“I’m not,” I tell her.
“You look scared.”
“It’s just my face.”
We take off our clothes, watching each other.
She leaves her little cap on.
Afterwards I want us to lie there together and talk about it but she’s off me and halfway dressed already.
I start getting dressed, too. “Melissa?”
“Yo.”
“Was that… I was wondering …”
“You were fine. Short but sweet.”
“Short in length of time, you mean? Or … length.”
“Time.”
“So what’s a good amount of time, would you say, about?”
“I don’t know. More than a minute, anyway. Listen, I gotta get back. I still work here.”
“Well, wait a second,” I tell her, because that was the most astounding minute of my life so far.
“Toodles,” she says.
“Melissa?”
She walks out of the room.
And that does it. I fall in love with her.
So now I have to stay.
Shit.
I finish getting dressed, put the white coat back on, and return to my garbage can.
Clerk
UNIVERSITY BOOKSTORE NORTHERN ILLINOIS UNIVERSITY, 1970
One afternoon at the cash register I see this guy in the art section stuffing a big hardcover textbook under his jacket.
He has to pass the register to get out of the store and I don’t know what to do. I’m thinking how would I feel, getting caught at something like that. But it’s part of my job to stop him. But it’s not like this is my career. But the boss is really nice. But what the hell’s one book? But it looked like an expensive one. But the guy is pretty big …
Meanwhile, he’s walking right past the counter and out the door. I wait a few moments, then go running out after him, hoping he’s disappeared by now in all the sidewalk traffic. And he has, dammit. Well, at least I tried.
An hour later he’s back.
This time he’s in the literature section. He’s got the Norton Anthology, thumbing through it, looking to his left, looking to his right, looking towards me.
I look down at an invoice sheet and yawn.
When I look up again, there goes the Norton Anthology under his jacket. And here he comes. But this time he makes a mistake. He walks by whistling a little tune through his teeth. Which pisses me off. I ask Carol, who’s taking a phone order, to watch the register for a minute.
“Excuse me, sir,” I say behind him out on the sidewalk, but he just keeps walking. I step up beside him. “Excuse me,” I repeat, grabbing his arm, which is very muscular and he easily wrenches it free, then takes off running.
I hesitate … and give chase.
We’re in a movie now. Those are important documents under his jacket. Very exciting music is playing as we race down the sidewalk, people making way for us. I should be holding up a badge.
The suspect breaks across the lawn in front of one of the dorms and barrels down a side street, then doubles back to the University Center parking lot, through the maze of parked cars, and heads down towards the lagoon.
I catch up with him at a little bridge that spans a finger of the lagoon. He’s leaning over the rail, catching his breath. Lacking a gun and cuffs, I walk up and lean over the rail beside him.
After a moment he speaks, gravel-voiced and still out of breath: “Use to be … able to run … for miles.” He shakes his head. “Cigarettes.”
I don’t respond.
“You smoke?” he says.
I nod.
“Gimme one, will ya?”
Guy’s got nerve.
I give him a cigarette and of course he doesn’t have matches either. Lighting his cigarette and mine, I get a good look at him. He looks like a younger, redhaired version of Geronimo on that poster back at the store, a big seller.
“So,” he says, “what was it you wanted?”
“What did I want? You stole a book—two books—and I want them back, that’s what I want. And I’m also gonna have to take your name in case my boss decides to press charges, which he probably will.”
He unzips his jacket, and for a moment I’m thinking, Oh Jesus, but he pulls out the Norton Anthology.
“You’re talking about this, right?”
I take it from him. “And an art book. I saw you take a big hardcover book from the art section.”
“That’s at my old lady’s. It’s a couple blocks, if you wanna take a walk. Up to you. I don’t care. I was going there anyway.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I tell him. I don’t trust the guy. And why should I? I already know he’s a thief, and he could be something worse. Truth is, he scares me a little. Redheaded Geronimo.
He shrugs. “Like I said, it’s up to you, man.” He walks away.
“What I’m thinking is,” I tell him, following behind, “I’m thinking you should come along with me back to the store.”
“What for?” he says, walking.
“So I can … you know …”
“Turn me in?”
“Well, yeah.”
He stops and faces me. “No, see, that’s no good. Because I think you’re right, I think your boss will wanna press charges. And I don’t feel like going through all that.”
“Well, that’s too bad, you know? I mean, the fact remains—”
“Look. You got your book. If you want the other one, c’mon with me. Either way, I gotta use the toilet.”
He walks off.
I go with him.
We walk for a while without speaking. I feel awkward. I try to make conversation. “So. You a student?”
“Nah. Just a book lover. How come you didn’t chase me for the art book?”
I shrug. “Figured you’d be back.”
“You understand the criminal mind—that it?”
“Something like that.”
He laughs. “Know who you remind me of? Barney Fife. No offense, man.”
We walk on.
“You mad now?” he says.
We go around the back, up a wooden porch and enter a kitchen. “Be right back,” he tells me and heads down a hallway, unbuckling his pants. I wait in the kitchen, which is surprisingly clean. There’s even a bowl of fruit on the table.
