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Like an Open Book (excerpt)
By Garik Charneco
Last night, around 1:45am, right after I finished American Psycho and wondered exactly why Patrick Bateman did it, I read these three drunken students on the street. They came down the street and stopped to fumble for some smokes right in front of my place. In the lazy half-sleep of just going to bed, my mind sensed fresh thoughts and pounced. I can’t turn off my ability so I spent thirty minutes reading their minds while they sat on the stoop of my apartment complex—smoking.
Maia told herself that this would be her last cigarette tonight and that tomorrow she’d quit. She would do it for Nana. This Maia girl was the nicest of the group—the least drunk and quiet. She took drag after drag, reassuring herself. I hate when people repeat themselves.
Nikki tried counting how many drinks she had that night. There was the three they had back in Rishel, just as pre-game. Then the two tequila shots at the house party and one swig of whiskey from Jared’s hip flask. She struggled with the directions to the after party, wondering whether it was 249 Stark Road or 111 Oris Place. She was always mixing them up. Must be a freshmen, those streets are next to each other.
Jared nursed his hip flask, taking long, hot draughts of whiskey. His thoughts came in hard and rough. A burst of poetry from his seminar here and an image of Maia in her underwear there. He was the easiest to hold onto and almost entertaining, a mental collage of colors, words, and skin.
They finished their cigarettes and Nikki thought about whom to call for a ride. Maia flicked her cigarette into the gutter, stamped it out and focused through her beer buzz for Nana. That always bites back when people try to think clearly and free their minds. It is the psychic equivalent of staring at the sun. Jared screwed the top back onto his hip flask, debating whether to masturbate to Nikki or Maia at the end of the night.
The three of them walked down the street, striking up a conversation. Then it became the standard fare. Action and reaction. The period of “what should I say?” and “uh huh.” I followed them far, something I hadn’t done since high school, sensing the satisfaction of not having to walk to the party and the uncomfortable camaraderie of six people in a four person car. I followed their minds till they were just wisps in my head, squeaky voices and weak thoughts. I should have read a book or something instead, tried to lose them against a backdrop of words, but I went with them and now I feel tired. I went to bed at 2:30 am.
* * *
The clock at the Broken Quill reads 8:57 am. Three minutes later the owner, Mr. Savona, unlocks the front door. I am sitting at the front register, uncurling orange and white rolls of quarters into the tray. Mr. Savona turns and looks at me, giving me a succinct smile even though he wonders whether he’ll catch me reading the books. Mr. Savona lets all his employees read when at the desk but I tend to ignore customers, burying myself in books with characters whose minds are silent. There is this new collection of poetry by this guy out of the city named Calixto that we aren’t even allowed to display yet. The shipment got in yesterday, when I was punching out, but I sensed Mr. Savona hope dreadlock girl did not get to them. I’ll hide it inside a magazine and read it in the morning lull. Mr. Savona walks past the register and thinks that the novelty gifts—The Make Your Own Bonsai Kits and Home Made Voodoo Dolls—are unorganized. There is one pocket dictionary where the magnetic poetry stands, but nothing heavy. I tell Mr. Savona that I will clean up the desk and when he asks how I knew I say, “Initiative, I guess.”
* * *
This child-choked mother stands at the register, a stack of pop up books in front of her. I ring up the books; one on dinosaurs, another on Australian animals and the last on backyard birds, while her two kids claw at her legs. The mother, Debbie, worries whether the kids will actually read these books. She wonders whether they should just be playing outside or maybe in one of those after school clinics like Joanna’s (her sister’s) kids. I pull out a bag, slide the books in, and say, “It is great that they are starting to read so early.” She is mollified for a second and smiles, content that someone else agrees with her and that her sister isn’t always the best. Debbie says, “Oh, you’re so right. Can never start too early. Do you have any suggestions?”
From the tone of her voice, the soft fake edge and hint of nasal intonation I can tell she isn’t interested. This is idle chit-chat; the kind of stuff that everyone tries to make with the cashier while waiting for their change. I look at her kid, the boy, and catch his name: Alex. Then I read a little deeper into Alex’s head and pick up laser firing robots, juices boxes, and big trees to climb. His entire mind feels fast and saccharine, the kind of thing that if cast on a screen gives people epilepsy. His mind is superficial but not shallow enough that I can pick it apart. I only read what is on the surface, what he thinks about at the moment. I hand Debbie the bag. “No not really. Just whatever they like. As long as they read.”
She snatches the bag, slides her handle through the loop and carries the weight on her wrist. She says thanks, but thinks, Some help. Stupid kidt.
I watch her wrangle the two kids together; Alex, who debates whether King Kong could beat The Incredible Hulk, and the other kid, the girl, who is too young to even know her own name. No wonder I read only two heads. Debbie opens the door and the rusted brass bell above the clatters, announcing their departure.
