Oh My God, Michelle said. Who? Who Said That?
Ted, Joey said.
Ted, a regular bookseller, a white guy in his forties who didn’t brush his hair, who wore a track suit into the store every day to try to unload old paperbacks and cassette tapes. Though his offerings sucked, he acted like he was offering them a first edition of Catcher in the Rye.
I Can’t Buy This, Michelle recently wagged a busted mass-market paperback at him, the pages yellowed as if urinated upon, the whole book looking sort of exploded.
How about this? The man loaded a dingy hardcover photography book about Australia onto the counter, followed by a Chuck Palahniuk with a torn front cover.
We Have Three Copies Of That Already, Michelle shook her head. Sorry. It was like the “sorry” you gave to a person spare-changing you on the street, only worse because Ted felt like he was working for it, really working, and you were withholding his rightful pay. He dumped a small bag of cassette tapes onto the rejected books. Red Hot Chili Peppers, Journey, Mariah Carey. The Mariah Carey was a cassingle. We’re Not Really Buying Cassettes, Michelle said uneasily. The man was glowering at her. His face was speckled with a five o’clock shadow, like a snickerdoodle that had been rolled in cinnamon sugar. He glowered at Michelle with a face she realized was desperate. Not a pleading desperate but a harder, resentful desperate. A desperation that knew itself to be pathetic and hated you for seeing it, for refusing to do the little you could to relieve it, buy the fucking Red Hot Chili Peppers cassette, what the fuck do you care anyway? It was a standoff. Michelle decided the best way to deal with the situation was to pretend she didn’t notice how completely unhinged Ted was. She shrugged, allowed a goofball grin to hit her face. She would not recognize his desperation. She would give him the dignity of her feigned obliviousness.
She wished someone, anyone, was in the store. Beatrice, her useless husband, Matt Dillon. The store took up half the block, the building was not only the gigantic shop with its many miniforts of books and rolling carts stacked with slowly warping opera albums, beyond that cavernous room smelling of the slow rot of pages and glue was a side room stuffed with more books, books too good for the store, to be sold on eBay or at antiquarian book fairs. And the side room had its own little side room with more hoarded crap, maybe a bathroom. There was the break room at the far end of the store with a staircase leading to an upstairs room containing every cassette ever recorded. Michelle was confident they had multiple copies of that Red Hot Chili Peppers cassette stashed in the upstairs room.
The wide store was empty of people, ringing with the bad vibes of this one customer. There were a million places he could stuff her body after he raged on her. He could jam her into a bookshelf, wall her up with Star Trek paperbacks and no one would ever find her. The guy ran a pork-chop hand through his dark hair. His hair was black and sleek and shiny except for the textured gray hairs that sprung in a tough fuzz of swirls across the top. He ran his hand through his hair and slammed it on the pile, cracking a cassette case. Michelle had wished desperately for Joey and, miraculously, he appeared.
Ted, Joey sang in a bored tone, clapping the psychopath on the back. Joey was so good at the casual bro-down, half the customers didn’t even get that he was gay, despite his intense nellyness.
Hey man, can you buy some of this shit?
Joey flipped the merchandise around on the table, landing on the blasted paperback. Two bucks.
Dude. Just give me five and I’ll give you everything. Michelle rolled her eyes. Like the asshole was doing the shop a favor, dumping a pile of garbage on the counter and charging them five bucks for it. Michelle didn’t know why she cared so much. It wasn’t her money. She realized that she’d become identified with the bookstore.
Joey dug five bucks out of the register. The dude thanked him with a fist-bump, stuffed the bill in his tracksuit, and strode out the door, his plasticky clothing making an airy noise. The bell roped to the door clanged as he left. He’d begun ignoring Michelle the minute Joey had arrived and had never looked at her again.
I’m Sorry, Michelle said to Joey, motioning to the pile of crap on the counter. She was shaken by the whole thing and didn’t know where to project her riled energy. I Didn’t Think I Should Buy Any Of It.
You shouldn’t, Joey affirmed. It’s shit. But whatever. I wanted to get rid of him. He’s a writer and he’s got a heroin problem and he’ll stick around haggling forever. I just felt like I would rather pay him five dollars than deal with him.
The guy was a junkie. A writer with a heroin problem. In Los Angeles Michelle had learned of the sources of other drugs. There was a meth trade near the gay center, a trans woman sold it or you could get it from the taco truck or from a deadbeat donut shop, all within a one-block radius. Michelle suspected Tommy the golf punk sold club drugs, and Joey, who treated his heroin addiction with weed, could hook her up if she desired. But this was the first sign of the availability of heroin, this surly asshole Ted. Many times Michelle had longed for the vinegar sting of the stuff as it tunneled through her nose, the strange drowning sensation as it hit her sinuses. Michelle knew she had run out of San Francisco three steps ahead of a physical habit — that was the point of Los Angeles, sort of. She’d wanted to stop doing so many drugs, and she had.
Michelle didn’t want to put Ted in a mental Rolodex of people who could get her heroin, but she did anyway. She couldn’t not. Her brain, it seemed, had its own secretary and she did her job diligently. Ted. Heroin. Never mind that Michelle had only just feared him smacking her across the jaw with the staple gun and burying her alive in a pile of old jazz records. Ted. Heroin. Michelle thought that the next time he came in she would tell him that she, too, was a writer. That she had written a book. She would ask him what he was working on. Michelle hadn’t met any writers in Los Angeles — no writers working on books, anyway, if that is what this Ted character did. Michelle bet he was writing a novel. Maybe even poetry. A junkie writer desperately selling a battered copy of Fight Club was probably not writing a movie. He was starring in it. Ted. Heroin.
Ted Threatened To Kill You? Michelle marveled.
Ted threatened to kill faggots. Apparantly he has no idea that I am one.
What Did You Do?
I kicked him out.
Michelle gazed at the glass front door, half expecting Ted to be out there, crazed, dope sick, sweating hate, a monster. Joey swished his hand.
Whatever.
Do We Have A Gun? Michelle asked out loud. Is There One Of Those Panic Buttons You Can Hit To Sound An Alarm If We Get Robbed?
You think Beatrice is stashing guns around here? Joey waved his lanky arms around his head. You want a gun to protect you from Ted? Ted is fine. He’s a fucking racist homophobe drug addict and he’ll probably kill himself off before the world actually ends. Certainly before he gets around to killing anyone else.