The old bookstore smelled of cat pee and moldy pages. When I first started working here in college, the smell was in a strange way, comforting. Now, it’s repulsing. Down the street is The Grounds, the coffee shop that led to my discovery of Hagerman Books. It serves cardboard pastries and crappy coffee for half the price of Starbucks. Needless to say, it was my safe haven before I dropped out of school.

My shift was almost over and I was ready to walk back to my apartment and watch another ABC Family Harry Potter marathon. I never get tired of those. I had two more shelves to restock, and then I would be able to lock up the store and hurry through the New York City snow. I was hoping to make it home before The Prisoner of Azkaban. The store closed 20 minutes ago, 6:00 on Sundays. Surely I could make it back by 7.

The bookstore used to provide me with a sense of hope. Something about the conversations I got into with people I had never met, avidly discussing the plots and characters of hundreds of books, made the place seem almost magical. I would bond over books the critics had never heard of, with people from all walks of life. I got to know the regulars, while Mr. Hagerman, the owner, got to know me. I was offered a job halfway through my sophomore year. I was a 19-year-old kid, an English major/pre-law student at NYU, working at my favorite place in the city. The world was mine for the taking.

It wasn’t long after I was given the job that Mr. Hagerman passed away. At 79 years old, he died peacefully in his sleep. The lines at his visitation surpassed any I had ever seen before. After a two-hour wait, I stood in front of his wrinkled face, struggling to keep myself together. Although I didn’t know Mr. Hagerman for long, he had quickly become one of my favorite people in the world. The twinkle in his deep blue eyes was now missing. I had never seen the man without dimples on each side of his mouth. The softness of his smile was enough to convince anyone to trust him—and trust him I did.

After a brief shut down, the store was taken over by his son, Jerry Hagerman, who I still have not met in person. Over the phone, Jerry’s contemptuous attitude made it obvious he couldn’t care less about the bookstore. To his father, it was a store full of hundreds of different adventures, each bound together in its own unique cover. To Jerry, it was a ridiculous way to make money, but a source of revenue nonetheless.

Along with Mr. Hagerman’s death went the spirit of the bookstore. If Heaven exists, Mr. Hagerman’s sparkling eyes are filled with sadness. But what am I supposed to do about it? I’ve never been much of a revivalist. I’m merely a college dropout, barely getting by. I am incapable of impact.

One shelf left. I thought to myself that I might even have time to stop for coffee on my way back. I was deep in thought about a whole lot of nothing, robotically stocking the shelves alphabetically by author. I looked down to see a faded blue, tarnished cover in my hands: The Winter of Our Discontent. Steinbeck was one of my favorite authors, back when I spent time reading.

The cheap price and eloquent binding compelled me to set it aside. After the last book was on the shelf, I purchased it. I rang it up, put my money into the cash register, and counted out my own change. Without bothering to put the book in a bag, I tucked it between my elbow and side as I locked up the store.

As soon as I stepped outside, I was hit in the face with a blast of icy wind. The snow was halfway up my calves and the temperature is was the coldest it had been all winter.

I walked down the dimly lit street, hugging my coat to my body as I fought against the cold. The bell rang to announce my arrival as I opened the door to The Grounds. To my left was a lonely looking bald man in his mid 50s, reading the paper, sipping something foamy. To my right were a young man and woman, who appeared to be on a get-to-know-each-other date. The woman appeared interested; the man did not. I walked past a gay couple and a group of teenagers with hookah pens and oversized glasses, and then spotted the table in the back corner where I used to spend countless hours analyzing literature, writing papers, and falling in love. Hello, nostalgia.

I ordered my cappuccino and sat down to wait, as far away as possible from my once familiar spot. I guess this is where most people pull out their iPhone and do whatever it is people waste so much time doing, but I’m a broke college flunk out, so I don’t have that luxury. I opened my new book, skipping over the lengthy introduction.


“Grande cappuccino for Aaron.”