The sound of the bell still rings in my head and it feels kind of good. For a brief few seconds I don’t pick up anything. During that time, I’m an unplugged radio—all potential, but no product. Then the bell stops and my mind lingers, ready to pick up the next customer or passerby the just happens to think too hard. Debbie is still on my mind and I can read her as she fumbles for the keys to her car. I’m not some stupid student. I tried the whole college thing for a while, but it got hideously boring. I knew what all the teachers wanted to hear. Even an open-ended question like “What did you think the author is trying to do in this piece?” was pointless. I dropped out and started working full time at the Broken Quill afterwards. When an old teacher comes into the store and sees that I dropped out they are honestly sad and think What a loss of potential.
I honestly don’t mind the bookstore. I get to read for free and I can’t mind read a character in a book. If Don Quixote trots into the store right now I couldn’t tell why he tilts at windmills, but this kid over by the poetry section I am all over.
He has a big tuft of curly brown hair that comes over his eyes. He is emaciated and looks like an urban refugee, dressed in all black, gray, shoeless moon boots and three chains running from his wait into his back pocket. I squint, focus on his thoughts, and pick up his name. So, Eric what are you thinking about?
Eric curls around a column and balances a thick anthology of 19th century Romantic poetry in one hand and a crumpled pocket notebook in another. Eric nests the notebook inside the book and whips out a pen. He scribbles away, taking glances at me with every line. He tries to be furtive about all this, taking breaks to scan the room pretending that he is just looking around when he debates a metaphor. This what he writes…
Broken Quill
DNA double helix hair
Shimmer starburst beads
Play in twisted follicles
How did you get that piercing?
On your nose
Didn’t your mother disapprove?
Of that iridescence across your face
Speckled green eyes like
Margarita jelly beans
Razor sharp features
No need for curves
Book store muse
What do you want to read?
I try hard not to laugh. I got some interest in the book from him, but it is camouflage more than anything. I have never been anyone’s muse and I throw Eric a tiny smile, flashing those “razor-sharp” features he likes. He sees me and tries to hide his surprise. He reminds himself to act cool as he slides, out of order, the book back onto the shelf. I single out one of my dreads—one with an orange and cream colored swirl bead—and twirl it in between my thumb and index finger. I chew at one the end of it, while I arch my back against the chair. He forgets about the metaphors and fails to keep cool. He shoves the notebook back into his pocket and walks to the door. He hangs around in front of the register, pretending to read the cover of the magazines Mr. Savona keeps next to the register. He wonders about my name and I lean forward, putting my hands under my chin and letting my hair drape over my eyes. I smile at him again even though all he can think about right now is looking down my shirt. Eric’s eyes dart from the magazines to me and to the door. I pull up and flip through the Calixto poems. Eric thinks Fuck it. Then the hackneyed, Nobody likes me. He looks away from the magazines and shuffled to the front door, defeated and loathing. I sense his final thought coming—smashing through sad little neurons and breaking the surface of his active memory. I want to kill myself.
I laugh because I know he isn’t. He finds suicide appealing but he thinks about it with apprehension and dramatic flare. He looks back at me, his mind snapped to attention and running through a list of possibilities. She has such a sweet laugh. Oh God, what is your name? Was that for me?
Eric opens his eyes and he tries to cut into me, see my soul as he puts it. He stands there at the door under the purple dream catcher Mr. Savona hung up, thinking that he can somehow turn me with just his pale paper bag brown eyes. I blow at the hair in front of my face, so one my tiny dreads swings back up and then I smile, not at him but at the book. He finally gets the message and decides to leave. He thinks I am a bitch that played with his heart. He starts to think about this biting sonnet he is going to write when he gets back to his dorm. Something really harsh in Italian, no Spencerian format that will show them. He thinks about me reading it and then crying at the heartless bitch I was. He imagines me hitting the floor, sobbing, and begging for him to take me back. I say some sappy lines. Stuff like, “I never understood you, baby!” and “Your poetry is too hard for me to understand, but I still love you!” and “I want your cock!”
Still chuckling, I watch Eric leave the store from the reflection on the lacquered counter and with my own minds. I keep reading the book of Calixto poems, happy to experience some real poetry and wonder exactly who the speaker is in this one he entitled “Bruised Apple.” The apple itself or the kid refusing to eat it? I start to lose Eric. He thinks about crossing the street, then about food, how much money he has and then me. But I am reading and his thoughts get fuzzy. He gets farther down the street and I get farther into the poem. I forget how tired I feel and clear my mind till I achieve psychic white noise.
