Page 8 of The Reaper

The first booth, selling leather-bound notepads, snatched my attention. “Those are handmade,” the man behind the counter said when I picked up one of the brown leather items.

“They’re beautiful,” I said, flipping it front and back. “Do you personalize?” I ran my finger over the engraving on the back of the notebook.

“With no extra charge,” he answered, beaming. “My name is Zac.”

“Nice to meet you, Zac,” I said, matching his enthusiasm. The hair on the back of my neck and arms stood as a feeling of being surveyed washed over me. Slowly, I looked over my shoulder, searching, but once again found nothing but passersby and occasional bikers and runners sprinting along the sidewalk.

“I can do initials, names, or a verse up to twenty-five characters,” Zac said, bringing my attention back to him and the soft leather-bound book in my hand. He maneuvered around, scooting into the narrow space between his and the neighboring stall. “Let me show you something,” he said when he was standing next to me. He pulled back the tablecloth covering his worktable, revealing a selection of more leather goods in all shapes and sizes. He placed his glasses, which were hanging around his neck, back on before leaning over, searching the shelves. “There it is.”

Zac’s arm brushed mine as he explained about the distressed leather-bound notebook he’d pulled out from his hidden stash. “This is the best we have.” He took my hand and brushed my fingers over the smooth surface. “Feel how soft it is. It’s—”

He suddenly fell forward, facedown onto his booth before he could complete his statement. The force of his fall caused the table to roll further into his tent, hitting his cash register. He gripped the counter to brace his fall, but failed, pulling the black cloth down with him. Leather goods, coins, and bills scattered on the ground.

“Watch where you’re going!” I called to the man who had caused the commotion. He was wearing a motorcycle helmet, seemingly unaffected by the bruteness of his action. The sunlight and clear blue sky reflecting on his tinted shield made it impossible to make out his face. “Sir, excuse me!” I called out again when he didn’t look back. He didn’t even stop.

I shook my head and brought my attention back to Zac, who was sprawled on the ground.

“Are you okay?” I offered a hand to help him to his feet.

“Yeah,” he said, accepting my gesture. “That jerk pushed me.” He pointed in the direction of the helmeted man.

A glint caught my eye. I crouched down and picked up Zac’s glasses, which were laying near his feet. “They’re broken,” I said, passing him the bent frames and scratched lenses.

“Oh man. Asshole!” he yelled. I doubted the man heard him. He probably wouldn’t care anyway.

I helped him gather up some of his items that had scattered on the ground. I was in disbelief about what had just happened and the lack of response from those nearby, as though it was the most mundane thing they’d ever witnessed. “I’ll take two of these. The black one and the mahogany.” I grabbed the two notepads and passed them to him.

“Do you want me to customize them?” he asked, checking the scratch across his forearm. He appeared somewhat recovered from his fall.

“Are you hurt?”

“A couple of scratches but I’ll live.” He winced when he pressed his index finger on his abrasion. “Now, let’s not allow that dickhead to ruin our day. So, custom or not?”

Glad that Zac’s spirit was back, I asked, “How long will it take? I don’t have a lot of time.” I didn’t want to come back. If this was a normal occurrence in this part of town, count me out.

“Are you planning on walking around?”

I nodded.

“Good. It’ll be done by the time you make your way back here.” Zac handed me a pen and paper. “Write what you want here.”

“I’d love that.” I wrote three letters on the paper he handed me. “There,” I said, handing it back to him.

“HSJ,” he read out loud. “That’s your initials?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it stand for?” His Boston accent seemed to be getting thicker the longer I interacted with him.

“Heath Saint James.” I handed him my credit card, waiting to see if he knew who I was. My arrival appeared to have spread like wildfire.

“That’s your name?” He tapped my card onto his tablet before handing me the device to sign.

“The one and only,” I joked, relieved that I didn’t have to explain who I was and hear another he’s too young to be a priest remark.

“I like that. Sounds fancy,” he said. “Same initials for both?” He waved the two items in his hands.

“Let’s leave the mahogany one blank.”

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