Page 2 of It's Me They Follow
He, his bald head, his slight grin, and his high cheekbones whiffed past The Shopkeeper, smelling of sweet nothings—like herbs and spices, dessert and cologne, incense and deer hide, wet soil and Egyptian musk.He must be a writer, she thought. What type, she couldn’t decide.But only a writer would smell that sweet after working all day, she concluded.
“I deserve sweetness,” she reminded herself out loud. An affirmation her grandmother used to recite every time she’d encountered something sweet. “I deserve sweetness,” she said a second time,notrealizing the words had squeaked out of her in a high pitch.
“What was that?” he asked as he plopped himself down on top of a cardboard box right beside her. He pulled his pen out from behind his ear, as though he were going to begin writing.
“We are not quite open yet,” she responded to him, cutting a box open loudly just so he would know she had a razor blade. She flashed him a kind-but-not-too-kind customer-service smile and shifted away. It was still after midnight in The Land of Fishtown—even though people just called it Fishtown nowadays. “You should come back in... about a month. February first will be the grand opening of Harriett’s Bookshop.” It was her first time declaring this aloud. Speaking it made it feel real and easy. Until she realized that, for no reason at all, she’d only given herself one month until her opening day.
“I’ll definitely be back,” he said as he got up, smiling. She backed away, thinking he might try to congratulate her with a pat on the shoulder or even a warm hug. Her bangled arms jutted out from beneath her denim duster, the one she always wore atop her oversized denim overalls to hide the giant hole in the seat of her pants. She tightened her grip around the blade, as the bearded man beelined past her, heading toward her desk, where he began sorting through the books in her to-be-read pile.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked. There,mixed in the huge pile, he found the one book in the whole soon-to-be-bookshop with The Shopkeeper’s face on the cover—Conversations with Harriett.
“What is this about?” he questioned as he pointed to a three-foot-tall painting of Ms. Harriett tilted against the wall and a shelf of books about her. The Shopkeeper was moved by his inquisitiveness—she loved someone who simply wanted to know things. He was odd but harmless, she decided. Letting her shoulders drop, The Shopkeeper softened.
“Ms. Harriett is my...” She paused as she searched for the right word—not “mother,” not “idol,” not “auntie,” not “friend.” “She’s my guide.”
“That’s funny. Mine too,” he said nonchalantly as he settled into the armchair behind her desk, flipping through her book.
“But, my friend,” she interrupted, “we are not quite...” She started confident, then trailed off, hesitated, and wondered how much of her book loving he’d caught earlier and if maybe he was a reporter-type writer working on a salacious story for the local newspaper. “Quirky, blade-yielding middle-ager with wild hair and oversized overalls caught sniffing... books in Fishtown.” She could see the headline going viral, and it frightened her. But she quickly reminded herself that this washerbookshop, these wereherbooks,loving books was not a crime, he could write whatever sensationalism he wanted.
“Can I have you?” the bearded man asked with a hard stare. She didn’t know how to answer that, so she just stared back, trying to look unphased. Then he caught his mistake. “I mean, it. The book, I mean.”
“Naaah naaah nah naaah,” she sang to lighten the blow of “no” and the breaking of the long stare.
“Your gap is spellbinding,” he said, cutting her off. He stared at her mouth, then his eyes began to dance with hers. “I know who you are.” He’d changed the subject again, and then grinned an August Wilson–like grin, getting closer and closer to her. Though The Shopkeeper loved August Wilson’s grin, more eyes than teeth, she didn’t like people moving close to her.
“Me?” she asked, backing up. “You think you know who I am?” She hoped he wasn’t in her writers’ group. She forgot about people in the group whenever she didn’t like their writing.
“Yes, you. I know exactly who you are. I never thought I’d meet you in person, of course. I thought you weren’t a real person at all,” he mumbled to himself. “I could only find bits and pieces of your work online, screenshots and carbon copies, but to find an actual physical book to have and to hold... and now to meet you in person... Mannnnnn I am gonna have a field day with this.” He hugged her book to himself. “It’s... May I?”
She wondered what part of the city he was from. He looked very North Philly with his bald head and full beard, but he smelled like West or Uptown. She hoped he wasn’t from Bucks County, claiming Philadelphia when it was convenient, or Pittsburgh, August Wilson’s home, which was a whole other world completely. She wondered what kind of field day he would have with her book. “Who still makes carbon copies?” she replied to him with a giggle.
Regardless, The Shopkeeper was pleasantly surprised by the news of a stranger reading her work. She used to wonder if she was the only person on the planet who read it, and if so, then what would be the point? It was sad to imagine. That’s why she joined a writers’ group. At least there she knew she would always have an audience.
She certainly had no idea her pieces were circulating on the internet or that she had any sort of following. Sharing other people’s work was strictly prohibited in her group. She still didn’t believe the bearded man, but it was fun to play make pretend with a sweet-smelling, sweet-smiling young writer in the middle of the night on New Year’s.
“Well, the bookshop is not quite open yet. I don’t even have a register...”
“So books are free here?” He picked up a copy ofhomegirls & handgrenadesfrom her desk, checked out the back. “How do you think of these... ideas? You’re so...” He searched for the right word—not “cute,” not “creative,” not “smart.” “Unusual.” He put the book back down.
But The Shopkeeper didn’t think her plan was unusual at all; it was simple. She was going to sell the books she’d collected over the years as an interior designer, collect more, and continue like that for the rest of her life. She’d sell anything, except her Sonia Sanchezes, until she finally worked up the courage to go back home Down South to Hampton, Virginia. Down South was where she’d find the ending of an old chapter.
She was a big-picture thinker, not great with details; she honestly hadn’t thought about what to do if people wanted to buy her books, especially her self-published one. She only had a few copies.
She had a month to figure things out. Or so she thought.
She added to her mental checklist:Get a cash register.
“My book is not free,” she said, and returned to unpacking boxes. It had cost an arm and a leg to self-publish the softcover. She told him so. She wondered if he enjoyed watching her tinker in her bookshop; the thought made her twist her hips a bit when she walked.
“Okay, it’s not for sale, and it’s not for free... I like how you think. It’s likechoosing your own adventure. I guess I can read it right here, then. That’s GENIUS too, though... A bookshop where you have one-on-one time with the author and get to read the only copy of their book with them, praying maybe they’ll choose to give it to you, even though it’s their last copy, and sign it for you, not for free but not at a cost. That’s very you. Very unusual.” He stopped talking andfanned through her pages; every few seconds, he murmured “hmmms” and “ahhs,” which gave her stomach the birds.
Maybe he’s a playwright.She compared every man to August Wilson. He would have been her perfect match if he were still alive. His skin looked soft. He kept to himself. He dressed like a monk. He loved words. This sweet-smelling man even had August Wilson’s thick wavy beard.
“‘The path with no beginning!’” snapped her back to reality as he quoted from her own book. “I know this one.”
“No, not out loud...” The Shopkeeper tried to snatch the book from him to stop his reading, but she tripped and almost fell into his arms before deciding she didn’t want to risk triggering her haphephobia—touching him, getting shocked, and falling asleep on the bookshop floor.
The other reason she didn’t snatch the book was deep down she wanted to see if he really knew her writing. She softened. “Continue. And if you can recite that entire piece, you can have me... I mean, it. I mean, the book,” she fumbled over her words.
