UNLIKELY FRIENDS
BY SAHAR ABDULAZIZ
UNLIKELY FRIENDS
Copyright © 2019 by Sahar Abdulaziz.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: February 2019
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-526-3
ISBN-10: 1-64034-526-4
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all the courageous, yet sometimes lost or wounded souls who have defied bitterness and hate to create an existence filled with happiness, friendship & trust.
You fall. You rise,
you make mistakes, you live, you learn.
You’re human, not perfect.
You’ve been hurt, but you are alive.
Think of what a precious privilege is it to be alive—
To breathe, to think, to enjoy,
and to chase the things you love.
Sometimes there is sadness in our journey,
but there is also lots of beauty.
We must keep putting one foot in front of the other
even when we hurt,
for we will never know what is waiting for us
just around the bend.
Unknown.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
Irwin
Irwin Abernathy, barely able to conceal the venom oozing out of every pore on his craggy old face, cringed at the slightly hungover, college-aged female with smeared day-old mascara caked beneath her drooping eyelids, making her look like a rabid raccoon.
“I think this belongs to you,” he said, dangling with two fingers the powdery orange Cheeto he had found lodged between the pages of her returned library book.
“Huh? Ha! Right…” She reached over the reception desk to reclaim it, then popped it into her mouth.
“Ohmygawd, ewww,” Irwin gagged, struggling to control his retching reflex. He took three rapid panting breaths until the feeling subsided. “You have a late fee,” he griped, his eyes watery but detached. “You owe a dollar-ten.”
“Do I?” The young woman fumbled through her pockets, digging for change, but only managed to collect a combination of pennies, dimes, nickels, a single quarter, and one tortoiseshell button to dump onto the desk. “Hold up,” she said, waving a crooked finger with a nail covered in chipped black polish in the air. “I have more; just give me one-hot-second.”
Irwin glanced over the woman’s shoulder at the long line forming behind her and ever so slightly bit his bottom lip. “No, take your time. Really,” he said, eyes rolling to the ceiling. “I have all day.”
If the young woman heard him, he couldn’t say, and although irritated by her total lack of social decorum, Irwin couldn’t help but be riveted, mesmerized by how easily she plunged her arm into her soft canvas bag, only to belt out a few colorful expletives when she pulled out everything but her wallet.
“Ma’am, if you could step to the side for a moment while I help the next person…”
“Damn it. I know it’s in here somewhere,” the woman mumbled, completely ignoring Irwin’s request, depositing a pen without a cap, a twisted, smooshed granola bar, and a tampon, thankfully still in its original wrapper, onto the desk. “One more second, I swear.” She shook her bag and stuck almost her entire face inside. “Come to mama,” she said, voice muffled. Irwin’s brow furrowed, but even he leaned closer in suspense.
“Ah-ha! Got it,” she crowed triumphantly and gave a cute curtsey to the sarcastic slow clapping taking place behind her and a wide smile to Irwin, who could only stare back dumbfounded. Then she whipped a twenty-dollar bill from her purse and waved it in the air. “I’ll need change.”
Irwin's nostrils flared.
A twenty-dollar bill? What do I look like—a pole dancer?
Irwin plucked a single dime from the discarded change pile and slid the remainder of the money and junk back towards her. Then he plucked the twenty from between her two-finger grasp and held it up to the light, hoping against hope that it turned out to be a fake so he could have her arrested and dragged out of the library by her forelock, banished for life. But alas, the bill appeared legit.
“Here,” he said, handing her the change. “And here’s your receipt…or perhaps a future bookmark.”
The young woman snorted at Irwin’s wisecrack and flashed him an acerbic smile. “Ciao,” she called over her shoulder, saluting him with the receipt as she pranced out of the building through the automatic doors, appearing not to have a care in the world. Irwin watched in total fascination as her hobo bag swayed in lockstep with her every swish and shimmy. Just one more colorful character to add to the book he never actually intended to write.
“Next,” Irwin bellowed, glancing at the clock behind him and wishing he could be in his bed reading instead of here, waiting on Neanderthals and social misfits.
“Excuse me,” interrupted a well-dressed man, pushing past the next person waiting on line. “Where’s the restroom?” he asked Irwin as the young child whose hand he held tight—presumably his son—used his free small hand to squeeze his crotch through his pants, evidently to prevent an accident.
Irwin pointed. “Down the hall, to your right.”
“Thanks,” said the father, dragging his kid forward by the arm. When the kid glanced back and caught Irwin staring, the little monster returned the favor by sticking his tongue out.
“Next!”
Two adolescent boys reeking like unwashed armpits, their baby sister, and their mother barreled noisily forward. Irwin made a mental note to breathe through his mouth until they left…and possibly for a few minutes after.
