BCPRESS

YoFP: 2021

Midst the bustling commercial street, a bookstore stood as a quiet sanctuary. Surrounded by neon lights, it was a black and white island where words silently bloomed.

To its left, a popular restaurant drew crowds, with benches stretching to the mailbox at the entrance. Impatient diners would wander into the bookstore. They only brush their fingers along book covers. Some would flip through a few pages before melting back into the darkness outside. Sunlight shifted through the gaps in the crowd, and as the clock hands moved towards the right, those gaps widened, revealing more of the street scene.

As evening approached, the bar to the right came alive. Signaled by the sudden illumination of neon lights, people poured in, once again obscuring the view outside. The changing street scene became a kaleidoscope of colorful lights. Laughter and shouts, lights and footsteps, all blended into the city’s vibrancy. As the clock hands slowly climbed, children drifted into dreams, and the bookstore manager locked up, boarding the tram home. Only the blue lock remained, watching over the city’s revelry.

Soft music played in the bookstore, its soundproof glass muffling the outside chaos. The Manager sat behind the counter, lost in thought, sipping coffee, occasionally sketching. The silent pages kept him company. He was like the eye of a storm in the city center. Howling winds surrounded him. Yet, his bookshelves remained pristine.

He meticulously cleaned the store before opening each day, ensuring not a speck of dust settled between the books. The white shelves, though over a decade old, looked new save for the unintentional marks left by time. He protected every item in the store, rarely discarding anything. To him, old objects held “the unique beauty of their era,” gradually turning his bookstore into an “antique shop.” During holidays, decorations adorned the store, with a Christmas tree from over a decade ago still standing proudly by the window, its fake snow faded but ornaments ever-increasing.

“This tree’s been used for quite a while. The baubles are rusting. Why not get a new one?” his cousin once suggested during a visit.

“It’s fine as it is, thanks for your concern,” the usually agreeable Manager quickly refused. This Christmas tree held too many memories. He remembered sitting beneath it as a child, reading picture books, their colors adorning the pure dreams in his heart. The sky remained the same as in his childhood, the city never saw snow, as ordinary as the legendary Santa Claus who supposedly flew over the city on Christmas Eve, bringing surprises to sleeping children.

The New Year peeked out from behind Christmas, waiting to make its grand entrance with fireworks after the ten-second countdown, capturing everyone’s attention. At year’s end, people reflected on the past twelve months, eagerly anticipating the new year’s arrival.

The bookstore Manager tallied up the year’s accounts, finding the profits as meager as ever. But his own living expenses were modest; after necessary costs, he only indulged in a few art supplies. Books he liked were considered part of the business expenses, conveniently aligning with his profession and saving him considerable outlay.

A friend invited him to drink at the neighboring bar. The Manager initially wanted to refuse but, thinking that spending New Year’s Eve alone watching TV would be too lonely, he agreed. Uncomfortable in noisy environments, he found a quiet spot away from the commotion. From afar, he saw his friend in the center of the crowd, surrounded by two or three girls and a ponytailed gentleman in a suit.

This guy had always been popular, the Manager mused. He recalled meeting his friend through a university group project. His friend was careless in his work but skilled at talking to strangers, confidently approaching any girl he met, and generally likable. He had helped the shy, introverted Manager finish many survey tasks, leading to their friendship.

“What would you like to drink?” The bartender’s question interrupted his thoughts.

The Manager realized he had been sitting there for quite a while. Scanning the bewildering array of drink names on the menu, he fell into a paralyzing indecision. After a moment of awkward hesitation, he looked at the bartender and said, “I’ll take your recommendation, as long as it’s not too strong.”

“A Margarita, then,” the bartender said, magically producing a glass, running a lime wedge around the rim before dipping it in a ring of glistening salt. “You’re the Manager of the bookstore next door, right?”

The Manager, who had been closely observing the drink preparation, looked up, somewhat nervously. “Yes, I am.”

“I often visit your bookstore… just out of boredom, of course.”

“Thank you.”

“How’s the drink here?” The Manager felt a hard pat on his back, nearly knocking the plot he’d been constructing out of his head. He turned reflexively to see his friend’s familiar, guileless smile, accompanied by the ponytailed gentleman.

“It’s no fun coming to a bar just to sit quietly by yourself, is it?” The ponytailed gentleman had somehow slipped behind the counter, one arm draped over the bartender’s shoulder, ruffling his hair vigorously. “Let me introduce myself, I’m his friend. And the man in front of you is—”

“You bastard, appearing out of nowhere like that?” The bartender brushed off the hand on his head, interrupting the ponytailed gentleman’s self-introduction.

