The Bookstore Clerk (3 page)

“Nope, sorry, don’t smoke.”
He sadly looked at me.
“A pity, you look like a young man who did.”
I shrugged. He tapped the unlit cigarette against his lips and teeth and sat down on the same bench. I was
uncomfortable.
“Lovely day today, wouldn’t you say?”
I nodded.
“Sure is, after last night’s heavy rain.”
“Oh, really, we didn’t get much at all. Must be from out of town, are you?”
“Nah, I was up around 85
^th
Street this morning. They had rain up there, a lot, too.”
He nodded.
“That explains it; New York is very big, too big, if you ask me.” He stared at me and again tapped his cigarette on his lips; the erection in his pants was definitely protruding. “By the way, I’m Timmy,” and he held out his hand. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
A spasm of uneasiness tore through me
His name was Timmy?
Nervousness and discomfort and all kinds of bad feelings shot through me.
Timmy?
I shook my head and bolted up and hurried down the path.
Timmy, just like my Timmy—
“What the fuck?” I heard behind me as I ran out of the park onto 23
^rd
Street.
I ran past the 23
^rd
Street Metropolitan Life clock tower, past book shops and clothing stores on the other side of the street, nearing Park Avenue South when I turned around, but no one was coming after me.
Timmy, come on, why did he have to be named “Timmy?” Could have been Joe or Sam, maybe even a Moishe or Abdullah, but no, Timmy.
I shook my head and continued walking till I got to 2
^nd
Avenue, periodically turning to look behind me.
A joke is what it was.
The sun was out and near 17
^th
Street I saw trees on both sides of the avenue, the 2
^nd
Avenue Park. It’s a small park with hospitals on one side, churches and a temple on the other. Another peaceful spot in a very busy city, just like all the parks. But Saturday was peaceful. I shrugged and walked into the park on 17
^th
Street.
Almost immediately I saw men sitting on park benches, some reading books or magazines, others talking, still others just staring. How did my eyes alter so suddenly? I knew what they were waiting for, what they looking at. Once, they were just plain old men causally relaxing, but now they’d suddenly become rabid sexual predators. How did I see this now, when I’d been so blind before? Didn’t I know what was
really
going on?
I shivered but walked on past the park, coming nearer to my rooming home on 3
^rd
Street. It was just a small tenement off 2
^nd
Avenue. I entered below street level, two steps down under the front steps, going to my room near the back. I sighed at the shutting door, always my way of relieving the frustrations of the day. But now I was smiling and humming a tune, “Be my, be my baby; Oh, oh, oh,” I couldn’t remember the rest of the words, but just kept repeating them over and over, “Be my, be my baby.” Already the song was an oldie and I’d heard it on a pizza-shop radio I’d passed on the street; it stayed in my head: “Be my, be my baby.”
I opened my closet. The only other things in my room were the bed, a chair, a small table, and a lamp.
A year in this room with these furnishings and nothing more, what a joke.
I took two shirts, a pair of jeans and underwear, and put them in a paper bag. Then I moved the single bed to the side so I could see the edge of the linoleum against the wall. I bent down and lifted the corner, where I’d stashed my bank book under the linoleum. Months ago I had carried it everywhere I went: the bookstore, the grocery store, everywhere. Until Ramos, a Spanish stockroom boy at work, mentioned that’s where he always put his, and that gave me the idea of doing the same. So for almost six months that’s where it lay until I pulled it out to make my sometime deposits. I took the bankbook, just 84 dollars I had saved up, and shoved the bed back into place. Good old Ramos, who always winked at me as if he meant something else, which I’m sure he did. I sighed, looked around the room, and went to see the landlord.
Mr. Ihor, a Slavic gruff of a man, was at his desk, looking me over with one eye while the other was shut. I don’t know what causes that, but he certainly needed glasses.
“You come to pay rent?” he eagerly leered at me, in his Russian-Slavic accent.
“Nope,” I shook my head, “Have to check out.”
He frowned, shaking his head.
“For what, you think I rich man?”
“No, I just have to check out, that’s all. Have to move.”
He looked bitterly at me, rose up from his desk and to his full size. I don’t think I’d ever seen him stand up from his desk. Now he looked large and intimidating. He looked at a notebook on his desk.
“Twenty eight dollars is rent, you pay now?” And he rubbed his hands together as if bringing a close to the conversation.