“You three, put your books up here!” ordered their stressed mother, who then proceeded to dump her load with a loud thump on the desk, leaving them stacked high and precariously unbalanced.
Free of books, her boys moved to the side to wait, much to Irwin’s olfactory relief, but the little girl had other plans and clutched her book tightly to her chest, refusing to acquiesce.
“Come on, Becky, give me your book,” coaxed her mother, but the child, with a flair for the dramatic, could not be deterred and started to wail, easily hitting an operatic pitch.
As a matter of record, Irwin disliked children, specifically children who used loud noises to torture others. And although he appreciated this little runt’s adoration for the written word, as a professed bibliophile himself, he did not welcome her predilection for being a screeching, bombastic shrew.
“Becky!” admonished the mother, attempting to tug the book free from the child�
��s death-grip but having little success. “Give…me…the…book.”
“No!” yelled the tenacious child, her brow stubbornly creased and lips in a tight pout.
“You better stop this right now! Give me the book.”
“No!”
“Listen, just give me the book for two seconds. I’ll give it right back to you as soon as the nice man scans it.”
“NO!” screamed Becky, twisting her tiny body away from her mother, who strained to retain her grip.
“Enough,” hollered Becky’s mother, snatching the cover and pulling it toward her.
“Ma’am, don’t pull on the cover. It might—” The cover tore in half. “—rip.”
Pint-size Becky, her half of the cover still clenched in her tiny, grubby fingers, lost her balance and tumbled backward onto her bum.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry,” screamed the mother, reaching down to help her child. “I’ll pay for the book,” she said to Irwin. “Now see what you’ve done!” she yelled at Becky, now sprawled out spread eagle on the floor, kicking and screaming. Meanwhile, her two malodourous brothers giggled off to the side, thoroughly enthralled by the spectacle.
“Grab your sister!” their mother snapped at the two hyenas. “I’m sorry,” she said to Irwin. “I really am. I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately. What do I owe you?”
Irwin, whose heart broke—not for the child, but for the damaged book—was half-tempted to call the lady a liar after witnessing this same bratty child on more than one occasion behave like the spoiled, unruly little tyrant she was. But unemployment held little attraction for the aging librarian, who was close to retirement, so he begrudgingly remained silent. He rung up the woman and wisely kept most of his more colorful snide observations to himself.
Choosing to become a librarian had been more of a calling than a career choice for Irwin, who proudly acknowledged a sizable familial lineage to a host of renowned readers and book hoarders. One of his great uncles, his grandmother’s brother, had at one time owned his own publishing company. It had been a reasonably prosperous business until Uncle Mortimer, charged with extortion and racketeering, was sent to prison where he languished and died. Irwin’s grandmother, Ethel Chamberlin Abernathy, never believed the stories surrounding her brother’s guilt and proclaimed to anyone willing to listen that she had no doubt he had been framed. However, as much as Irwin adored his grandmother, the blind loyalty she held for her nefarious sibling was wasted, especially after Irwin conducted a Google search of his own. Not only did his uncle extort, gamble, and racketeer his way into vast amounts of wealth and prestige, but at the time of his masterminding, Mortimer had involved himself in some highly shady deals, some of which turned out fatal. Nevertheless, Irwin, unwilling to see her hurt, refused to reveal to his grandmother what he had discovered. Instead, he let her go on believing her imaginary accounts until the day she perished, steadfastly safeguarding the secrets of Ethel Chamberlin Abernathy—the one decent person in his miserable, wretched life who had not only raised and loved him but protected him from himself.
***
By early evening, Irwin felt ready to call it a day. That was until he spotted a young woman, probably no older than fifteen or sixteen, sitting alone on his favorite cushioned seat by the computer station. He noticed she wore reading glasses but no makeup. Each of her long fingers boasted a silver ring, and a stack of leather bands obscured her thin wrists, some laden with beads or charms. Irwin couldn’t imagine how heavy they made her arms.
Long, dangling feather earrings hung from her ears while her chestnut brown hair, piled high upon her head, mimicked what the library’s style magazines refer to as the “messy bun.”
Messy was right.
Irwin was curious as to how the girl had sewn her unquestionably homemade jean skirt, with fitted bands of yellow calico fabric in the middle, which he thought complimented her white peasant blouse nicely. But it was the work boots that really set the stage for him, like something straight out of the 60s. A hippie-dippy special.
Unfazed, the girl glared back at him, making Irwin wince.
Busted!
She’d caught him prying. Embarrassed, Irwin looked away. As a consummate people-watcher, he abhorred being outed—and certainly not by a child.
Second time today. I must be getting rusty.
“Irwin,” called Roger Ledbetter, one of the library staff and, in general, a human hemorrhoid. “Janice wants you to either cover for Regan in the children’s room or go back to the circulation desk. She said it was your choice.”
