Page 3 of It's Me They Follow
“Signed copy?” he shot back faster than she’d expected.
The Shopkeeper shook her head in a sideways yes while shrugging her shoulders in disbelief.
Without hesitation, he closed her book, placed it down on her desk, and began, loud, clear, proud, slow—the same way that she heard it in her head. “‘THE PATH WITH NO BEGINNING IS WORTH BEGINNING. IT IS WORTH IT TO WALK TO STOMP TO DRAG OR DRIP.’”
He stared her in the eye. She stared back.
He recited more and more.
“‘And with no knowing of what lies ahead, what makes this path most important,’” he continued, “‘are the footsteps that follow...’ This is my favorite part,” he interrupted himself, pointing to an invisible path in the distance between them. The Shopkeeper was frozen. “‘It’s me they follow.’” He pointed to himself while reciting her last line. “‘It’s me they follow.’” He tapped his chest repeatedly.
It’s ME they follow.She could only think the words because she could not say them. Or move.
“So yeah, I know who you are. I know exactly who you are.” He grinned. “The question is, do you know who you are?”
She didn’t blink.
He winked.
Not quite sure if he was crazy or funny, cute or otherworldly, The Shopkeeper bit her bottom lip and changed the subject. “Well, we are not quite open yet, sir, but it looks like you’ve made yourself my first... my first... customer.”
“Makes me kinda...” His grin turned into a grimace. He looked disoriented and began to slide down the wall a bit. “Dizzy.”
She extended her hand to him.
“Naaaaah naaah nah naaah,” he sang as he plunked to the ground, still grimacing. He shimmied his shoulders. “Get it? Will Smith? Only the most conflicting rapper of the twenty-first century,the one you grew up loving but no longer understand—and of course he’s from West Philly.” Then the bearded man got serious. “No, but really, I would shake your hand or give you a hug, but I don’t... I can’t touch you.”
She reached for him without thinking, then immediately jerked her hand back.
“You’ll sign it for me,” the bearded man asked, “and make it a collector’s item?”
“Sure,” she said.
He squeezed the book so tight that her face on the cover wrinkled in his grip.
“Why would anyone handle a book like that?” The Shopkeeper said. She had always had a quick temper when it came to her books. “Watch how you’re handling my things.” She wished she’d invested the extra money on a hard copy, but it would’ve cost twice as much to print. “It’s my last one,” she softened.
He corrected himself while she searched for her blue Sharpie and a clever message to write on the title page. “Who should I make it out to?” This was her first time signing a book.
“Make it out to OUR GREAT-GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN WITH LOVE.” He flashed August Wilson’s grin.
She started to write that slowly but was distracted by him still sitting on her bookshop floor.
Can I help you off the floor somehow?The Shopkeeperwanted to say, but the thought of her condition and him touching her and the two of them lying there as her future customers strolled by made her think twice about getting too close.
“No, no, no.” He’d read her mind. “Your writing always has that effect on me. I don’t know why.”
He amused her even if she didn’t believe him.
“It should make you feel something...” she responded, trying to think of something more clever to add, but she had nothing.
“I am something like a monk,” he continued. “Well, something like a monk in training. So in the words of a great philosopher, ‘Naaah naaah nah naaah.’ It’s against the rules for us.” He flashed his August Wilson once more.
This role reversal had never happened to The Shopkeeper before. Usually she was the one fanning out over authors, memorizing lines from books, hyping up Philly, and running from a helping hand.
“I’ll go now.” She watched as he got up. “I heard you’re not quite open yet.” As he opened the front door, the “dong” of a vintage trolley car dinged by. “Hold the trolley,” he called out to the driver. “Can I come back? Pick up my signed copy... later...?” he asked, walking backward toward the trolley.
“I don’t see why not.” She accidentally smiled a real smile, then remembered she was a shopkeeper and she shouldn’t be flirty with customers, especially her first customer—ayoung something of a monk in training. She made a straight face, turned up Jill Scott on repeat, and was about to get back to her book business with his smell lingering on in her bookshop air when she noticed that he’d left his leather-bound notebook on the floor. It looked a lot like one she used to have. She couldn’t decide if he’d left it by accident or on purpose, but boy, was she tempted to peek inside his mind.
