Eleanor and the Stranger
(Content warnings: very brief mention of slavery and human trafficking.)
Eleanor walks briskly down the streets of New York City, paper bag in one hand, cheap coffee in the other hand, earbuds in. She is the epitome of the stereotypical busy New Yorker, on her way to a soul-sucking 9-5 office job. Yet, as she comes to a stop before a crosswalk, watching the same muted silver, white, and black cars trundle down the street, a stranger waits beside her. A stranger Eleanor is sure wasn’t there the moment before. She’d have noticed the stranger, after all.
It is not the fact that they have not met that makes this person a stranger to Eleanor. Rather, some quality about them. Perhaps it is the smile upon their face, or the odd clothes they wear, or their strange body, all unfamiliar to Eleanor. The stranger looks down, down, down at Eleanor, and she feels like a worm next to the towering figure. Yet their smile lingers as they raise a hand in a stilted human greeting.
Confused, Eleanor awkwardly waves back, and seeing that the stranger looks to be waiting, Eleanor takes out an earbud.
“Hail and well met, traveler,” says the stranger.
“Uh. Hi?”
“May I interest you in th-”
“Not interested,” Eleanor interjects, turning her head. Whatever this strange-speaking freak has to say, Eleanor does not want to hear it.
“Ahem.” They clear their throat, continuing. “May I interest you in the offer of a lifetime?”
“I’m terribly busy,” Eleanor replies in her best polite-yet-firm voice.
“‘Twill take not but a minute of your time.”
“Fine. Give me your pitch.”
“Excellent!”
With that, the tall stranger raises a blue-gloved hand and snaps their fingers, and the crosswalk light turns white.
“Neat trick. Where’d you learn to predict the timing like that?”
“‘Tis no prediction, you see.”
“Oh, what? You’re telling me you control the stop-lights?”
“In a manner of speaking,” the stranger assures, walking alongside Eleanor. “Come, come! We have almost arrived at mine office.” They sound eager, excited to show Eleanor inside the nondescript building just ahead. White metal frames glass windows covered with blue shades, and a plain, transparent door. It reads:
DAWN’S LIBRARY OF HUMANITY & MORE
FIND THYSELF COMRADES MOST TRUE
INQUIRE WITHIN
“Thank you, but I really have to be going,” Eleanor protests, yet the stranger–perhaps the Dawn mentioned on the sign–ushers her in. She’s about to try to shove the stranger into their own office building. Surely they must be high on some kind of drug. Not even the most fervent, cultish marketer would do this, right? But nevertheless, Eleanor’s fear gets the better of her, and she follows the stranger in.
The interior of the building feels stretched, as though Eleanor were squished like a ball of clay between the forefinger and thumb, or the room was pulled at as if it were cheap cloth. Despite the modernity of the black-and-white building, splashes of tangerine paint scatter the walls, with colorful sofas, side tables, rugs, and other furnishings providing a cozy feeling to the space, accenting the dark hardwood floors.
Eleanor’s fight-or-flight response roars in the back of her mind. Punch, kick, scream, run, throw, fight, FIGHT, FIGHT! Yet, perhaps it is curiosity that killed the cat–or kidnapped the Eleanor–for she is quiet, and allows the stranger to guide her to a pale red-clothed table, sitting down across from Eleanor.
“So…what is this…office?” Eleanor asks, for lack of a better word. Despite all of the logic in one half of her brain telling her that she is going to run late, that she should leave, that this stranger is “creepy,” the emotional side of her is intensely invested in this place.
“Welcome to Dawn’s Library of Humanity & More, dear friend. I am Dawn, the proprietor of this fine establishment,” says the not-so-stranger, doffing their hat and placing it to their heart as they bow deeply before Eleanor, strange blue hairs draping over the upper half of their face, disobeying the laws of gravity and physics. Getting a proper look, Eleanor can tell that they have oddly pale skin, long blue ‘hair,’ and an androgynous build, with shaded spectacles, but no eyes from which to look through them.
