The Bookstore Clerk

by Mykola Dementiuk

  A man was coming up the stairs but, seeing me, he stopped, “Oh, I thought you were Timmy, my apologies.”

  “No, Timmy’s at work,” I smiled, turning red. “I’m his…roommate.” I blushed. Should I have said that or not?

  His eyes squinted as he looked at me, standing up above.

  “Oh, I see. I didn’t know Timmy had a roommate.” He shrugged. “Well, tell him Henry was here. I’m his neighbor from the floor below.”

  “I’m Billy, will do, Henry.”

  Henry again studied me, then turned and went back downstairs. I shut the door behind me.

  Timmy’s apartment was comfortable, a hell of a lot better than the room I’d just vacated. He had trinkets and knickknacks around, besides the photographs, making the place appear warm and homey, shutting the world out. It was a home. I’d never had one, but it felt very warm and comfortable.

  I took off Timmy’s jacket and kicked the shoes off, picking up a magazine on the coffee table. A movie magazine, mostly about the new Barbra Streisand film, Funny Girl, which was very popular that year. I sniggered; this wasn’t the kind of film that had brought us together. I put the magazine back down and went to the bedroom.

  There was a robe on a chair near the bed, on top of a shirt with pants. I picked up the pants and fingered the crotch— obviously he had forgotten them—then I blushed and set them down. I went to the closet and stared at the row of suits, some dark, some light, some the kind he had worn last night, as if for a merry, playful dress-up, which I’m sure he had worn many a time. I looked at the three suits he said were going to be mine once I started my position as bookstore clerk and ran my fingers over each one. A tingle went through me as if they were probing me, instead. I smiled. I had a comfortable feeling that I was being welcomed, and that they were just right for me. I couldn’t wait for them to be altered so they could be on me.

  I heard the sound of a key in the door. I came out of the bedroom and there was Timmy, holding a paper bag of groceries. He smiled and winked at me, shutting the door behind him as I came up to him.

  “Miss me?” he said, setting the bag down and putting his arms around me. We kissed; something I rarely did with another man, but his kiss was so warm and friendly that it was the natural thing to do. I kissed him back and melted.

  He loosened his tie, then kissed me again. Still kissing me, he steered me to the sofa and we collapsed atop it. I always wanted this, to take the woman’s part, as the man held me and kissed me, though it rarely happened. The feeling was heavenly—then there was a loud rapping at the front door.

  “Timmy, can I see you? It’s important.” a voice called.

  We broke in frustration from each other.

  “That’s Henry, he lives downstairs,” he said, wiping his mouth and pushing himself up.

  “Oh, yeah, he was just here looking for you.”

  Timmy looked at me.

  “Wonder what he wants,” he said, adjusting his clothes and opening the front door.

  Henry looked through the door at me, still on the couch, then reddened and turned to Timmy.

  “Mom passed away last night; I’m flying to Chicago for the funeral.”

  “Oh, my,” said Timmy. “My condolences. I’m so very sorry.” And he put his arm around Henry and said, “Anything you want or need, don’t hesitate to call. You know I’m always here.” He turned to look at me. “Or Billy, he’ll more or less be here, too.”

  I stood up from the sofa and went to the doorway.

  “Sorry to hear about your mom,” I mumbled.

  Henry shrugged.

  “The cancer did mom in, but she’d been suffering for the past two years. It’s better that she’s gone; she can rest now.” He nodded his head, turned, and walked down the stairs.

  “Anything you want,” Timmy called, “we’re always here.”

  I heard Henry mutter something but Timmy just nodded and locked the door. Timmy looked at me and I shrugged.

  “Never really knew my own mom,” I said, “I was just a kid when she put me up for adoption.”

  I lowered my head; Timmy put an arm about me. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.

  “How about spaghetti tonight, kiddo?” he said, unpacking the grocery bag. “And with very nice olive oil.” He looked at a slim bottle he had also retrieved from the bag.

  “What, no sauce?”

  He looked sternly at me.

