The strange things you see at work

THE BOOKSTORE IS quiet.

Well, not completely. There are about a dozen people who are shuffling through magazines, walking aimlessly for something through our thousands upon thousands of volumes of books and some are casually packing up their stuff in the café. There’s no music playing above the public announcement system, no loud customers screaming to their friends from across the store. Just my co-workers and I cleaning up the store before closing in 10 minutes on this Thursday night about two weeks ago.

Then there’s the lady at the outer edge of the children section, standing and burying her face in a parenting book. The lady, who looks like she is in her late 30s or early 40s and might be pregnant, is the only person there.

I’m in my own world, picking up books, shelving books, picking up magazine tablets, throwing magazine tablets in the nearest wastebasket.

But something unnerves me.

The lady.

“Marco. Marco. Marco,” the lady cries out in an eerie voice that can ring in your head over and over, like it’ll be trapped in there forever and the only way to stop it is by piercing your skull with a knife. In other words, the voice can be used in horror movies, signaling someone’s death. That’s why I’m concerned.

Then I wonder if whomever she’s calling for doesn’t know the premise of the Marco-Polo game — and I start feeling a sense of pity for the child or, worst yet, the adult. This is where I go back to work, picking up more magazines.

However, I hear her again.

“Marco, Marco, Marco,” the lady cries. After each Marco, there’s about a two second delay that adds a more horrific effect to her calling.

Then I get the creeps.

I’m praying for a kid to jump out and say, “Polo! Polo!”

But, nothing.

Then I’m even more concerned because, what if, the lady is really trying to find her son or daughter. That’s when I look at her again and conjure that the lady might just be crazy. She does look pregnant and when she was crying out “Marco,” she had her head down all this time, as if she’s playing the game by herself.
This forces me to become the hero.

I took a deep breath and made my way toward the children section to try to look for whoever she was looking for, knowing all too well that I could die.

In horror movies, the one who dies a quick and easy death is the idiot who tries to be a hero by either entering the woods all alone or going into the bathroom with a fly-swatter after hearing unusual noise. I’m that idiot.

Before continuing, I must say that I am a chicken, the biggest kind of them all.

I don’t like scary movies. I don’t like silent places. I don’t like dogs. I don’t like little bugs that crawl under your skin. I especially don’t like mothers who play Marco-Polo with a child who, apparently, is deaf.

I walked through the Dr. Seuss books, and no child. I passed by the Harry Potter books and again, no child. I listen intently for a child, but no child.

Then I hear her again.

“Marco, Marco, Marco.”

This time a bit faster, and a lot creepier. My heart, for first time ever, stops beating. I want to radio my co-workers, but words don’t seem like they want to come out.

Then, suddenly, a man walks in front of me. It’s her boyfriend, or husband, or some overly developed child who doesn’t know how to play Marco-Polo.

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