After a few minutes of pacing I begin to worry that he snuck out the front. But then I hear the toilet flush.
He returns with the art book. “Lookit this,” he says. “Check this out.” He lays the book on the table, open to a painting by Dali, the one with the melting clocks. “Tell me this guy didn’t do acid. Go on, tell me.”
“Dali, yeah.”
“Who?”
“Salvadore Dali. Listen, I have to use your phone. I need to call my boss, let him know where I went. And I’m gonna need your name.”
“Hey, leave me out a this.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”
“Sure you can.”
“I need your name, please.”
“I’ll tell you what you need, Barney. You need to get the hell away from that phone or I’m gonna hit you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Sit down, man.”
“I should go.”
“Sit.”
“My boss’ll be wondering—”
“Sit.”
I sit.
“I’m gonna have a beer,” he says. “You want one?”
“No.”
“Drink a beer, Barney.”
He brings out two cans of Budweiser, hands me one and sits across the table from me, pops opens his can and waits for me to open mine. When I do, he says, “Here’s to friendship,” and drinks.
“Let me at least just call the store and tell my boss what happened. I’ll tell him I chased you but you got away.”
“So why the hell you been gone so long?”
“I twisted my ankle. That’s how you got away.”
“So where you cal
ling from?”
“I don’t know, a house near where I hurt my ankle, somebody’s house.”
“‘So are you coming back}’ he’ll say. And what’re you gonna tell him then, Barn?”
“Well, I’d like to tell him, ‘Yes, I am. I’ll be there shortly.’”
“But what about your ankle?”
“It’s not that bad. I can walk. It hurts, but I can get around.”
“What’re you gonna do, fake a limp?”
“It’s not that difficult.”
“As long as you don’t forget which ankle and start limping around on the wrong one and somebody notices. Then you’re really in the shit pit.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. See, you don’t wanna get into all that, all those lies. Listen. I used to be just like you. Then you know what happened? You wanna hear what happened, Barney?”
“My name’s not Barney, okay?”
“I’ll tell you what happened, Barn. And this is God’s own truth. I killed a man.”
I start breathing hard.
“You all right?”
I nod.
“Drink some beer.”
I take a drink.
“Anyway,” he continues, “then, to make it worse, I lied about it. I said I didn’t kill him. And now, you know how I feel?”
“Bad?”
“Real bad. I feel like … well, like a big liar. And that’s a real lousy feeling, Barn, y’know? Go around feeling like that? I’m telling you this for your own good. You know that, don’t you?”
I nod.
He takes a drink. Then he looks at me and winks, “Hey, Barn,” he says quietly.
“What.”
“I didn’t really kill anybody. I was just trying to scare you. Did I scare you?”
“Little.”
He laughs. “Guess I’m still kind of a liar. My advice to you, don’t believe anything I tell you. Not a word.” He sips his beer.
“So … were you lying just now?” I ask.
“About what?”
“About not killing anyone.”
He sadly shakes his head. “I’ll tell you what it is. You get to where you don’t even know the truth any more yourself. That’s what I’m trying to say. That’s what I’m trying to warn you against.”
He takes a long drink.
I take one too.
“You’ve got a lot to learn, Barn. I mean about Life. You know about books. But, see, that’s different.”
“Can I go now?” I ask. “I’d like to go now.”
He shakes his head, no. “Sorry.”
“Well, what if … I left anyway?”
“I’d have to stop you, Barn. You know that, don’t you? So I hope you don’t try. Besides, I think we’re getting along pretty good here. I think we’re becoming pretty good buddies. I mean, sure, we have our differences—you say tomato, I say tomahto, that kind of thing. But basically I think we’re on the same wavelength, Barn. And I think you feel it, too.”
I hear someone walk up the porch. We both look. A woman in a long black dress walks in, carrying a raincoat.
“There’s my baby,” he says.
“Hey, Jack,” she answers, giving him a little smile as she pulls from the raincoat a pair of tall silver candlestick holders. She sets them on the countertop with the coat and walks over.
All I can do is sit there staring because she is without a doubt the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
“Babe,” he says, “I want you to meet a real good friend of mine. This is Barney. Barney, this is my lady and love-goddess, Marianne.”
“Hello, Barney.” She smiles at me, holding out a long white slender arm for me to shake her hand, which is long and cool and soft.
“Me and Barn were talking deep stuff here.”
“Oh?” she says, getting herself a beer.
She’s so willowy and milk-skinned and her hair is long and black and her large dark eyes full of God knows what.
“Barney thinks we oughta bomb Hanoi: Kill them dinks. Wipe ’em all out”
She sits with us, frowning at me.
“I didn’t say that,” I tell her. “I’m against the war. I think we should get out. I’m for peace.”
“You’re flip-flopping, Barn,” Jacks says, and turns to Marianne. “He don’t know what he wants.”
She reaches for his hand on the table. “And what do you want, Jack?”
