ben intended. Carlie looked down at the book, her fingers curling around its edges. She didn’t speak at first, and when she did, her voice was careful. “I never thought about it like that.”
Ben sighed, the heat of his outburst fading into embarrassment. They avoided each other’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was uncalled for. I don’t mean to guilt you. It’s just… every time I see a book treated like it doesn’t matter, I wonder if what I’m doing here matters at all.”
Carlie’s expression shifted again, her defensiveness giving way to something more thoughtful. “I guess I just bought it because that’s what you do. You buy the book. You check the box. You get the grade.” She hesitated. “But maybe I should actually read it now.”
Ben nodded, unsure of what to say. She took the book back, slipping it into her bag without another word, and wandered off into the store to find the next title she needed for class. Ben watched her go, feeling a twinge of regret for how he’d spoken, but also a faint glimmer of hope. Maybe this time, the book wouldn’t just be an obligation. Maybe it would mean something.
As Carlie disappeared into the aisles, Ben leaned against the counter and let out a slow breath. His outburst replayed in his mind on an endless loop, each repetition adding another layer of self-reproach. He wasn’t normally like this. For years, he’d prided himself on staying calm, even cheerful, no matter what came his way. A grumpy customer? Fine. A shipment of books arriving damaged? No problem. A teenager returning a pristine paperback? He should’ve been able to let it go.
But he hadn’t.
He rubbed his temples and tried to sort through the tangled mess of feelings. Almost instinctively, he pulled out his phone and opened his messaging app. His wife, Clara, had never judged him for his doubts or frustrations. She just listened, and sometimes that was all he needed.
Hey, had a weird moment at work, he typed. Got frustrated with a customer. Feel like I can’t explain why without sounding like a jerk.
He stared at the message for a moment, then added: She wanted to return a book she never even opened. I kind of snapped. I feel stupid about it now.
Clara responded quickly: Aww, Sorry babe! But it sounds like it wasn’t just about the book return. What’s really bothering you?
Ben sighed. He knew she was right. The truth was, he wasn’t just upset about the return or Carlie’s casual treatment of "The Great Gatsby".
It was about what the book symbolized: the endless stream of products and transactions that made up his day-to-day life. It was about the endless cycle: customers buying books without reading them, students cramming for grades instead of understanding the material, people viewing stories as something to collect, not engage with. He was a cog in the machine, and sometimes it felt like the machine had no purpose beyond spinning in place. He’d spent nearly a decade here, shelving novels, recommending titles, smiling at people who often saw him as no more than a walking catalog. He loved books—truly loved them—but more and more, he felt like he wasn’t working with stories or ideas anymore. He was just working with merchandise.
I think it’s that I felt invisible, he typed. Not just me, but the effort behind these everything, the time I spend arranging displays, the care the authors put into their work. It all feels like it vanishes the second a customer picks something up. They see the price tag, and nothing else. And it makes me wonder if what I’m doing means anything.
Clara’s reply came a moment later: It does mean something, Ben. Even if most people don’t see it, there’s value in what you do. Helping someone find a book they’ll actually connect with, even if it’s just one out of a hundred customers, is still important. But maybe you need to remind yourself of that more often. Maybe find a way to make those connections more visible, even if only to you.
Ben read her message twice. Clara always had a way of distilling his tangled thoughts into something clearer. She didn’t downplay his frustration or tell him to just get over it. She acknowledged it, and then gently pointed him toward a better way of thinking about it.
Thanks, he wrote back. I needed that. Love you.
He pocketed his phone and looked out at the rows of books, wondering how many of them had never been read, how many would never be read. And yet, among all those unread pages, there were stories that had changed lives—stories that had made someone feel less alone, or inspired them to see the world differently. He thought of Emily, hunched over her desk, a mug of tea going cold beside her as she pored over spreadsheets and James, loading a cart with boxes of heavy books in the early hours of the morning. He thought of Carlie, of her comment that she might actually read the book now. Maybe he’d been out of line, but if his frustration had planted the seed of curiosity, if it made her pause and look beyond the cover, then perhaps it wasn’t all for nothing. And maybe, just maybe, that meant his work wasn’t nothing either.
