“Paul,” Kevin says, that ever-present edge to his voice whenever he says his name. “I don’t call him dad.”
Even though he’s been your dad since you were four years old, I think, but I don’t voice this to him. After all, Paul is my actual dad and my relationship with him is just as complicated. Who am I to talk?
Downtown Victoria isn’t too far, especially as all the traffic on the Pat Bay Highway is heading away from the city, and pretty soon we’re pulling up to Crawford’s Books on Government Street.
Right. So my father owns a bookstore. It’s been in the Crawford family for generations, basically since the city of Victoria was founded in the late 1800s. It’s something of a local treasure, a spot that historians fawn over and tourists fall in love with. But at the end of the day, it’s still a business trying to make money, and for the last five years the store has been taking a hit. Some, like my father, blame self-publishing and the rise of ebooks. Others, my mother included, blame the fact that my father never had a logical or business-minded bone in his body. Even the best intentions from the most passionate people can fail if they don’t have a sound mind at the helm.
That’s where I’m supposed to come in. I’m the supposed sound mind. My father, for a bunch of reasons he hasn’t yet voiced to me, wants me to take over while I’m still young, but only when I have a business degree. He hasn’t quite admitted that his lack of business and management skills have led to the store’s demise, instead putting all the blame on the rising rent and real estate prices in the city and all the other things I’ve mentioned.
The store is one-of-kind, however, and that’s the main reason why it’s still running. Though the big commercial chain, Chapters, is up the street, those giant megastores seem to focus more on selling throw blankets, stationery, and prissy candles than books. People come to Crawford’s Books because the store itself is an experience. At least that’s what I gather from the hushed approval of the seniors that visit.
I park Mr. Mean on the street and pay the meter before we head into the store. The shop closes at 7pm, so I know I won’t be working all night, but even so, the pub is still calling my name. I need a pint or two something fierce, especially after that class.
Despite Kevin’s pouting earlier, he perks up when he sees the store. Kevin is completely obsessed with fantasy books and could—and has—happily spent days here huddled among the tall cedar shelves, reading everything he can get his hands on.
The bookstore itself is like one big giant room with a cathedral ceiling and a loft at the back that houses some of the rare editions. The floors are dark polished wood and everything is extremely orderly with each genre getting its own section—fiction and new releases at the front, history and non-fiction and local travel guides in the middle, fantasy, sci-fi, and young adult at the back. The only genre we don’t carry is romance, which I think is yet another poor business decision on behalf of my father. Not only do women come in here all the time looking for romance, but from the research I’ve done, it’s one of the biggest selling genres.
But dad is a literary snob—it was hard enough to convince him to stock more sci-fi and fantasy—and even though the books would sell, he won’t even allow Fifty Shades of Grey in the store. I’m looking at this purely from a marketing perspective. Sex sells and we need more sales. We need more money coming in, period. But since he says smut and filth will lower our standards, it’s just another smart idea that won’t happen at Crawford’s Books.
“Son,” my dad greets me as Kevin and I step inside, Kevin making an immediate beeline to the back of the store, his cape flowing behind him. Did I mention my stepbrother sometimes wears a cape and carries a stick of a polished wood that I’m sure is some kind of magical staff?
My dad watches as he goes and then turns to me, shaking his head as he pinches the bridge of his nose. My dad has always had a youthful appearance, a baby face that probably accounts for the way he used to win people over. You want to trust him, to believe him. But ever since I moved here, it’s like he’s aging before my eyes, faster than Presidents do once they get into office, all grey hair and deep lines and loose skin.
“Did you know that I caught him painting his nails the other day?” my dad says to me in quiet reproach, putting his arm around me and leading me over to the cash register in the middle of the room.
I raise my brow. “Pink?”
“No,” he scoffs. “Black.”
I shrug, not too concerned. I faintly recall trying on my mum’s high heels when I was young, but I don’t dare voice this to him. “Kids like to experiment.”
“He’s nine,” he says as he smiles at a customer walking in, lowering his voice to me. “He’s too young for that. And that damn cape. He’s too old for that.” His eyes drift to the back of the store. “Maybe it’s my own fault. He’s so wrapped up in fantasy books and those medieval video games we keep buying him for his iPad. You know he asked me if I’d take him in a couple of weeks to this event of sorts? A camp? A renaissance fair? I don’t know, some place where kids and adults run around pretending to battle while wearing costumes.”
“He wants to go LARPing?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
“LARPing?” he repeats.
“Yeah, it’s an acronym for Live-Action Role Playing,” I explain. “It’s pretty much what he’s doing on the computer. If Dungeons and Dragons is the gateway drug to World of Warcraft, then LARPing is pure heroin.”