Page 25 of It's Me They Follow
“You guess what?”
“I don’t know, whatever you just said.”
“Sit still.”
The Shopkeeper did not want another lecture—she had The Good Doctor for that.
She decided to speak up for herself, Ms. Harriett Tubman or not.
“I am covered in shit. It’s late, and I am here, writing with you. For you. Covered in what might be human feces. Or hallucinating and making it all up, talking to an empty room because I know it will be cool to write about later.I appreciate the opportunity. I am honored to have been chosen, but also, like most people, I was hoping for a simple romance story with an easy happily ever after. All I want to do is eat an apple, sell some books, and curl up with someone who makes me feel good. So, yes, I would love to wake up at sunrise, then hug a bunch of folks, and shake hands, and give speeches, and write something profound that makes people get on the path with no beginning, but...”
Ms. Harriett stared out the window. “Keep writing.” She ignored the rant, and The Shopkeeper resumed. “It’s worth it to walk, to stomp, to drag, or drip...”
Ms. Harriett gestured to The Shopkeeper to write faster. She was still on the first lesson from years ago. Ms. Harriett was back to give her a new lesson, and she was still struggling with the old one.
“Along these yellow bricks.”
The Shopkeeper yawned. She mumbled to herself. Yawned again. She found herself nodding off and writing words over and over.YELLOW BRICKS.She wanted to write more, but she was tired. The more she started to fall asleep, the more it was all a fever dream.YELLO—she scribbled.
Ms. Harriett disappeared when The Shopkeeper dozed off.
Chapter 14
JANUARY 14, 2020
3:33 A.M.
The Shopkeeper slept in the bookshop that night with her nose in her notebook and the lights still on. She stayed there in the window, wanting That Energy to see her inside. But That Energy never showed up. ME came knocking instead.
“Go away,” she said, fanning him off at a wee hour in the morning. She was just getting into a good sleep. “Scram.” She cracked half a customer-service smile. Added “Please.” And then lay back down.
She didn’t want to see him or for him to see her. Her breath smelled bad. She hadn’t showered. Plus, she had waited all day and all night for him. He was no Prince Charming.
She got up, flicked the lights off so he couldn’t see her anymore, then sat down at her desk to go back to sleep. “Leave,” she said loud enough for him to hear through the glass.
“Something happened. Can I at least apologize? It’s a long story.”
“It always is. Write it down. Apologize to your mama.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“I am like that. I am over bullshit literally and figuratively, and if you’re gonna come knocking on my door with bullshit apologies for why you can’t keep your word, I don’t want to hear them. Keep them. I’ve learned my lesson. After the story ends, there is no happily ever after. When the book closes, real life begins. Everyone is full of shit. It’s just whose shit are you willing to live with, and the shit I hate most is the kind that smells good, ’cause you get close to it and you want to eat it because you forget it’s just more shit. So I do mean it. Leave me alone, you’re a piece of shit.”
“But you must admit, my shit don’t stink?”
“It’s intoxicating.”
“Wanna hear a story before I go?”
Her problem was that she always wanted to hear a story. She waited a whole minute to see if she would fall back asleep or if he would walk away. Neither happened.
“I think I killed my mom,” he whispered through a crack in the glass.
The Shopkeeper got up and cracked opened the door to see if she’d heard that right.
“Excuse me?” Again, she couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. He still had an August Wilson grin, but it was grief-filled and forced and covered by a beard. She definitely wanted to hear his story. She let him in like the dumb girl in every story.
“Smells good in here. Not good but clean. Bleachy.”
