Four Brick Walls and a Roof

(This isn't finished. Just want an opinion on the progess so far.)

In a fashionable suburb of San Fransico, three lives are lived. Captured and contained within four brick walls and an old shingled roof; separated only by some planks of oak. Three free flowing spirits, diverse and in opposition of each other but bound together all the same by a street address. Libby calls the first floor home although no one knows it. To everyone, including herself, she is Mrs. Archibald, widowed. Her husband owned a bookstore but never want to. He bought the place cheap from some Italian gentlemen who were forced to leave the country abruptly. They were weasels the both of them and he never trusted them but the place was cheap. He was hoping it would be a temporary ownership, till he could make enough money to get a real business. He made his money but never started his real business. He couldn’t sell the bookstore; Libby wouldn’t have it. He loved her; to his determent at time but he always loved her just the same.

He died a couple years back. She was a mess. Wouldn’t leave her house. Didn’t do anything for weeks. The bookstore almost fell apart. It was left in the hand of their only employee, a local teenage boy who could only work on the weekends.

He was the quarterback and captain of the high school football team, state champs two years running, and homecoming king. He didn’t really care for books. He was in it for the money and they paid him well enough to keep him. He needed the money after all. As he was always saying, “It’s expensive to keep all my ladies happy… and willing.” He was a hard worker but Libby was glad when he graduated and left.

The store survived. She had enough money in savings to stay afloat; only barely though. Most of the money her husband had made had gone into their house. It was grand and extravagant. That wasn’t her. It was her husband. She sold the house soon after the death and moved into his street address. This place is cozy. This place is quiet. It is like she is. At least, it is now.

She still isn’t over her husband’s death yet. That is the reason for her name. She uses her husband’s last name, Archibald, out of respect. She didn’t find it appropriate to go back to her maiden name.

As for her first name, Libby, she doesn’t like it anymore. It is a little girl’s name to her and she is no girl. She is a woman. Little girls are innocent. Her innocence went along with her husband.

She still refuses to talk about the death. In fact, she refuses to talk about much of anything anymore. There is on thing that she does talk about however and that is her books. That isn’t surprising considering that reading and working at the bookstore are the only activities that she finds worthy of her time. Books are her escape from reality. She experiences many adventures through her books and will talk at great length about them to anyone willing to listen.

There is a stool that sits in the corner of her bookstore. On that stool, from 9 till 6, Monday through Saturday, she sits. The store is closed on Sunday. Sunday is her reading day. Working on Sunday would be a sin. From that stool she enforces her reign over the store. Ask her where a book is and she’ll tell you down to the author and title of the adjacent books. Ask her the price of a book and you will receive the answer without hesitation, tax included. Ask her something as frivolous as the location of the bathroom and you’ll see the back of her head before the words leave your lips. Don’t even dare to raise your voice in the store. She keeps a phone next to the stool with 911 on the speed-dial for her “public disturbance” calls. The operator and the entire police force know her well.

On Mondays mornings she relates her adventures from that stool. Her adventures range from murder investigation to deep sea exploration to medieval jousts. Adventures of romance always appear absence.

She has a loyal following that comes to listen. They come every Monday from every corner of the city. Some are businessmen. They take their lunch breaks early so they can hear. Some are homemakers. One brought her 2 year old son with her one day. That day she didn’t stay long. She hasn’t been back since. Still others are retired men and women. Monday morning is the highlight of the week for many of them.

One young girl, still full of innocence, would come every Monday morning. She would skip school just to come. She always said that she had doctor appointments every Monday morning and they always believed her. She became quite proficient at forgery. This young girl quickly became a favorite of Libby’s. She saw some of herself in this young girl. The self that existed before, seemingly so long ago now.

She is the same age as the boy. They graduated from school together. He went off to college on a football scholarship. She stayed in town. When he left, she approached Libby to ask for the job. No interview or application needed; Libby hired the girl on the spot.

This girl wasn’t in it for the money. She loved books. More than anyone in the world with exception to Libby, she loved books. The two of them make a perfect tandem. The girl sits at the register in the front of the store. She handles all the purchases and general business and books of the store. She also answers all of the customer’s frivolous questions.

That floor is occupied by Katie Sanders. Young and energetic are her most identifiable traits. She isn’t a ditz or anything; she is intelligent, although it isn’t always apparent. She also is the kind of person that can talk someone’s ear right off if you give her the chance. Maybe that is why she can never keep a guy.

Her social life is active; just a little on the temporary side. They always seem to leave before anything can happen. And they do leave her. Just once she wished she was the one who got to dump the other. Maybe she just falls in love too easily. One or two dates is all it takes and she in convinced that this boy is her Prince Charming; her destiny. She becomes so obsessed about every man she dates that she becomes blind to the problems that always inevitably pop up.

Take her last boyfriend for example. He was the same age, handsome and liked all the same activities that she did. However, they only dated for five weeks. So what was the problem? She would say that there was no problem. She would say that everything was going just as perfectly as can be. Unfortunately he knew better. He saw several problems and even though he never told her, they all revolved around her.

For one, she always talked. Nonstop; she talked. That was annoying by itself but wasn’t the root of the problem. The real problem revolved around what she talked about: herself. Every little thing could be somehow related to her and she let her boyfriend know exactly how too.

On the top floor resides Charles Johnston. An old man, in his mind most of all. Charles lives alone in his apartment save an old Scottish terrier aptly named Scotty.

Scotty is the fourth in the line of dogs Charles has had in that place. He got his first dog Maxwell soon after he moved here; soon after she left him. It was the beginning of the decade of the fifties. America and the world were still getting over World War II. Charles had served his country well. He was a pilot; private in Patton’s great campaign in the northern African deserts against the Desert Fox. He won two medals for his bravery and earned a scar down the back of his leg that he always thought would have provided a great story for the grandchildren.

He came home on August 2, 1946 to his wife and two young children. They were living in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania at the time. His wife had been forced to get a job to support their fledgling family. A genuine Rosie the Riveter she was. Her place of employment was at one of the local steel mills.

When he got back he resumed the position as a reporter for the local newspaper. He even got a raise upon return. His boss had fought for Britain in World War I. He knew what Charles had gone through and sympathized with him, which wasn’t something Charles was used to. He took the raise nonetheless. Now that he was back at his job, with his raise, he assumed his wife would quit her job. After all, he made plenty of money and women aren’t supposed to work anyway. Their place was at home; not in the workplace. He didn’t think he was a sexist. He didn’t believe in the whole “bare foot and pregnant” ideology. It is just that it isn’t right to make woman work, especially in a steel mill. That is how he felt. His wife didn’t share a similar sentiment however.

She didn’t want to quit. She was happy at her job.