The Muse

It was a typical, bustling Sunday morning at Monahan's Meat Emporium. Throngs of people lined up outside to get into one of the hottest spots in the market. The lucky few who were permitted in browsed the shelves and freezers of imported and local goods, and shouted out their orders to burgundy aproned meat hawkers for anything from house-made sausages to steaks; from lamb chops to chicken breasts, and everything in between.

Had it been night time, one could be forgiven for thinking Monahan's was the club to be at; just switch the meat for alcohol, and you'd be in business.

Anna eyed them all over her geometric, colourful mask. This was her kingdom, and the plexiglass was her castle wall.

Her world had shrunk down to the four corners of the butcher shop, a mini universe unto itself with all manner of characters from all walks of life. Now, more so than ever before; young and old; tall and short; slim and stout; grey-haired and rainbow-dyed; from every cultural background and sexual persuasion currently known to mankind, gathered together for the one activity that they could venture out for: grocery shopping.

And, more specifically in the case of Monahan's, to shop for a variety of local meats from small family-run farms. The shop also had the added bonus of having an impressive selection of house-made charcuterie that would even make a French man cry with pride.

Anna was diligently stationed at the front till, as was custom on weekend mornings.

“The receipt's in the bag. Thank you for shopping at Monahan's. I'll grab the door for you.”

The door was her dance partner, and she flitted between it and the cash register, scanning and packing groceries, and letting customers both in and out of the establishment with a flourish of the hand and a twist of the heel. At any given moment, she was, in almost equal measure, sales person, cashier, doorman, bouncer, and would-be therapist all rolled into one.

Anna particularly enjoyed her interactions with some of her favourite regulars. There was Rob, a round, jolly fellow from St. Dominique who regaled her with tales of his son's life in Ireland, and his own subsequent love of Guinness, or a “pint of the black stuff, as they say”; Penelope, a Welsh girl with the sweetest smile who always wore a puffy, bright orange jacket; and Hiro, a Japanese teacher who was her own personal hero when he caught a jar of tomato sauce she almost dropped, and who, without fail, would throw a peace sign in farewell after each transaction.

Even the more annoying repeat customers possessed a certain charm. After all, they just liked things “a certain way,” and knew they could rely on Monahan's to deliver.

One time, after carefully selecting only the flats from the chicken wings tray for an elderly couple as requested, the husband, who's English was poor, suddenly spoke and said, “Thank you for your service,” as if she were on the front lines in the military, and had performed some heroic feat. Anna supposed she and her colleagues were on their own type of front line, in a way.

None of Anna's previous clients at her old economic development research job had ever been that grateful. Who knew that the perfect pork chop could garner much more appreciation than a contract for a government-subsidized office?

She'd never imagined that she'd work at a butcher shop. Anna had a B.A. in Communications, and previously worked mostly dead-end office jobs. Then again, most of the employees at Monahan's probably never thought they'd work at a meat emporium. The madcap team mainly consisted of out of work sous chefs, bartenders, actors, comedians, musicians, theatre students, food critiques and would-be filmmakers.

Anna thought of them as family, having been separated from her own for so long now. She alternately prayed in equal measure for a vaccine, or that the whole ordeal was just a terrible nightmare she'd wake up from soon. The holidays would be very different this year.

The faint sound of the meat grinder revving up from the back room awakened her from her reverie. Anna's least favourite days were those when the butchers would grind the organs for the dog food – the smell was less than desirable, and much more close to that of a latrine than a butcher's shop. Hopefully, they were just starting on another batch of ground beef.

“Anna! Good, you're here!”

Heading towards her in good stride for his age was Barnaby Harris, Anna's favourite customer. He was so delightfully English she could melt like butter on a hot skillet at the sound of his baritone voice carrying across the shop floor.

Today, he'd opted to go with a large furry hat with his three piece suit and trench coat. Also on display was Barnaby's signature tiny, circular gold glasses, or “spectacles,” as he called them, which sat atop his distinct nose.

Anna remembered her earliest encounter with him. He'd strolled in with a long umbrella that had a mallard head where the handle would normally be. They'd had a spirited discussion on who made the best stroganoffs, and discussed travel and Anna's mother's Russian background.

“Is that why she named you Anna? After Anna Karenina?”

Anna cackled loudly – the first time she'd done so since the lockdown began.

“I really don't think so.”

After Barnaby had left the shop, Anna's supervisor sidled up to her. Norman was a former hippy in his late 50's who used to write restaurant and movie reviews for a living. They had a fun repartee, and enjoyed sharing barbs and risqué jokes during the quieter moments at the store.

“Making friends with the literati?”

Anna's eyebrows almost met her hairline. Norman just laughed, seeing another opportunity to tease her.

“Ye of little culture – that's the famous author, B.W. Harris,” said her fedora-wearing friend and all-things-foodie mentor.