“Well, yes, that’s what the sign on the door says.” Eleanor suppresses the urge to run as she speaks, deeply invested in this strange being that calls themselves Dawn. “Doesn’t tell me much more than that, though.”
“We sell people, places, things…all of those can be part of your life, for a price. But for you, old girl, I’ll give you our special deal! First one’s free!”
“Wait, people? Is this some sort of human trafficking thing?” Eleanor asks, incredulous, about to stand up.
“Heavens, no, dear friend. I would never involve myself in such appalling, awful business. All of my clients sign a contract, that they might be sold here too!”
Eleanor pauses to consider the concept for a brief moment. “So people sell themselves into slavery? What the fuck is wrong with you, dude?”
“It’s not slavery. Slavery is when people are held in bondage, against their will. You aren’t buying a person, place, or thing. Nay, simply the chance to witness an event, to meet a friend, to adopt a creature, to visit a place.”
“What?”
“It’s simple, really. You go into the back room, find a person, place, event, creature, thing, object, what have you, and pick it out. Write the ID number on a note card, and they shall come into your life. Perhaps now, perhaps on your deathbed, perhaps sometime in-between.”
“So…what, you just…call them and tell them where I am?”
“Nonsense. They simply…will arrive. Someday, someplace, sometime. Always. From there, ‘tis up to you whether you make a friend, bear witness to a grisly murder, adopt a saber-tooth tiger kitten…or do something completely different. Who knows?”
“So if I ‘buy’ something from you, I’ll…see it in my life at some point. How do you do that?”
“Does a magician explain their tricks?”
“Fair enough,” Eleanor mutters. By all means, she ought to leave. This is insanity. Some kind of cultish bullshit. Yet, she stays, and she does not know why. Morbid curiosity, mayhaps. “What’s it cost to buy?”
“As I said, darling, your first purchase is free. ‘Tis a promotion.”
With that, Dawn leads Eleanor to a nearby door, and Eleanor witnesses a veritable infinite stack of bookshelves. Dawn sits down at a nearby desk, and Eleanor is left to wander the stacks alone. They’re divided into “people,” “places,” “non-sapients,” “miracles,” and infinitely more categories. One of them, “travel destinations,” has a sticky note slapped onto the side of the shelf.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES, CLAP YOUR HANDS THREE TIMES
OR RECITE THE NO-FEAR SHAKESPEARE ADAPTATION OF “HAMLET” BACKWARDS
OR GENTLY PUNCH YOURSELF IN THE GUT, YET NOT HARD ENOUGH TO HURT
YOUR SAFETY CANNOT BE GUARANTEED IF YOU DO ANY OF THESE THINGS
-D
“How odd,” Eleanor thinks, then moving to browse the “people” shelf. Several thin books, almost comically short, the length of a picture book, sit scattered amongst the shelf in no discernible order.
KAELYN D, ASTRONOMER
FLORENCE N, BAKER
TOM C, DENTAL HYGIENIST
PAUL A, FIREFIGHTER
ALYSSA R, HORTICULTURIST
She pulls the title Alyssa R, Horticulturist from the shelf, flipping through it idly. It is a short biography of one Alyssa Redfield, a woman from Texas who works at a hardware store in San Antonio, attends civil rights marches about twice a year, and owns a cat affectionately named Void. More details are listed, but Eleanor merely skims them. She knows she’s already going to be late, so she returns to Dawn, who has their boots kicked up on the front desk. Without a word, Eleanor slides the book towards Dawn, who throws it directly into a wastebasket.
“I wanted to–”
“It is done.”
“So…I guess I’ll be seeing Ms. Redfield, sometime soon, then.” “Crazy talk,” Eleanor muses silently.
“Maybe soon, maybe not. Ta!” Dawn waves Eleanor off, and she leaves in a hurry.
Later that day, perhaps by sorcery, Eleanor would forget the encounter ever happened. Yet, Dawn’s words were true. Five years later, Eleanor would be flying down to a convention in Dallas, where she would make fast friends with a fellow patron at a quiet bar in Arlington.
And that is how Eleanor Holland met her wife.