  “You never had it with olive oil? That’s the sauce, and it’s heavenly!” He put his thumb and first two fingers together and smacked them in a kiss. “Absolutely divine. Just wait till you try it.”

  My mouth watered. I smiled.

  “Can’t wait.”

  We ate our meal, spaghetti with delicious olive oil and garlic—I didn’t think I’d ever eaten such a scrumptious meal and asked for seconds. Timmy quickly ladled it out for me. And the glass of excellent white wine was putting me in a good mood.

  “Do anything special today while you were out?”

  I shook my head.

  “Just walked downtown to my place and had words with the landlord.”

  He looked at me.

  “Oh, really? Anything bad?”

  “He didn’t like that I was leaving.”

  “Oh, bosh. So what?”

  “He just wanted another twenty-eight dollars. He even stood up and tried to scare me.”

  Timmy shook his head.

  “Just forget it, that meager amount isn’t worth getting riled over. I know honest money is important, but sometimes it might be best to forget it and go on with your life. How much do you make in the basement?”

  “A dollar twenty-five an hour.”

  “That’s all? You can make almost double that amount on the selling floor.” He nodded his head. “Just you wait until Monday. I’ll have a word with the upstairs office, you can be sure of that.”

  “Wow, they’ve been ripping me off!”

  “How much were you supposed to get?”

  “That price. I had asked for it and they said yes, so we left it at that, one twenty-five an hour.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to them.”

  We’d put the dishes in the sink. Timmy decided to leave them for tomorrow.

  “Can’t stand washing dishes after I just ate, can you?”

  “I know what you mean, but I never had to do my own dishes. Got my food in cheap restaurants and they washed the dishes for me.” I smirked and shrugged.

  He slowly shook his head and put his arm around my shoulder; I snuggled into him.

  “You have so much to learn, I can see that.”

  I looked up at him.

  “You’re the supervisor, but you’re going to be my teacher, too?”

  He nodded.

  “Certainly, I’ll teach you.”

  We kissed.

  Making love was beautiful that night; I had never felt the kind of peace and serenity that I was experiencing in those moments with him. My past life had disappeared and was replaced by my belonging to him. I wasn’t a small part of him; I was a complete whole. I melded into his being completely, utterly. I was reborn to a sexual newness that I’d never experienced, a union of myself and another, and while we sucked each other off I felt the two of us commingling in a new life form, two human beings now utterly one.

  We slept and, each time we stirred in the night, him holding me, me holding him, we smiled to ourselves, turned over and drifted to sleep again. I never wanted to lose him. But dawn crept in and I cursed it.

  “Billy,” he called, shaking me by the leg, “It’s morning. You know what they say about the morning.”

  I yawned and looked at him.

  “Yeah, the early bird catches the worm,” and I reached over and tried grabbed his penis. He turned.

  “No, don’t,” he pushed my hand away, “you know I’ll fall apart.”

  I yawned again.

  “I love when that happens,” I said, stretching in bed.

  “Come on, lazy bones
,” he said, standing up from the bed. “You take a shower and I’ll get you some breakfast.”

  I scratched my balls, watching him get up and leave the room. It was Sunday, but it was my turn to show up for stockroom duties, getting books for customers or packing them up and preparing them for shipping. There’d be two of us in the basement; we arrived later in the morning, at 11 a.m., on Sunday. I liked it, no supervisor was around on those days and there was little to do, just sitting around answering calls from the selling floor. In a way, Sundays were very productive—that is, for stockroom boys: our very lazy, do-nothing days.

  Again I yawned, scratching my crotch, and staggered to the bathroom. The hot shower awoke me, jolting my eyes wide open. I lathered and washed myself and felt reborn and clean. Ah, it felt lovely!

  I stepped out of the bathroom with a towel around my waist. Two plates were on the table and Timmy was filling them. The scent was heavenly, scrambled eggs and home fries, toast and coffee. I dove right in. Timmy smiled and sat down. Delicious way to start the day, I thought. I always had a stale donut or whatever I could get my hands on for breakfast. Mornings weren’t something to look forward to; you just had to get through them.