When Carlie approached the counter again, a copy of "Brave New World" in hand, Ben felt his chest tighten. He wasn’t sure what to expect after their earlier exchange. The air between them still felt heavy, filled with unspoken words and lingering tension. She placed the book on the counter carefully.
Ben scanned it and cleared his throat. “Huxley. Great choice. It’s…thought-provoking.”
Carlie nodded but didn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah. The professor recommended it. Figured I’d actually read this one.” Her voice was light, but there was a faint edge of self-consciousness that hadn’t been there before.
Ben handed the book back to her, then hesitated. “Listen…about before. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I’m sorry, that was not okay.”
Her head snapped up, surprised. “No, it is okay. I mean, I kind of get why you were upset. I probably shouldn’t have tried to return it.”
“Well,” Ben said with a small, awkward smile, “If you’d still like to, I can give you your money back.”
Carlie returned with a small but genuine smile. “No. I really do want to read it.” She paused, as if debating whether to say more, then finally asked, “Um, do you guys happen to be hiring?”
The question caught Ben off guard, but in a good way. “Hiring?”
“Yeah. I was thinking…maybe I’d like working here. I mean, if you need someone.”
Ben tilted his head, studying her. Her tone was earnest, and there was something in her expression that suggested she was serious. He saw, in her request, a glimmer of something he hadn’t expected: an acknowledgment of what the store meant, of what he did. Maybe she didn’t fully understand it yet, but the question itself suggested she was beginning to. And that was enough.
“Well, we’re not hiring at the moment,” Ben said slowly, “but I can keep you in mind. If you’re serious, we can talk more.”
She nodded, a slight blush rising in her cheeks. “Thanks. I mean, I think it could be…interesting, you know?”
Ben handed her the receipt and a small card with the store’s contact information. “When we do have an opening, stop by.”
As Carlie stepped out into the crisp afternoon, Ben let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The tension that had lingered all morning seemed to dissipate, replaced by a quiet, cautious optimism. For once, he wasn’t left wondering if his work meant anything. Over the weeks that followed, Carlie became a regular presence at the store. She didn’t just buy books. She stayed to chat, lingering by the counter after paying to ask about new arrivals, to share what she was reading, or to talk about the classes that were pushing her to think differently. Her questions became conversations that stretched a few minutes longer each time. Ben found himself looking forward to her visits. He shared anecdotes about authors he loved, the quirks of working in a bookstore, and the odd, wonderful connections that books could spark. What started as hesitant exchanges grew into something more natural, even easy.
For Carlie, the store gradually came alive. She began to notice the little things: the way the shelves were rearranged, the careful attention to the front displays, the warmth in the handwritten staff recommendations. The books felt less like objects and more like reflections of people like Ben and Emily. Eventually, Carlie did join the staff. She learned how to shelve new arrivals with care, how to keep displays inviting, and how to help a frustrated customer find exactly the right book. The job wasn’t glamorous. There were slow hours, tedious inventory checks, and the occasional snippy patron, but Carlie didn’t mind. She saw it as something bigger than herself: a chance to help shape the space that had once felt so distant. Ben found a quiet satisfaction in mentoring her. He shared what he’d learned, not just about the logistics of running a bookstore, but about the subtler joys: finding the right recommendation for someone, making the store feel warm and welcoming, and valuing the unseen labor behind every book on the shelf. Months passed. Neither of them thought much about that first encounter anymore, yet its ripple effects lingered in small, steady ways. That initial moment of misunderstanding had become the foundation of something lasting. In their own ways, both Carlie and Ben had begun to see the store as more than a place of transactions. In bridging that quiet gap between customer and bookseller, consumer and laborer, they started to find meaning not just in the books themselves, but in the shared experience that brought them to life.
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