I'd been browsing for almost an hour when I suddenly remembered
the book I had set out to purchase. For some reason I had been thinking
of the letter 'K', and my brain was in tatters trying to recall
the title of the book. After a while 'K' had evolved into 'H' and
I could hear a screaming inside my head, but then I did remember
and a painless exuberance swept through me.
I marched up to the counter, closing in swiftly while the name of
the book was fresh in my mind. I didn't want to forget it when it
had taken me so long to remember it. Behind the counter was an androgynous
figure in a blue cardigan and other clothing. I couldn't determine
whether this person was male or female and it annoyed me almost
at once.
"May I help you, sir?" the assistant asked. The way 'she' flapped
her eye-lashes suggested that 'she' was female.
"Yes you may," I replied, realizing that they could
be false eye-lashes and that the person could be male and not female.
"Do you have a copy of Pleasures of Imagination by Akenside?"
The assistant looked at me aghast. She-he then tapped
a few keys, and I noticed that the fingernails were dreadfully long
and lacquered in an ugly vermilion color, and once again I deduced
that 'she' was a female.
As I thought about this I spotted the dark-haired gentleman standing
in the doorway of the store. Immediately my suspicions were aroused,
for he was staring at me intensely. I began to fidget and bite my
nails, wondering if he was there to meet my girlfriend and make
love to her all afternoon.
"I'm sorry we don't have that title," said the assistant.
'Her' voice was deep and frog-croaky, suggesting that perhaps 'she'
was a male in drag, or it could have been one of those husky-voiced
females you see in television commercials sometimes.
"May I order a copy please?" I asked.
"Of course you may, sir."
Suddenly a jolt hit my brain, for I had remembered another reason
I had entered the bookshop this morning. I watched the assistant
hitting the keys again, realizing that they could be false fingernails
and that it could indeed be a male and not a female.
"What time is the book signing?" I enquired.
"One o'clock," the assistant told me.
I glanced at the wall clock situated above the exit doors, which
informed me that it was ten to one. As I did this I spotted the
dark-haired gentleman, who was still gazing at me. He was unmoving,
like a statue, and wasn't really handsome, well maybe slightly more
good-looking than me, although that is arguable and is a matter
of taste after all, but I was left wondering why my girlfriend should
want to make love to him all afternoon.
The assistant disturbed me by asking my name. As I gave it to him-her
I tried to peek at his-her cleavage, to find out whether they were
genuine breasts or not, but no matter how much I stared at them
my imagination could not help me at all. I told him-her my
address, my credit card number, plus some other personal stuff that
left me flabbergasted and wishing I was dead. In the end I was told
that my book had been ordered. I thanked him-her, wondering if it
was a wig that he-she had on or whether it was real hair, thus supporting
my notion that 'she' was female.
Presently I noticed the gray door that led to the staff area opening
and a small ragged white-haired man in scruffy spectacles and baggy
corduroys come shuffling up to the counter. He sat down at a tiny
writing desk and picked up a pen, dipped it into a large bottle
of Quink ink, and started to scratch words upon a sheet of foolscap.
Applying my skill at reading upside down, although there was no
trapeze this time and so the blood didn't rush right into my head,
I saw that the old man had written the title Pleasures of Imagination
upon the paper in front of him.
"Your book will be with you presently," the assistant informed me.
I looked at the white-haired old man who was now scribbling at an
incredible pace, and I spotted a yellow name badge pinned to his
jacket which read 'Akenside'. I tried to ignore the dark-haired
gentleman standing in the doorway but it was difficult to do. His
gaze was mesmerizing me and I felt uncomfortable. The assistant
behind the counter was tapping at the keyboard and gazing at the
screen. I wanted to go ahead and ask if he-she was male or female
or not but traditional etiquette convinced me not to. I searched
for an Adam's apple but he-she was wearing a blue and red scarf-object
knotted at the neck and I wanted to ram my head against the wall
but didn't wish to bring attention to myself.
Instead I marched across to the dark-haired gentleman because by
now he was really irritating me and it showed.
"Why are you staring at me?" I asked him defiantly.
He seemed shocked at my question. "What?" he blurted out in a tone
that was neither friendly nor unfriendly. He was glaring at me even
more now. It was so horrible that I started to perspire, tiny driplets
of sweat seeping from inside my pores. I had always been nervous
about making eye contact with strangers. It didn't seem like a natural
thing to do. Maybe after an initial introduction this was acceptable,
or on a date with the opposite sex, but for a person unknown to
me to stare into my eyes was altogether intolerable, and I wanted
to smash him right in the face with my fist but a greater fear was
spending time in prison cells with enormous inmates.
"Why are you staring at me?" I repeated.
"I'm not," he said at once.
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
I glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to one.
"You are."
He ignored me. But he was still staring at me.
"Are you meeting my girlfriend?" I asked him.
He hesitated. "What do you mean?"
"The question is simple enough. Are you meeting my girlfriend?"
He ignored the question. I hate it when people ignore the question.
I instantly believed that he had something to hide.
"I want you to stop it," I told him.
"Stop what?"
"I want you to stop meeting my girlfriend and making love to her
all afternoon. It isn't right. She's mine. We're trying to
build a future together, did you know that? You may be slightly
more handsome than me and who knows better in bed but there's a
lot more to a relationship."
He gaped at me. I was sweating like a rickshaw runner's jock-strap.
"I'm not meeting your girlfriend," he said eventually. His words
were cold like ice.
"You could be lying."
"So could you."
I considered this. I knew that I wasn't lying but this wasn't important.
"If you're not meeting my girlfriend then why are you standing in
the doorway?"
"Everyone has to be somewhere."
I thought for a moment. I was getting nowhere and he knew it. So
did I. I had to try a different approach but he was gawking at me
and it was making me edgy. Just then I was interrupted by
the androgynous assistant who was calling me over to the counter.
"Your book is ready," he-she said, and handed me my copy of Pleasures
of Imagination by Akenside.
I looked across at the old man who was now lying awkwardly over
the desk, a figure of pathetic exhaustion, steam rising in clouds
from the pen and his fingers and brain.
"Thank you very much," I said, and walked over to the dark-haired
gentleman standing in the doorway.
"Are you here for the book signing?" I asked him.
He became a picture of puzzlement. "No," he replied.
"Have you read The Kafka Effekt by D Harlan Wilson?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't read books."
I was interrupted again by the store manager who had appeared and
was approaching me. He had a squashed nose and was not androgynous
in any way.
"Mr Wilson, are you ready for the signing?" he asked me.
I nodded and he waddled away like a penguin with a boner. My attention
returned to the dark-haired gentleman.
"If you don't read books why are you in a bookshop?"
I had him. I was certain of it. He became agitated for the first
time and his glare wavered, just for a second or two. The feeling
of triumph was overwhelming.
"A bookshop?" he mumbled.
"Yes."
"Shit. I thought this was the cheesemonger's."
A shudder of horror swept through my bloodstream. My girlfriend
works every weekday morning at the cheesemonger's!
I watched stone-frozen as the dark-haired man picked up the thin
black cane that had fallen onto his feet and tap, tap, tap, tap,
tapped away out of the bookshop…