  “Can’t wait till I become a real bookstore clerk and not just a stock boy,” I took a bite of the toast and drank some coffee.

  Timmy looked at me.

  “Keep it under your hat until I discuss it with the upstairs office. No need for anybody else to know.”

  I nodded.

  “I know, I’ll keep quiet, but I’m still very excited about it. Imagine me in a suit and tie, helping customers, whew!”

  Timmy grinned.

  “I can imagine you walking the aisles without any clothes, your balls swaying.” He blinked as if coming to and got up from the table. “No, I can’t think those thoughts.” He picked up the plates and went into the kitchen. “Time for you to get dressed, anyway.”

  I also grinned, rubbed my hardening crotch, and stood up from the table.

  “Let’s go out tonight,” said Timmy, entering the living room. “We’ll celebrate. Anywhere you want to go.”

  I shrugged. “Times Square?”

  He frowned, coming to me and putting his arms at my waist. “I’ll think of a better place. We don’t need Times Square anymore.” We kissed, and I instantly hardened, as I’m sure he did, too. We broke from each other, wiping our lips and mouths. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he winked, rubbing his stiff crotch.

  I winked back.

  “Yeah, right.”

  We both smiled and I went to get dressed.

  At Doubleday’s I was the first stock boy in that morning; salesgirl Connie let me in, frowning at me as I passed though the revolving doors.

  “Good morning,” I said to her.

  She sneered at me.

  “What’s so good about it?”

  We looked at each other but I didn’t say anything and went to the basement stockroom/loading area. The hell with Connie, I thought, she’s a frustrated slut, anyway. I shrugged and got her out of my thoughts.

  Danny was in right after me, but he kept yawning and could hardly keep his eyes open. I knew that he’d sleep off his hangover as he’d done many times before. He collapsed into a chair and let his head drop forward.

  A few times me or Danny, who finally got out of his chair, answered calls for some book that someone wanted and we sent it up on the dumbwaiter. At other times a clerk would come downstairs and get herself a book; it was an easy way to take a break from the selling floor while sneaking in a cigarette.

  “You know, I’m going to be a bookstore clerk one day,” I blurted out to Danny when we were alone.

  He sneered and made a face.

  “What the hell for?” he said, shaking his head. “You ain’t going to get me up there. Nosirree. Anyway, what makes you think they’ll let you up there? You’re a stock boy, accept it.”

  I shook my head.

  “Mr. Jennings said he was going to help me,” I said, nodding my head, but I knew I had already said too much.

  “Mr. Jennings? That faggot, he wants only one thing, your dick. What have you got to do with him?” He grinned lecherously. “Or have you two already done it, you pussy?”

  The phone rang and I reddened, grabbing it. One of the clerks spouted off a title and I went to get it, Danny smiling wickedly after me and shaking his head. When I sent the book upstairs, Danny still was grinning and shaking his head. “I always knew that you were one of them, a pussy faggot.”

  “Fuck you!” I spat out. But then I said, “So what if I am? I don’t want to stay in this grubby old stockroom. You want to call me a faggot for that? Good, that’s what I am, but you’ll be in this stockroom for the rest of your life. Me? I’m going where I belong, up on top.” I folded my arms and stood looking at him.

  “Faggot,” he simply repeated, leering at me. “Cocksucking faggot.”

  We heard heels on the steps; we both looked, it was Connie.

  “Hey Connie, what you think about the new bookstore clerk? He said he’s going to work with you, you ready for another sissy up there?”

  Connie scowled, staring at me.

  “Stop calling people names. You’ve been warned about that.” She turned to me. “Anyway, all the positions are taken. We don’t need anyone else.”

  Danny smirked.

  “He said Mr. Jennings will help him. I wonder what he’s doing for Mr. Jennings,” and he winked at Connie.

  I was very red-faced, as Connie shook her head.