Anna stared back at him blankly.

“The Amsterdam Shuffle? Iterum? Jimmy Takes The Fall?”

“No, nope and nah.”

Norman scoffed and shuffled off, muttering, “Kids these days...”

Anna's interactions with Barnaby were not altered by the new information, and the two developed an easy and enjoyable friendship of sorts during his visits to the store.

Today was one of the shop's busier days, so there wouldn't be as much time for small talk.

“How's the job hunt going?” Barnaby asked in stage whisper when he reached the till. Anna continued the monotonous task of scanning the items in his basket.

“It's not going, really. Not much out there at the moment. At least I have this. It has its moments of glamour,” she said, as she neatly bagged the packaged meat and dry pasta.

Barnaby smiled at her sympathetically.

“You'll find your way back, my dear. I know you will. My little raven – with your midnight hair, sharp eyes and quick wit. You're a protagonist! Never forget. The ending has not yet been written. But it will be sweet, of that I am sure.”

Anna chuckled good-naturedly. She had never felt much like the protagonist of her own life. She was never first in her class while at school, or singled out for any academic honour. She seemed to be permanently single; continuously third, or fifth, or even seventh wheeling on group dates – back when those were permitted to take place, of course. She was neither exceptionally short or tall; thin or fat; nor had she ever been described as beautiful or breathtaking, nor ugly or hideous. Her eyes, however, had been singled out as being striking.

Mask-wearing was clearly working wonders for her.

Surprisingly, there was comfort to be had amongst the chaos; perhaps because she had never known the easy path even before the world had turned upside down. At least now, everyone was along for the ride. Or, almost everyone.

Barnaby seemed unchanged by time or global circumstance.

“See you again soon, Barnaby.”

“And you, my dear.”

Anna rushed ahead, holding open the door for him. With a wink and a doff of his hat, Barnaby exited the shop and entered the mini blizzard outside, disappearing in a curtain of blowing snow.

***

Later that evening, Anna was sweeping the downstairs toilet reserved for customers when her broom hit something dark and solid that flitted across the ground. She prayed it wasn't another dead rat.

To her luck, it was not a rat, but in fact a small, black notebook.

She picked it up gingerly with gloved hands, like a doctor holding a vital and delicate organ, and opened it to the first page.

NB 13/13. DWF. B.W. Harris. Bad luck to lose the last in a series of notebooks for what must be his latest novel.

Anna decided not to read any further. Some preferred to know the ending – she liked beginnings the best, and reading the journey that takes place along the way. She could wait like everyone else to read the whole story.

She handed in the notebook to her manager at the end of the night to be reunited with Barnaby. They'd have his contact details from the club membership form he'd filled out.

***

A few weeks later, on a quiet, Tuesday afternoon, a middle aged woman with a regal air about her in a beige trench coat walked into the shop while the front door was being held open for a delivery.

Anna barely looked up from the shelf she was stocking.

“Grab a number, and someone will be right with you. Just straight ahead and to the left,” she intoned on autopilot.

“Anastasia?”

The name was so feint on the woman's lips it was almost as though it hadn't been uttered at all.

“Um... my name's Anna...”

“Of course, how silly of me...”

An awkward silence passed between them.

“Forgive me, I haven't introduced myself. My name's Elizabeth. I'm Barnaby's – Mr. Harris' – daughter.”

“Oh, right! Matching trench coats. Nice to meet you. How's he been? Haven't seen him a while. Did he get his notebook back okay?”

“Yes, that's why I'm here, actually. I wanted to thank you in person. We now have the complete set. He was... very old fashioned and set in his ways. He liked to write by hand in his notebooks before having those typed out for him.”

“Was?”

Elizabeth looked down, fiddling with her wedding ring.

“I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but my father passed away two weeks ago. Stroke. He didn't suffer long.”

Anna stood still, the shock of the news numbing her body and gluing her in place.

“Please accept this... as a small and sincere token of our gratitude.”

Elizabeth handed Anna a small white envelope.

“Truly, thank you – once again. Have a nice day. Goodbye.”

And with that, she stepped out without waiting for a reply.

Anna needed a moment to remember how to function again. Hands still unsure and shaking slightly, she opened the envelope. Enclosed was a check for $20,000.

It felt like what was left of her breath had been stolen with the slam of the front door.

***

The following year, Anna was sent a copy of the final novel entitled, Dinner with Friends. It told the story of a band of misfits working at a butcher shop during a pandemic, and featured a female protagonist by the name of Anastasia. Anna flipped to the dedication page, and her eyes welled with tears. Just below a heartfelt thank you to his family, agent and publisher, was a very personal note that Barnaby could only have meant for her.

And finally, to friends! In particular, my muse. Little raven – may you eternally be the protagonist of your own life. Chin up, and be well – always.

And she was.