She’s like a cat, she’s like a snake. I would give anything, anything…
Reading my thoughts, Jack says to me, “Ain’t she somethin’?”
I nod.
He laughs. “Hey, Mar, I think you got an admirer.”
She smiles at me.
I try to return the smile, but I would hate to see it. I drink my beer all the way down and ask Jack for another.
“What’re you, crippled? Twist your ankle or something?” he says with a wink.
As I walk to the refrigerator I realize I could very easily dash out the door and make my escape.
Marianne says, “We should order some Chinese tonight. Do you like Chinese food, Barney?”
I tell her I love Chinese food. I tell her my mother’s from China.
“Really? You don’t look Oriental.”
I return to the table. “She was adopted.”
Marianne nods, looking puzzled.
Jack says, “Barney. This is what we were talking about.”
“What.”
“Lies, Barn. And you’re not even making sense.”
“He’s just trying to make a good impression, Jack,” she says. “Don’t be so hard on him.”
“But he’s gotta learn to be himself, Mar. People will like you, Barn, just the way you are. You ever watch Mister Rogers? Or are you too grownup for that? Big bookstore clerk and all.”
“You work in a bookstore, Barney? How nice,” she says.
“Actually, my name’s not Barney,” I tell her.
“See how he is, Mar? Now he wants to change his name. Wants us to call him ‘Lance.’”
Marianne laughs.
At me.
It hurts. Bad.
I ask her, “How does it feel, Marianne, to have a boyfriend who’s a common thief?”
She sighs, looking embarrassed—for me. “That’s not a very nice thing to say,” she tells me.
And Jack adds quietly, “You’re a guest here, Barn. Did you forget?”
They both look very disappointed in me.
I stare down at my beer can. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… it’s just… you were laughing at me.”
She reaches along the table and puts her long cool soft white hand over mine. “Oh, Barney,” she says, her voice full of such warmth and kindness that I can’t help it, tears come to my eyes. One of them falls right through the opening in my beer can.
“Jack, look,” she says tenderly. “He’s crying.”
If she wants to treat me like a little child, I don’t care. I’ll be whatever she wants me to be.
“All right, Barn, cut the crap,” Jack tells me. “He’s just trying to soften you up, Mar, so he can get in your skivvies.”
She asks me, her hand still over mine, “Barney, is that true?”
I can’t look at her.
“Is that what you want?”
I nod.
She gives my knuckles a slap. “You little … faker,” she says, and sits back.
Jack laughs, getting up. “That’s our Barney!” He heads to the fridge. “Who’s ready for another one?”
I raise my hand, drinking down the one I’ve got.
“Attaboy,” says Jack. “How ‘bout you, babe?”
“Sure. Whose book is that?” she says, pointing to the art book at the other end of the table. “Is that yours, Barney?”
I look at Jack returning with the beers.
“It was s’pose to be a gift,” he says. “It was s’pose to be a surprise.”
“Can I see it?”
He slides it over. “Happy b
irthday,” he says glumly.
“It’s not my birthday, Jack,” she says, turning pages.
“Not any more,” he says, looking at me.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to apologize. I drink my beer.
“Oh, look,” Marianne says. “Isn’t this pretty. I love water lillies.”
I lean over to see and she scoots her chair closer to mine and moves the book between us.
“I believe that’s by Monet,” I tell her.
She checks to see—and clicks her tongue. “Goodness, you really do work in a bookstore, don’t you.”
I shrug, pleased from head to heels.
We drink more beer and look at pictures. Marianne is drawn to the prettier ones. She likes Renoir a lot.
Jack has moved his chair to Marianne’s other side and when we come to Dali’s melting clocks he tells her, “Barney says the guy was doing acid when he painted that.”
Marianne shakes her head. “I can believe it.”
“It’s called surrealism, that style,” I tell her. “A movement that began around the turn of the century.”
“Well, listen to you,” she says. “Barney, that’s wonderful.”
Jack smiles at me, proudly.
“My favorite painter is Van Gogh,” I tell her.
“Van Gogh,” she says. “Isn’t he the one who cut off his ear?”
“Right. Exactly.”
“Why did he do that? Do you know?”
“He was in despair.”
“So he cut off his ear?”
“It was over a woman. A beautiful, beautiful woman.”
Jacks says, “So why didn’t he cut off his pecker?”
“Ja-ack. Barney and I are trying to have a discussion.”
Jack makes pig noises.
He is a pig, and if he’d only go away and leave us alone …
I find one of Van Gogh’s self-portraits and begin telling Marianne a little bit about his life, which I know from the Kirk Douglas movie.
Jack props his head on his hand, closes his eyes and begins making loud snoring sounds.
She punches his arm without looking.
“He’s right,” I tell her.
“No. It’s very interesting, Barney. You know so much! You must be an art student.”
“Actually, I’m a literature major, Marianne.” I want to kiss her lovely lips. “Are you a student?” I ask.
“Well, no. We both … work. What, um, kind of literature do you like to read, Barney?”
Reason for Leaving Page 4