Page 5 of Familiar Things New

Once he exited the boarding house, he began hurrying up the street. Halfway to the print shop, the pain in his heel subsided, only to be replaced with the worry that he’d not only inconvenience the shop by being late, but that his lateness might mean that he’d run out of time to distribute the flyers in the Arbor Hill neighborhood before having to return to Southside for dinner as well.

He ran faster.

Andrew’s heart was beating furiously by the time he arrived, and there was a not-insignificant amount of perspiration on his brow, too. Mr. Gregory, the man who ran the shop, recognized him at once. Leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees, Andrew attempted to catch his breath while Mr. Gregory fetched his order.

“Forty flyers,” Mr. Gregory confirmed kindly as he returned. “I gave my newest apprentice the job of printing them. I pray they’ll be satisfactory.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gregory. I’m sure they will be,” Andrew said, as cheerily and evenly as he could manage, though his breathing was still ragged and his pulse was still elevated from having been so frazzled on the way over.

After hastily tucking the papers in the crook of his arm, Andrew began fumbling for his leather billfold, but as soon as he unclasped it from his belt, it fell to the floor.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said through a nervous laugh as he bent to pick it up, though his sudden forward movement then caused the entire stack of flyers to flutter to the floor, too.

Andrew’s face became hot, but he continued to laugh through his blunder.

“Oh, my, it’s as though I’ve coated myself with butter, isn’t it?”

One of the shop’s employees rushed over to help Andrew pick up the paperwork. Andrew stayed kneeling while he retrieved a few coins to pay for his print job, figuring that the money would have a shorter distance to fall if his slightly shaky hands betrayed him again. Luckily, he managed to count out the forty cents without issue.

Pushing himself to stand, Andrew forced himself to keep hold of his smile, even upon seeing Mr. Gregory’s exasperated expression—the man’s brows bunched and furrowed, his lips pressed to form a thin line, one that almost seemed symbolic of the sparseness of his likely waning patience.

“Here we go.” Andrew pressed the coins into the man’s palm and then turned to take his flyers from the fellow who had helped gather them from the floor. With a small bow and a forced smile, he spluttered a fast, “Thank you. Sorry. Thank you.”

He hurried off without even waiting for a reply. Or the three cents he was owed as change. Only when he was safely outside and out of view did he stop to inspect the shop’s work. Andrew ran his eyes over the text.

Thompson’s Photography Studio

Splendid Tintypes

Glossy Albumen Pints

Albumen pints? Glancing back at the shop, Andrew heaved a small sigh mixed with a weary groan as he considered what he ought to do about the error. Should he tell the owner about the mishap? Andrew looked back down at the flyer and then over at the shop once more. Perhaps not. It might not be worth the inevitable discomfort to do so. Surely potential customers would know it was supposed to say prints, rather than pints. Obviously he wouldn’t be serving pints of albumen to anyone.

Content (enough) to move forward with the mediocre flyers, Andrew started north. He stopped at various shops over the next hour, asking if he could post the flyers in their windows or near the front counters. He handed a few to folks he passed on the sidewalk, too, since photographs, especially tintypes, would likely be affordable for most families in the particular neighborhood he was in.

Once Andrew was just about out of flyers—only twelve remaining, one of which had a half-inch rip next to the upper right corner—he stopped abruptly and whirled around to head home.

But then collided with the man behind him.

Stumbling backward, Andrew let out an oof, and the flyers fell to the ground when he flailed his arms.

“Whoa,” the man said, catching Andrew’s wrist.

Righting himself, Andrew watched three papers float away with the breeze, while several others were quickly trampled by passersby. He cringed.

“Sorry,” he said to the man he’d collided with.

The fellow released his arm and bent down to pick up the flyers that were left on the sidewalk. Andrew scrubbed his face with his hand. If only he could wipe away the embarrassment that was still lingering there, too.

The man with whom Andrew had collided held out the flyers for him, and the warmth in the fellow’s brown eyes caused the knot in Andrew’s stomach to loosen. Andrew reached for the papers but hesitated when he noticed man’s eyes begin to move over the text.

“Oh, you’re a photographer,” the man said, his lips curling into a half smile. “How interesting.” He looked up at Andrew through his lashes, his wavy-curly brown hair spilling out from beneath the brim of his hat. “I’m sorry about your flyers.”

“It’s fine,” Andrew said with an embarrassed shrug. “I’d have probably ruined them myself eventually, anyway.”

The man crooked an eyebrow. Andrew huffed an uneasy laugh.

“I’m . . . clumsy,” he clarified. “Not the best trait for a photographer, as you can probably imagine. But my prints turn out nice enough. Typically, that is.”