I grabbed the book and my cappuccino and headed out. I tugged on my scarf, drawing it closer to my face. Two blocks and ten minutes later, I was in my empty apartment, flipping through channels until I spotted Harry Potter. My roommates were nowhere to be found, which is something I’m used to.

Gary is a drunken loser. Because of him, I’m about one missed rental payment away from eviction. Fighting with him is about as useless as fighting with a rock. Beer stains cover the worn out couch and our second hand mattresses. He spends his nights in bars and his days acting homeless, begging for money for food for his children alcohol. I’ve only seen him sober a handful of times, and we’ve been living together for over a year now. Drunk, incoherent Gary is the only Gary I know.

Samuel, my other roommate, is a musician with great aspirations and minimal talent. He wants to play violin in a Broadway orchestra pit, so he moved from middle-of-nowhere North Dakota to Brooklyn. He was rejected from every conservatory he applied to. He didn’t have much of a back up plan, so now he works full time at Applebee’s, and plays in the streets on his down time for anyone who will listen. I like the guy. I’m not sure if it’s his blind optimism or the fact that he’s essentially a failure at life that gives me hope for myself.

I began dozing off halfway through the Goblet of Fire, which was a shame, because that one’s my favorite. I slipped in and out of consciousness for a while, hoping to drift off while the caffeine in my veins told me to stay wake. Finally, the traffic noises that used to keep me up lulled me to sleep like a baby.

I’m running as fast as I can. Police cars and civilians surround the area blocked off by yellow caution tape. I shove my way through it all, determined to get to her. The police try to hold me back but I kick and scream and beg them to let me go. I have to save her. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t save her.

I violently jolted upwards, out of breath from the running I never actually did. I got up to brush my teeth, and the thoughtless mechanical back and forth movements of the brush calmed me down. I looked over to Gary’s empty bed and considered taking an extra blanket for myself. As I approached the bed, the smell of urine and alcohol turned me away.

I put a pair of old sweatpants with a hole in the right knee on over my clearance-sale Wal-Mart boxers. I lied back down, struggling to find a comfortable position. The image of the yellow police tape took over my thoughts right up until my mind left the bedroom.

I fight against the officers until they have me pinned on the ground. I realize it’s wasted effort. Lying there on the ground, I stop moving. I stop screaming. I want to stop breathing, but I can’t. I have to save her.

I look up into the sky, and shift my gaze slowly to the building. She’s so far away, but I swear we make eye contact. Her left foot hovers over the ledge and her body is leaning forward.

My bedroom door slammed into the wall, the doorknob making a hole in the wall. Great, I can totally afford a repair right now.

“Get up, where’s my money?”

“I don’t have your money, Gary.”

“I said where’s my money!?”

“Get out. I’m sick of you. Get out!”

Gary’s eyes turned to those of a killer, and he was ready to pounce. I was half asleep and half his size. Sam’s empty violin case sat a few feet from the foot of my bed. I was ready to jump up, grab the case, and attempt to use it as a weapon, when the sound of the screeching violin floated in from the next room over. Gary stormed out, yanked the violin right out from under Sam’s neck, and smashed it against our only window. Sam’s shrieks of horror were hardly audible below Gary’s howls of rage. After throwing half a violin and barely missing the side of Sam’s head, he trudged out of the apartment where he would no longer be welcomed back in.

After several unsuccessful attempts of calming Sam down, I gave up. He’s so fragile, and I tried to feel bad for him, but really I just wanted to shut him up. Hopefully I’d learn to tune out his girlish sobs and high-pitched whines faster than I did the city noises.

I climbed back into bed. I didn’t want to sleep; I didn’t want to be awake. I think I spent a significant amount of time in between the two. The last thing I remembered was the clock’s painfully bright red numbers. 4:02 AM. And I was out.

Her left foot still hovers over the ledge, slowly inching forward. Her knees are bending, and it is all I can do to scream at the top of my lungs.

“ALEX. I LOVE YOU. DON’T DO THIS. MARRY ME. COME DOWN AND SPEND YOUR LIFE WITH ME.”

