“Nobody buys paper books anymore,” I say to customer number 4,356 who is a carbon copy of number 4,343 and all the others. “Unless they’re by Stephen King.”
You think you have problems. I know what you got. Even with Benji in the cage, I know. You’ve got deadlines and you gotta read the shitty stories by the other wannabes in your classes and you think your hairdresser fucked up your hair and Chana thinks she’s pregnant even though the dude barely got it in and Lynn says if she got pregnant she’d move home and have the baby and you say if you got pregnant you’d name it #anythingbutBenji and your friends are sick of you bitching about Benji, using any excuse to bring up his name. I mean really, Beck. Girls. Somehow it takes you fifty-two e-mails to figure out the most basic, simple shit:
Chana is not pregnant, which makes sense, given that she didn’t full-throttle fuck anyone.
Lynn is dead inside.
You are not over Benji, but you will be once you go out with me.
Okay, you have one legitimate problem. Your mom e-mails you drunk at night, sad, wants to talk, wants to yell, but, Beck, if you knew what I put up with for you, you wouldn’t spend so much time moaning about your problems and you’d read the stories you gotta read for grad school and cuddle up with your green pillow and thank God that you don’t have a 160-pound princess locked in your basement asking if the chicken in a fucking sandwich is free range.
I mean he was kidding, right?
“Don’t you just love Stephen King?”
“Who doesn’t?”
He’s not stupid. I’ll give him that. He read my face and he didn’t like it but he ate the chicken sandwich. And you know what? He didn’t puke after. But he’s a nervous wreck and a slob and he misses the toilet when he pisses and twice he has vomited all over the toilet. And twice I’ve had to cuff him to the cage and clean up his mess. Labor is cleaning up a pansy’s fluids after you just restocked the shelves and the window display with the new Stephen King for the third time in one fucking day while dealing with all the people who worship Stephen King bombarding the store for the Big New Stephen King Book that they all need on the same fucking day because God forbid they opened their eyes to a lesser-known author. People. What can you do, right?
My phone buzzes and it’s 6:00 P.M. and it’s official. The only books I sold today besides Stephen King are those Rachael Ray cookbooks and no wonder Benji never read any of his favorite books because most people don’t read anymore and this is not the way I want to be when I’m less than three hours away from sitting with you on the steps.
“They say this is his best book yet.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Curtis will be here in ten minutes because he’s supposed to get here at six and he’s never been on time because he’s part of Generation Benji, all busy with his fake life in his fucking gadgets, tinderokcupidinstagramtwitterfacebookvinebullshitnarcissism incorporatedonlinepetitionsfantasyfuckingfootball. I’d love to fire him, but he respects me so I let him stay even though he asked me to hold a Stephen King book for him and listens to Eminem through unnecessarily giant headphones and takes like a year to read a single fucking book.
“Did you read this yet?”
“It just came out today.”
“Well, they must ship them a day early, though. You can’t tell me you didn’t read the first chapter.”
“No, I didn’t read the first chapter. Is this gonna be cash or charge?”
I wait. The after-work depressed book buyers are coming steady, going home to their dungeons to let Stephen King distract them from their pathetic, lonely lives. We’re so lucky, Beck. So much of America—Benji included, cuz I’m a nice guy and I gave him one before I took off—is gonna be hunkered down reading Stephen King tonight but you and I are gonna be out living our own lives together. I pity these people.
“Do you mind if I run over and grab another book?”
“Actually, we’ve got a line and I already ran your card.”
And there’s no way I’m pissing off everyone so this broad can buy some Candace Bushnell because she is so slow to realize that she doesn’t like Stephen King. She’s only buying it because of the crowds. It’s the original virus, this kind of shit.
6:06 now and I know what you’re doing. You’re smearing on eyeliner to get that Olsen-twin eye you think you need to look hot, which you don’t. You’re blasting your Bowie, Rare and Well Done—the music you play before you go on a date, music that makes you feel cool, crutch music you can talk about when you feel insecure—and you’re deciding which little tank top best accompanies which little bra and eventually all of it gets to you and you’re on your green pillow because the only way to get bed head is to get in the bed and fuck yourself. It’s true what they say about you chicks being dirtier than us dudes, you are. I’m still keeping up with your e-mails as I wait for credit cards to run and you girls e-mail each other about your bodily events. It’s all so un-Victorian. You are a Bowie girl, futuristic in your clinical control of your skin and your eyelashes you get sewn on in Chinatown, so crass that you tell your friends you’re gonna rub one out before our date.
Rub one out.
“Excuse me?”
“Are you all set?”
“Yes. Can I have a bag for the book or are you gonna charge me extra?”
6:08 and the next dude in line is buying the new King and The Shining just to be bold—he calls The Shining a prequel and I want to cut his face—and what an awful world it is out there, Beck. What a miracle that you came in here, so happy, when most of the people who come in are so miserable, everyone except for you and me and Curtis, who holds the door for Mr. Shining and starts with his bullshit.
“Dude the L train is wacked.”
“Take over the register.”
“Fifteen minutes I stood there. Nothing.”
“It’s nothing but Stephen King tonight so you can close when the last copy goes.”
“Cool. But, like, I just really need the hours.”
6:11 and the punk wants hours and it’s a waste of my time and I gotta get hot for you and clean for you and close my paper cuts and brush my teeth with my new Tom’s natural toothpaste (thanks, Benji!) and I clench my jaw but Curtis is dense and not good at reading faces because of the way his head is shoved in his phone most of the time.
“Just close up after the King is done.”
“Yeah, this city can blow me if it can’t even get a train to run on time, you know, brother?”
“Just try and text if you’re gonna be late next time.”
“You look beat, son. Go on. I got this.”
The little Beastie Boy motherfucker was late and I’m his boss and he is calling me son and the last thing in the world I need is this little shit telling me I look tired.
“You got a line, Curtis,” I say and when I walk outside, away from the basement, away from the books, I smile at nothing, at the idea of you, like me, preparing. You’re probably on your green pillow because it’s almost time and for the first time in a long time I head home with drippy Simon & Garfunkel in my head because it’s not Stephen King Book Day anymore, Beck. This night is ours.
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