Again I shook my head and turned, saying, “No I have to leave, goodbye!”
What would be the point of arguing with him?
“
Svoluch!
(
Scumbag!
) You can no do this!” I heard behind me, as the front door shut behind me.
Outside it was almost three o’clock.
Svoluch
was a typical Russian word I heard in the rooming house; I turned and walked away. The avenues and streets were crowded as I made my way to the subway, changing at 42
^nd
Street to a train going up to the upper West Side.
Had enough walking for a day, that’s for sure.
I had no difficulty getting back to Timmy’s third-floor apartment but as I was about to close the door I heard, “Timmy, got a minute?”
A man was coming up the stairs but, seeing me, he stopped, “Oh, I thought you were Timmy, my apologies.”
“No, Timmy’s at work,” I smiled, turning red. “I’m his…roommate.” I blushed.
Should I have said that or not?
His eyes squinted as he looked at me, standing up above.
“Oh, I see. I didn’t know Timmy had a roommate.” He shrugged. “Well, tell him Henry was here. I’m his neighbor from the floor below.”
“I’m Billy, will do, Henry.”
Henry again studied me, then turned and went back downstairs. I shut the door behind me.
Timmy’s apartment was comfortable, a hell of a lot better than the room I’d just vacated. He had trinkets and knickknacks around, besides the photographs, making the place appear warm and homey, shutting the world out. It was a
home.
I’d never had one, but it felt very warm and comfortable.
I took off Timmy’s jacket and kicked the shoes off, picking up a magazine on the coffee table. A movie magazine, mostly about the new Barbra Streisand film,
Funny Girl,
which was very popular that year. I sniggered; this wasn’t the kind of film that had brought us together. I put the magazine back down and went to the bedroom.
There was a robe on a chair near the bed, on top of a shirt with pants. I picked up the pants and fingered the crotch— obviously he had forgotten them—then I blushed and set them down. I went to the closet and stared at the row of suits, some dark, some light, some the kind he had worn last night, as if for a merry, playful dress-up, which I’m sure he had worn many a time. I looked at the three suits he said were going to be mine once I started my position as bookstore clerk and ran my fingers over each one. A tingle went through me as if they were probing me, instead. I smiled. I had a comfortable feeling that I was being welcomed, and that they were just right for me. I couldn’t wait for them to be altered so they could be
on
me.
I heard the sound of a key in the door. I came out of the bedroom and there was Timmy, holding a paper bag of groceries. He smiled and winked at me, shutting the door behind him as I came up to him.
“Miss me?” he said, setting the bag down and putting his arms around me. We kissed; something I rarely did with another man, but his kiss was so warm and friendly that it was the natural thing to do. I kissed him back and melted.
He loosened his tie, then kissed me again. Still kissing me, he steered me to the sofa and we collapsed atop it. I always wanted this, to take the woman’s part, as the man held me and kissed me, though it rarely happened. The feeling was heavenly—then there was a loud rapping at the front door.
“Timmy, can I see you? It’s important.” a voice called.
We broke in frustration from each other.
“That’s Henry, he lives downstairs,” he said, wiping his mouth and pushing himself up.
“Oh, yeah, he was just here looking for you.”
Timmy looked at me.
“Wonder what he wants,” he said, adjusting his clothes and opening the front door.
Henry looked through the door at me, still on the couch, then reddened and turned to Timmy.
“Mom passed away last night; I’m flying to Chicago for the funeral.”
“Oh, my,” said Timmy. “My condolences. I’m so very sorry.” And he put his arm around Henry and said, “Anything you want or need, don’t hesitate to call. You know I’m always here.” He turned to look at me. “Or Billy, he’ll more or less be here, too.”
I stood up from the sofa and went to the doorway.
“Sorry to hear about your mom,” I mumbled.
Henry shrugged.
“The cancer did mom in, but she’d been suffering for the past two years. It’s better that she’s gone; she can rest now.” He nodded his head, turned, and walked down the stairs.
“Anything you want,” Timmy called, “we’re always here.”
I heard Henry mutter something but Timmy just nodded and locked the door. Timmy looked at me and I shrugged.
“Never really knew my own mom,” I said, “I was just a kid when she put me up for adoption.”
I lowered my head; Timmy put an arm about me. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.
