The Bookstore Clerk (4 page)

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.”
I retrieved the men’s magazine and showed it to Timmy, who shrugged. “You don’t need it; I’ll show you what to wear and how to dress.”
I put the magazine back in the rack, watched him pay for the Sunday paper and we walked away from the newsstand.
“You know I never wore a suit and tie. It’s kind of scary.”
“Oh, bosh,” he shook his head. “Once the tailor gets through with you you’ll look elegant, the way you’re supposed to look. Mark my words.”
In a moment we were back home and climbing the stairs.
“I wonder how Henry made out?” he said as we passed his second-floor door and continued up.
“I’m sure he made it to…to…where was he going?”
“Chicago. He’s from Chicago, was going home for his mother’s funeral.”
I nodded. “That’s right, Chicago,” I shook my head. “I’ve never been there.”
“Me neither. New York is my home.
I smiled. “Mine, too. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
He opened the door and let us in. Instantly, he grabbed my ass. I giggled.
“Just like the ladies who come in the store,” he said, pawing me, “some in dresses, some in pants,” my arms were around him. “But I don’t like it when they do that,” he shook his head, “like they’re silly teenagers.”
“Doing what?”
He reddened, and shook his head.
“Grabbing each other. We had a customer just a few days ago who was letting her boyfriend, or whoever he was, feel her up, as if it the most natural thing in the world, and in front of other customers, too; simply outrageous.”
“They must have been in love,” I laughed, “very horny love, too.”
“Connie and the other clerks saw it, too, but they didn’t say anything, they just blushed.”
He’d pushed me into the bedroom and removed my shirt, was unzipping my pants.
“Did you?”
He turned red.
“I was so embarrassed. It’s like they were characters in a dirty Times Square movie that we all were looking at.” He sadly shook his head. “Would’ve won an Oscar for their roles, I’m sure of that.”
Again I giggled.
“Starring roles, eh?” I smirked. “Did it get out of hand, besides his hands on her?”
“Gratefully, no, they finally went down 5
^th
Avenue, the young man pawing her, and she was acting as if they weren’t doing anything out of hand.”
I was undressed, lying naked on the bed, watching him undress.
“Hey, man, it’s the sixties,” I winked, “free love everywhere you turn, you know what they say: Turn on, tune out, drop dead, or something like that. Those are the new rules, man, you know.” I smirked at him.
I looked at him as he undressed. I realized his age as he came over to join me on the bed. His skin was sagging. It was like ten or twenty years had been added to him. He fell on the bed, exhausted. I didn’t say anything, just letting myself swoon in his tender hold. Old age—oh, what a horror!
The next day we rode the subway together, him reading
Herzog
by Saul Bellow, me holding the pole and looking around. I found it hard to read modern novels; I never really understood what was going on. I’d tried to read Ernest Hemingway’s
The Sun Also Rises
but really couldn’t get into it. The characters’ actions always had me confused; were they making love or just pretending, coming or going? I’d read that the characters were as unsure of themselves as I was, but they certainly didn’t sound like me, seems they were too well-off or perhaps things were just different in those times, the twenties. I shook my head and smiled at Timmy as he went on reading his book for just a few stops. We got off on 7
^th
Avenue and 50
^th
Street and walked to Doubleday’s on 5
^th
Avenue and 53
^rd
Street. I liked the way he held the book, under his arm and up at his chest; he looked very much like an educated book person, which I’m sure he was.
The streets were busy with people rushing on their way to work or speeding into or out of coffee shops, carrying bags of coffee with their buttered rolls or Danishes. Timmy stopped at one place on 6
^th
Avenue and ordered his usual cup of tea, no sugar, and I had a regular cup of coffee with extra sugar. He frowned at my order but didn’t say anything. I guess extra sugar wasn’t to his liking. We walked to Doubleday’s.
In the doorway, Danny was smoking and staring at people. I instantly hesitated and looked down; I knew we’d need to pass him. Mr. Jennings turned to look at me, then turned in Danny’s direction. Danny smirked but didn’t say anything as we went past him. As the door shut behind us I heard him quietly mutter “faggots.” I shook my head and went downstairs. A few moments later Danny came downstairs, too.
“Hey, boys,” he said gleefully, putting his arm around me. “We got us a flaming faggot, ain’t that right?”
“Fuck you!” I said, brushing his arm off.
Mr. David, our supervisor, stepped out of his office.
“Danny,” he said sternly, “you’ve been warned about calling people names. Do you want to go up to the head office and explain what you just said? Because that’s where you’re headed and they’ll get rid of you in a moment, take my word on that!”
A silence fell on the room as each of us turned and went to his work area, me at packing packages and Danny at the filled loading dock. Morning passed with some of the crew standing around Danny, gossiping and smirking. I ignored them.
“Never mind the assholes,” said Ramos, the Spanish stock boy. He didn’t hang out with the other stock boys, kept to himself. “The assholes are just jealous.”
I eyed him.
“Of what?”
He shrugged.
“Of you, you have the courage that they don’t have. You know what you are and what you want, and they can’t stand that.”
He winked, smiled, and went back to his work area. I was amazed. In the year I’d been at Doubleday’s there’d never been more then just a word between us. “Hey,” I’d say, “Hey,” he’d say. Now we’d had a real discussion. I felt good and warm, continuing to pack up book after book after book.
At about 11:30 I spotted Mr. Jennings coming into the basement. I felt awkward thinking about him as “Timmy.” That was his name, of course, but in the bookstore he was still “Mr. Jennings.” I blushed as he came to my work area.
“They want to see you upstairs,” he said. I couldn’t make anything out from his face, positive or negative.
He turned and went into Mr. David’s office. Without smiling, in case someone saw, I turned and got into the elevator which would take me to the corporate offices. I let myself beam broadly as the elevator door shut.
Miss Terri, a short-haired, neck-tied woman in a masculine suit, stood next to the secretary’s desk in the outer office, reading some papers. She glanced at me as I stepped out of the elevator. In her manly clothes and appearance, she made it evident that she was a bitter, unfriendly lesbian. I always dreaded running into her. She was known facetiously and quietly as “Mrs. Doubleday,” though no one dared say it aloud. She looked at me, shaking her head and sneering.