She looks at me, and slowly shakes her head twice from left to right.

I stand up and run right through the NYPD. They let me go without a fight this time. I run up the stairs of the building, convinced my feet can move faster than the elevator. I am completely out of breath. Halfway up, I hear a siren. My heart feels like a monster five times my size is sitting on it. I continue running. I can’t stop. By three fourths of the way, a full chorus of sirens is cheering me on. I run faster than I knew I could.

I make it. I make it on time. She’s still there, I see the tip of her pink nails barely holding onto the inside of the window. Her index finger comes up. I open my mouth to say her name, and before the words can come out, her hand disappears and I hear the screams of the girl I am in love with, growing more and more distant, until they come to an abrupt stop. And that’s it. She’s gone. I am frozen in place. Time has stopped and I am numb. The world is spinning around me, and I feel like a part of myself has died. Suddenly, the world stops spinning and it comes crashing down. I fall to my knees, sobbing, screaming her name.

Alex. Alex. Alex, come back. I can save you. I will save you. Give me a chance to save you.


I was dreaming.


No, this is real.


This was just a dream.


This is reality. I can wake up, but I can’t escape.


I wanted to escape.

Alex’s death occurred 13 days after Mr. Hagerman’s. After she was gone, I stopped caring. My reasons for living were taken away without any warning. I got through my first three semesters of college with a nearly perfect GPA, and didn’t show up to a single class in my fourth. I pushed away my friends that tried to comfort me. I wanted to be alone. I deserved to be alone. The idea of my promising future became something of the past. I was no longer my parents’ trophy. I was not the child to brag about. The worst part was that I didn’t care. I fell into apathy’s trap and became my own worst enemy.
I no longer found satisfaction from the conversations I had at the bookstore with strangers. My disposition became cynical. I used to feel present in every moment. After that winter, I felt like an outsider looking in, no matter what the situation.
Alex had become my life. In every breath I took, every sleepless night, every agonizing study session at The Grounds, she was there. She had become a part of me.

I lied in bed, trying not to think about the experience I couldn’t get away from. It finally occurred to me that something needed to change. I spent the next several hours talking myself out of the self-blame. Alex was manic-depressant. Her antidepressants hadn’t been touched for weeks by the day of her death. It wasn’t my fault.


It’s entirely my fault.


It wasn’t my fault. I had to say it aloud to myself several times to shut up the subconscious voice. I still have to say it aloud from time to time.


The following morning, I rolled out of bed feeling emptier than ever before. The difference today, was that I wanted to feel okay again. For months, I had let myself wallow in my own misery, shooting down anything that might help me. Hopelessness became something to cling to. In a way, I had come to like being sad.

As of that morning, my life had a purpose. What was that purpose? I had and still have absolutely no idea. I took my shower and felt my spirits lift up a bit. I opened up my book while waiting on my coffee to brew. I thought about the title, an allusion to a Shakespeare quote.


“Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious by this son (sun) of York”

Suddenly, for the first time, I missed college. I missed studying what I loved and having goals. I craved the knowledge. The time for unhappiness was over. I’m still not sure whether we find or create ourselves, but I decided on that day that it was time to start figuring it out.

I turned off my coffee maker and decided to go to The Grounds instead. I ordered something different than what I usually get. I sat at a table in the corner opposite of the one I used to sit at every time I came. I decided that would be my new spot. I brought a notebook and started to write, something I hadn’t done since college.

My cup of crappy coffee was almost empty, and there were crumbs of a cardboard pastry in my wrinkled napkin. I took a deep breath and decided today was the start of a new era. I would still miss and think of Alex, but I wouldn’t let her consume the rest of my life. I would stop blaming myself. I would smile at strangers, read books, write stories, and set goals. I left The Grounds to head to Hagerman Books. The snow was beginning to melt, and I caught myself staring at the sun until purple spots blurred my vision. My winter(s) of discontent were ready to be made glorious by the sun of [New] York.