  “I only said that one day I might. What’s the point of working here in the basement if you can’t move up?”

  Danny sneered.

  “That’s right, get yourself an older sugar daddy like Mr. Jennings and bend over. He’ll have you in a nice position, if you know what I mean.”

  “Fuck you, you idiot!” I spat.

  “Faggot!” Danny responded, sneering at me.

  Connie shook her head again and went back upstairs.

  “Fuck you, you motherfucker!” I spat at him.

  It was 5:30 in the afternoon, near closing time anyway. It was after 6 p.m. as I let myself in the apartment. “Hi sweetie,” Timmy called from the other room. “Be right out.”

  I heard what sounded like a closet being shut and went to the couch, removing my shoes and collapsing onto it. Timmy entered the room.

  “What’s wrong?” he immediately asked.

  “Nothing,” I muttered. “Had some words with Danny, you know, that stock boy in the basement.”

  “Over what?”

  “About being a bookshop clerk and working upstairs with the other clerks.”

  “But I told you not to mention it,” he said, rubbing his head.

  “I didn’t mean like right now, but maybe one day in the future. That’s a good way to get out of the basement, that’s all.”

  “And what did Danny say to that?”

  I frowned. “I mentioned your name and he called me a faggot,” I said, looking up at him. “I really hate him, he’s an asshole.”

  Timmy sat down beside me and put his arm around my shoulders.

  “That’s when Connie came down and said they didn’t need any clerks. ‘Not now,’ I said, ‘but in the future.’” I looked at him. “It kind of broke down after that. They’re both jerks, I don’t know how you tolerate Connie or Danny.”

  “I have nothing to do with Danny, he has his own supervisor; and Connie, she’s a very good clerk. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.” He tapped and rubbed my shoulder. “Are you hungry? I was thinking about Luigi’s on Broadway. They make exquisite lasagna, good enough to die for.”

  “I guess,” I shrugged. I still was upset. “Connie said a stock boy would become a clerk over her dead body, not when she was at Doubleday’s.”

  “Oh, she did? We’ll see about that.” He again tried to change the subject, “Now, how about Luigi’s?”

  “Sure,” I shrugged. “I’d love some Italian food.” But I was
still a little upset and angry.

  I decided against lasagna and had Fettucini Alfredo—I liked that name, not that I knew what it meant, but Timmy’s explanation got me more interested in pasta. And it was delicious! As I’m sure his lasagna was, too. We settled back, our stomachs bulging, and talked about things that we still had to face.

  “Being a bookstore clerk would be perfect for you. In a year or so I’m going to retire and it would be ideal to pay you a visit every now and then.”

  “Retire, how come? You’re not so old.”

  He laughed.

  “Older then you think. I’ll be sixty-five next year and it’s about time I gave it up. I would love to just relax and sit in Central Park, watching life go by, and read more often than I do now.”

  “Wow, sixty-five. I didn’t know you were that old.” I reddened. “I mean…”

  “I know what you mean, sweetie. Old is old,” he shrugged.

  I lowered my voice.

  “But you still can get it up. If you can do that you’re not old, you’re as good as any teenager trying to get laid.”

  He took me by the hand.

  “Well, I doubt that, but you’re kind and sweet,” he looked at me, his watery eyes blinking as he wiped a corner of an eye. “You know I love you,” he whispered. “We have just been really close, what was it, a day ago? But you mean the world to me now. Promise you’ll always stay.” He held my hand and squeezed tightly.

  “I promise,” I said. “I’ll never leave.”

  He grinned warmly as we left the restaurant. Out on the street we stopped at a newsstand to pick up a copy of The New York Times Sunday paper, though it was almost the end of the day.

  “I’m addicted to Sunday papers, even though I never read the daily ones. I get all my news on Sunday nights.” He saw me looking at the magazines. “You want something to read, too?”

  I turned red, shaking my head and put back the fashion magazine I was glancing at.

  “Come on, take one, can’t be much, at least it’s under a dollar.”