Page 24 of It's Me They Follow
She scrubbed and laughed and scrubbed and cried andeven fixed the lock by herself while listening to the first song on Jill Scott’s first album,Who Is Jill Scott?: Words and Sounds Vol. 1, “Jilltro,” on repeat: “I love to write poetry, I love to sing / I love to write poetry, I love to read my poetry / But basically what I live for is LOVE. LOVE.” The Shopkeeper sang with Jill.
Chapter 13
JANUARY 13, 2020
9:33 P.M.
The Shopkeeper got the shop cleaned on her own—maybe cleaner than it had been when she’d gotten it. Then, exhausted and depleted and intoxicated by the smell of cleaning supplies, she sat down, staring at a painting of Ms. Harriett that she’d found in a thrift store and hung on the bookshop wall. She stayed in that spot, waiting for ME and staring at Ms. Harriett as morning turned to afternoon, afternoon turned to evening, and evening turned to night.
ME didn’t show up.
But Ms. Harriett did.
Maybe as a figment of The Shopkeeper’s imagination. Maybe as a manifestation of a psychotic break. Maybe as a ghost. An ancestor. A saint.
“What are you waiting for?” Ms. Harriett appeared in a stately manner, as if she expected The Shopkeeper to stand at attention when she entered the room.
“I am waiting for ME,” The Shopkeeper said, slouching. “My happily ever after.”
“You’ve waited a long time.”
“Damn right. And it’s been shitty.”
Ms. Harriett took a seat and squeezed The Shopkeeper’s shoulder. “Go back to the first lesson.”
The Shopkeeper didn’t remember the first lesson. She hadn’t had a conversation with Harriett since she’d self-published her book many, many years ago. She flipped through the pages of her diary—and realized whole sections of her notes were missing.
“You don’t know it?” Ms. Harriett was patient but surprised.
“It’s cold in here.” The Shopkeeper tried to change the subject, but Ms. Harriett could not be deterred.
“You want this job?” Ms. Harriett spoke exactly how she looked in pictures. “Or not?”
Some days, The Shopkeeper did NOT wantthisjob. She looked out the window at Fishtown’s dark, naked street. A single bicyclist in a hot pink hoodie rode by.
“If you want this job”—she tapped on the desk to the beat of her words—“you’re gonna have to face the truth. And if you can’t face it, I’ll have to work with someone who can.”
The Shopkeeper nodded her head in agreement. Though words with her often went in one ear and out the other. Her pen hovered over the page in her journal.
“Okay, first one. Repeat after me: The path with no beginning is worth beginning.” Ms. Harriett was still patient.
“The path with no beginning is worth beginning,” TheShopkeeper repeated, and then wrote it down. Perhaps she was losing her mind—seeing things, hearing things, and making things up.
“It’s worth it,” said Ms. Harriett, as though she were addressing a ship full of soldiers on the Combahee River.
The Shopkeeper wrote feverishly, inhaling the fumes of bleach and ammonia. She got a chill, even though the heat was blasting.
She stopped to yawn.
Then to scratch.
Then to stretch.
Then she stopped to turn up the heat and take a pee.
“You’ll never start if you’re too afraid to stop,” Ms. Harriett said. The Shopkeeper wrote that down. “You see that about yourself, don’t you?”
“I guess?”