“How about spaghetti tonight, kiddo?” he said, unpacking the grocery bag. “And with very nice olive oil.” He looked at a slim bottle he had also retrieved from the bag.
“What, no sauce?”
He looked sternly at me.
“You never had it with olive oil?
That’s
the sauce, and it’s heavenly!” He put his thumb and first two fingers together and smacked them in a kiss. “Absolutely divine. Just wait till you try it.”
My mouth watered. I smiled.
“Can’t wait.”
We ate our meal, spaghetti with delicious olive oil and garlic—I didn’t think I’d ever eaten such a scrumptious meal and asked for seconds. Timmy quickly ladled it out for me. And the glass of excellent white wine was putting me in a good mood.
“Do anything special today while you were out?”
I shook my head.
“Just walked downtown to my place and had words with the landlord.”
He looked at me.
“Oh, really? Anything bad?”
“He didn’t like that I was leaving.”
“Oh, bosh. So what?”
“He just wanted another twenty-eight dollars. He even stood up and tried to scare me.”
Timmy shook his head.
“Just forget it, that meager amount isn’t worth getting riled over. I know honest money is important, but sometimes it might be best to forget it and go on with your life. How much do you make in the basement?”
“A dollar twenty-five an hour.”
“That’s all? You can make almost double that amount on the selling floor.” He nodded his head. “Just you wait until Monday. I’ll have a word with the upstairs office, you can be sure of that.”
“Wow, they’ve been ripping me off!”
“How much were you supposed to get?”
“That price. I had asked for it and they said yes, so we left it at that, one twenty-five an hour.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to them.”
We’d put the dishes in the sink. Timmy decided to leave them for tomorrow.
“Can’t stand washing dishes after I just ate, can you?”
“I know what you mean, but I never had to do my own dishes. Got my food in cheap restaurants and they washed the dishes for me.” I smirked and shrugged.
He slowly shook his head and put his arm around my shoulder; I snuggled into him.
“You have so much to learn, I can see that.”
I looked up at him.
“You’re the supervisor, but you’re going to be my teacher, too?”
He nodded.
“Certainly, I’ll teach you.”
We kissed.
Making love was beautiful that night; I had never felt the kind of peace and serenity that I was experiencing in those moments with him. My past life had disappeared and was replaced by my belonging to him. I wasn’t a small part of him; I was a complete whole. I melded into his being completely, utterly. I was reborn to a sexual newness that I’d never experienced, a union of myself and another, and while we sucked each other off I felt the two of us commingling in a new life form, two human beings now utterly one.
We slept and, each time we stirred in the night, him holding me, me holding him, we smiled to ourselves, turned over and drifted to sleep again. I never wanted to lose him. But dawn crept in and I cursed it.
“Billy,” he called, shaking me by the leg, “It’s morning. You know what they say about the morning.”
I yawned and looked at him.
“Yeah, the early bird catches the worm,” and I reached over and tried grabbed his penis. He turned.
“No, don’t,” he pushed my hand away, “you know I’ll fall apart.”
I yawned again.
“I love when that happens,” I said, stretching in bed.
“Come on, lazy bones,” he said, standing up from the bed. “You take a shower and I’ll get you some breakfast.”
I scratched my balls, watching him get up and leave the room. It was Sunday, but it was my turn to show up for stockroom duties, getting books for customers or packing them up and preparing them for shipping. There’d be two of us in the basement; we arrived later in the morning, at 11 a.m., on Sunday. I liked it, no supervisor was around on those days and there was little to do, just sitting around answering calls from the selling floor. In a way, Sundays were very productive—that is, for stockroom boys: our very lazy, do-nothing days.
Again I yawned, scratching my crotch, and staggered to the bathroom. The hot shower awoke me, jolting my eyes wide open. I lathered and washed myself and felt reborn and clean.
Ah, it felt lovely!
I stepped out of the bathroom with a towel around my waist. Two plates were on the table and Timmy was filling them. The scent was heavenly, scrambled eggs and home fries, toast and coffee. I dove right in. Timmy smiled and sat down. Delicious way to start the day, I thought. I always had a stale donut or whatever I could get my hands on for breakfast. Mornings weren’t something to look forward to; you just had to get through them.
“Can’t wait till I become a real bookstore clerk and not just a stock boy,” I took a bite of the toast and drank some coffee.