“Your punches are as painful as ever… Well, you two enjoy your drinks, we’ll be off now.”

“Is that gentleman your friend?” the Manager asked curiously after watching them leave.

“Friend? More like a bitter rival,” the bartender replied, handing the prepared cocktail to the Manager. “We’ve known each other since elementary school. You could say we’re like fire and water, always competing over everything. But I have to admit, he’s quite impressive in some ways.”

“A large part of why I became a bartender was because of him. In a moment of anger, I impulsively decided to follow the same path as him. Being a bartender isn’t really the most suitable job for me—I’m not great at small talk, and I rarely connect with customers. But it’s not so bad, doing this all these years.” The bartender sighed, “If I could, I’d quite like to run a bookstore. Just being alone and quiet, not having to worry too much about social relationships. What about you, Mr. Manager? Why did you choose to open a bookstore?”

“Perhaps it was to carry on my grandfather’s will. When I was young, my parents were busy with work, so I spent most of my free time in that bookstore. My grandfather loved reading, and he would always tell me stories. Influenced by him, I grew to love books too,” the Manager recounted his past. “After graduation, I stayed to help my grandfather run the bookstore, and when he passed away two years ago, I took over.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright. I don’t want to dwell on the grief of losing a loved one. After all, everyone dies eventually. I’m sure my grandfather would want me to make the bookstore even better,” the Manager smiled faintly. “It’s just that running a bookstore is getting harder these days, barely making any profit. Most people who come to the bookstore are more interested in the ‘store’ than the ‘books’, just glancing around before leaving. It’s rare to have someone like you who frequently comes to buy books.”

“Why not try expanding into some side businesses, like selling drinks and stationery? Then find ways to promote it. Your store is in a busy area, so you’re bound to get more customers,” the bartender suggested. “There’s nowhere to sit in your store, and it’s really uncomfortable to stand and read… I’m sorry, I might need to attend to some other customers for a while.”

“Has it gotten so late already? I guess it’s about time the bar gets busy,” the Manager said, looking at the time on his phone screen. Once again, he was left alone at his seat. He pondered over the bartender’s suggestions: Jewels need an appraiser’s eye to discover their value; no matter how beautiful a jewel is, without an appraiser, it’s just a pretty stone.

Suddenly remembering something, he opened his phone and slowly typed “bubble tea making materials” into a shopping app.

Perhaps he couldn’t just stand in this eye of the storm. He needed to see the tempest outside.

…

“Ah, it always gets so busy at this time…” The bartender sighed, straightening his tie and running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry for leaving you alone for so long.”

“It’s fine, I completely understand,” the Manager smiled forgivingly, putting down his pen. “I’ve been thinking about the suggestions you gave earlier. They seem like they could be very useful to me. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing, just some random ideas,” the bartender said, stirring the drink in his glass. “Mr. Manager, please don’t ever close your store! Otherwise, I’ll lose a place to relax.”

“I’ll do my best,” the Manager replied. The haze before his eyes cleared, illuminated by the lights, and he suddenly saw a path forward. He glanced at the clock; this year was about to end. “Next time you come to my store, let me treat you to a cup of coffee.”

The clock hands were inching towards the zenith. The Manager and the bartender both looked at the swinging pendulum. Perhaps at this moment, the bartender was also feeling lost, wondering whether to continue adapting to his current situation or to make a change and look for a new job. Could the answers to their hopes for the future be found within the passage of time?

They exchanged a smile, all the reluctance and confusion about the past year melting into the unified countdown around them.

Ten.

Their voices merged with the crowd’s. The Manager could only see the bartender’s lips moving in sync with his own.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

“Happy New Year!”

The atmosphere in the bar reached its peak. Many people poured into the street with the chiming of the clock, like a grand gust of wind. Fireworks exploded against the night’s canvas, competing with the neon lights. The Manager and the bartender, in perfect sync, remained at the counter, neither leaving their spots.

Through the gaps in the crowd, the Manager caught glimpses of the magnificent fireworks.

At this moment, the bar was as quiet as his bookstore. The background music, previously drowned out by voices, now flowed clearly, following the clock hands. The clamor was sealed off behind the glass windbreak, leaving only layers of muffled cheers in the eye of the storm.

“Happy New Year, Mr. Manager.”

The bartender offered the first New Year’s wish to the man who shared his moment of tranquility.

The Manager nodded gently in acknowledgment. In this new year, he was no longer alone. Another person had entered the eye of the storm, joining him in listening to the tempest beyond the walls.

The Future, step by step with the clock hands, slowly became Present.

Translated by Editors of BINJ Media and Publications.