“I’d rather get a lobotomy than be stuck in the children’s room,” Irwin replied flatly, not joking.
“Front desk it is. Roger that.”
Idiot.
By seven-forty-five, the library speakers began making announcements that the library would be closing in fifteen minutes.
Thank God.
Irwin was exhausted and ready to go home to a steaming bowl of soup, a couple of water crackers with slices of cheese, and a hot cup of tea, perhaps even a hot bath instead of his typical quick shower. And then off to bed. Glorious bed, where he could finally finish his new cozy murder mystery uninterrupted.
“I’m heading upstairs to make sure everyone’s gone,” called Janice Stroop, the head librarian and resident know-it-all. “Irwin, can you handle the adult section?”
Irwin, can you handle the adult section?
Irwin merely nodded.
Such an irritating woman.
He started from the back row, collecting forgotten jackets and hats, returning books to their proper place, and pushing in chairs, all while mumbling, grumbling, and complaining in his head until he glanced up and noticed the young hippie girl grinning at him.
What’s so funny? “We’re closing in five minutes,” he barked.
“I heard.”
“That means you have to leave.”
“Evidently.”
“So? Hop to it. Shake a leg.” Irwin snapped his fingers. “What are you waiting for? A personal invitation?”
“I’ll leave,” she said, “soon-ish,” and went right back to reading her book.
The nerve.
Irwin continued his appointed rounds, but just a tad bit grumpier, knowing there was nothing he could do but wait the little waif out.
Ten minutes later, he returned, anxious to kick the insolent girl to the curb, but by the time he arrived, she was long gone, the book she had been reading left face down on the chair.
Everyone thinks I’m their maid.
He lifted the book and turned it over. “All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr.”
Now, why would someone her age be reading this?
He was quite impressed by her selection: a New York Times bestseller about a French girl and a German boy whose paths collided during WWII and the occupation of France.
Maybe for school.
As he turned to walk away, a piece of paper fell out of the book and fluttered to the floor. Irwin picked it up.
It read: “See you tomorrow, Mr. Grumpy.”
Why that little…
“Irwin, let’s go already,” yelled Janice, shaking her keychain in the air, ready to flip off the lights. “I want to lock up and get home sometime tonight.”
Irwin slipped the note into his pocket and returned the book to the shelf.
“Tonight, Irwin,” called Janice, tapping her foot by the front door.
Irwin sprinted to his locker, grabbed his coat, his hat and keys, and tripped on one of the book carts along the way, stubbing his toe.
Argh!
Irwin brushed past Janice, out the door, limping to his car.
“Good night, Irwin.”
“Good night, Janice,” he replied, but in his head—where he held most of his truest and most revealing conversations—he thought otherwise.
What’s the chance I’ll die in my sleep and never have to come back to this place again?
Janice locked the door. “See you tomorrow, brig
ht and early.”
God, if you’re up there, feel free to kill me now.
CHAPTER 2
Irwin
After changing out of his work clothes and into comfortable pajamas and bathrobe, Irwin padded through the living room, past the den lined with overflowing bookshelves, and into his kitchen to put on the kettle. He tugged his bathrobe tighter, but it did little to avert the chill still lodged in his bones from working at the library's reception desk. Although patrons had to walk through two distinct sliding doors to enter the library, bursts of cold air still managed to breach the setup somehow and flow into the general front section. Irwin cranked up the heat in the old, three-story Victorian, dreading his next month's heating bill.
Famished but too exhausted to make up his mind about what to eat, Irwin yanked the refrigerator door open and stood in front of it, staring. Trusting that at any moment, something worth eating would materialize and tempt his discerning palette. Unfortunately, he hadn’t gone food shopping in over two weeks, so only slim pickings were left. On the bottom shelf, Irwin slid a jar of black olives to one side and an unopened can of fruit and a bottle of maple syrup to the other. Nothing remotely appetizing. The second shelf boasted a quarter stick of unsalted butter, four eggs, a small container of questionable milk, and a horde of upmarket condiments. The side door held a wide assortment of goopy jars filled with sauces and dressings, many of which he swore at the time of purchase that he needed, despite more often than not letting them hit their expiration dates before actual use.
“A-ha! Now we're talking!” Behind an oversized jar of mayonnaise, Irwin discovered a plastic container filled with…well, he wasn’t quite sure what it was filled with. He lifted the dish up to the light. Shook it. Turned it upside down and right-side up. Other than its deep orange-brown hue, he couldn't make out or remember what was inside, so he did the only thing left to do and popped the top. He took a deep whiff and…”Argh!” His head felt like it snapped in two. The most heinous—the most rancid, garlic-laden acidic stench, the likes of which no human had ever likely encountered—catapulted up his nostrils and assaulted his brain cells. Eyes burning, Irwin couldn't toss the fetid container away quick enough.
Unlikely Friends Page 1
