Oliver Cranston was not as he described it, “refined”. This was a sentiment he worked diligently to reinforce in people whenever they saw him. Clad in a baggy cream Irish sweater and a pair of well-worn jean, both far too old to be fashionable, and topped by an uncombed head of curly hair he appeared more at home in the stock room of Hatchard’s Bookstore, where he had worked happily for the past ten years than anywhere else. As he passed beneath the historic green shingle neatly ordained in gold-leaf he felt instantly at home.
The familiar smell of leather, ink, paper, blended with the gentle breeze that chased him in the door. Slightly more exuberant he made his way to the stairwell in the middle of the store ready to bound upstairs where he knew his manager would be waiting for him to check in for his shift. His foot landed on the first step when he heard it.
“Ollie? Ollie Cranston?” The man’s voice was buoyant but not unknown. Before he could even turn around his mind had already placed the voice to somewhere in elementary school. A feeling made worse as one had he had ever considered a friend had ever called him Ollie.
“Yes?” Oliver said with feigned excitement as he turned to see a short man in a tailored navy suit and gold tie.
“It’s Mark Reston from Georgetown Day. How have you been man?” Mark took Oliver’s hand eager to great him.
Oliver shuddered internal. It had been nearly a decade since he had set foot in the United States, two since he had left behind anything resembling a life at the elite private school in Washington D.C. “Mark so sorry I didn’t recognize you. What brings you to London.”
“I work with Jones Day in their corporate litigation department, I am here taking a disposition for a client. So can’t complain right?” He laughed as he gestured ambiguously around him.
“I suppose not.” Oliver said genuinely happy for the man. In the brief moment that had passed he remembered him. They had in fact not been friends but he had long since set aside any immature notions about people or their pasts. So when he said, “Congratulations sounds like things are going quite well.” He truly meant it.
Mark thanked him before inevitably turning the question around on him. “What have you been up to man you just disappeared in college?”
Oliver looked back fondly on his life with few regrets. “I went to college here…”
“In England? What are you a barrister?” Mark interjected.
“At Oxford yes, I studied literature.” Oliver answered.
“Holy shit man that’s awesome.” A look of shock plastered Mark’s face as his memories of Oliver wrestled with the reality of the man before him. It was a fair assessment, before college Oliver would not be what anyone would consider a dedicated student or hard worker. His interest in literature and reading had been what had provided him with a solid academic record.
Oliver grinned sensing Mark’s internal debate proffering a simple quip to help him resolve the conflict “I just needed to find my passion as it turns out that was reading and writing.”
The confusion left Mark’s face as he nodded. “Ah here grabbing a rare book? I just grabbed one for the wife as a souvenir.”
“No.” Oliver answered slyly. “I work here.” He waived his hand proudly in the direction of the nearly organized stacks on which countless tomes rested.
“You work here?” Mark laughed tentatively as if a joke had been told he hadn’t quite been let in on.
“I do, I love it.” Oliver said with unabashed transparency. “I also write a little blog reviewing books and whatnot but yeah.” The fact that his blog, published under a pseudonym, was read by nearly fifty thousand and growing worldwide was a fact he could easily excuse for the sake of modesty.
“Wow well good for you for setting out on your own. I think we all assumed you would end up in Congress like your grandfather or dad. Even after…” Mark trailed off, uncomfortably finishing his sentence with a mercifully ambiguous, “Everything.”
The everything of course was the series of scandals which had ransacked his father’s congressional career. Had Oliver cared about the family’s name he would have been embarrassed. Instead he had long since made peace with his father’s nature and though there were things that could not be forgiven the resentment had faded. On occasion Oliver had wondered if this process would have been more difficult if he had any real interest politics at all. However, he did not and the thought of it fill him with more unease than anything he could imagine.
“Oh no, never any interest in all that, much happier with a book in my hand than a microphone in my face.” He answered with a laugh.
Mark mirrored him with a chuckle, uncertain at how to respond. “Well this is a good spot then I suppose.”
“It is, best and oldest bookstore in London.” Oliver tapped the wooden table with his knuckle lovingly to rescue him.
“Alright well…I will let you go then man. I need to get to work.”
“Same here.” Oliver laughed as he shook Marks hand, extending a casual offer to get a pint later in the day. The two parted again not seeing each other for the rest of their lives. Oliver free to return to his task took the winding stairs up to the second floor, content.
Scion: descendant, child, heir; often a descendant of a wealthy, aristocratic, or influential family
Author’s Note: Day 8 of 365 done, so we are officially into week two. I have to say this is proving more rewarding, if not challenging that I had anticipated. Today’s post I really wanted to consider how someone who grew up at the center of what today very much is a global spotlight would handle that. How they might fare years later after it had all gone down in the history books and they had created their own life with their own passions. Of course given that it is an incredibly short story it is hard to give insight into it all but I wanted to create somewhat of a window which showcased their passions, choices, past, and potential future.
The Flask/Pen 