* * *
The rest of the day is uneventful. No more Eric’s thinking about how they want me to suffer in un-publishable poems. Marissa from the rear register decides to cover my post for a bit while I get us coffee. The coffee maker broke. No one wants to admit who did it, but I read Xander at the last store meeting and sensed his guilt over hitting the thing too hard when the water wouldn’t come out of the reservoir. Mr. Savona says he is going to get a new one, but he really thinks we don’t deserve it. Let them bring their own coffee. They won’t waste time at the maker anymore, he though at the meeting as he pretended to write down suggestions for the new maker in a paper pad.
At the coffee shop, I try hard to block out everyone’s thoughts, but the shop is busy. The speakers in the ceiling play a moaning choral music that doesn’t make for a good focus. Surrounded by people I pick up bits and pieces. Someone worries about a deadline over by the napkins. Over by the message board another individual puzzles over what exactly zydeco jam music is? I focus on the lady behind the counter, a big Hispanic woman with greasy curly hair and overalls stained with coffee grounds. She feels angry and thinks about some guy named Roger and how he ruined her business. Her thoughts come in a mix of English and Spanish. Maybe an old boyfriend, I guess, not wanting to pick too deep. I just want the coffee and I put in the order for two tall lattes. I hand her our mugs and she reminds herself to punch in the discount. She goes on to make the coffee and I enjoy the sweet hiss of the coffee machine as it warms milk and water.
No one is behind me, so while she makes the coffee I turn and lean against the register. My mind, stuck on ‘scan’ right now, takes in the entire scene and I hear a few more thoughts. Upstairs there is a paper that needs to be finished. By the bathroom door this one guy thinks, Way too much coffee! There are some sad thoughts—stuff like Should I tell her about that girl last night? and This coffee is going to be my only food today. I swear. Sometimes I get something that feels honestly interesting—when someone wonders about a character’s motivation in a book they are reading or when they gaze at a pamphlet on permaculture farming, wondering how they can help. Then there is the inane—thoughts wasted by over use, thoughts like: Gee, wonder what I want?, Where did I put that extra penny?, That girl looks hot, That guy looks cute, Where did I put my wallet, Weather sure is nice, What a great day, What a crappy day.
I wish the lady gets the coffee made, so I can leave. The coffee shop starts to hurt my head—all the quick thoughts machine-gunning into my head. The whole experience feels like when someone sits on a remote control and the channels on the TV just blur past. Except with me; its ideas, rants, worries, and opinions, and no one gets up to stop it. I sense the Hispanic lady think all done and I turn around to grab the coffee, but I see the reflection in the tip jar. Right under the hand drawn purple and green note that says “Karma Collector” I see him. I didn’t sense this guy. I didn’t feel anything coming from his direction and he is only ten feet away, cradling a steaming cup of oil-slick brown coffee. The Hispanic lady tells me that my coffee is up and I hear her, but I keep my eyes on the man. I fumble for the mugs on the counter and tip some hot latte foam onto my fingers. Wincing, I pull the cups away and hold them against my stomach. I let my tank top soak up the coffee dripping on my hand while I keep looking at this guy. Where did he come from and why don’t I pick up anything from him? What is he doing in the Blue Iris coffee shop just standing in the corner next to a stack of soda can flats? Right now, my mind is entirely blank, just like when I get really into a book or a song. I blink and sway my head around, trying to get something on this guy, but there is nothing. I must still be tired. Some caffeine will do me good and sort this guy out. I lift my cup to my lip and feel a pact of moisture against my stomach. I look down at see a brown splotch at the bottom of my tank—my white tank top, so it looks like some old wound opened up under the cotton. I mutter under my breath and the lady behind the counter thinks Pendeja gringa, whatever that means. My watch says 1:30, so I am late. I hunch over and shuffle out of the Blue Iris trying to ignore the lady behind the counter but she rings inside my head thinking out curses in Spanish.
Back at the Broken Quill, I arrive late, having taken all the quiet alleys and side streets. Marissa’s eyes widen when I walk through the door and I hear her think, Finally! What took you so long? She perks her shoulders and slides the copy of Utne reader off the counter and into the cubbyhole under the register. “Long line or something?” She puts an elbow on the counter and flicks her wrist, so her fingertips reach for me. I hand her the mug and half-smile, feeling actually awkward, as I pry into her head. She is wondering whether there really was a long line and where I got that ugly brown stain on my tank from. She takes a sip from the coffee and is surprised to feel heat still in it. Must be the weather that kept it hot. The radio did say 84 degrees today.
I must look stupid standing at the head of the store with a brown splotch on my stomach and staring at Marissa, who idly sips coffee while playing with the register’s change tray. Marissa’s thoughts bore me. Nothing special, but I still got it. I can still hear her thoughts and comb her short term memory for mental tidbits. That guy in Blue Iris must have been a fluke. I was tired from last night and caffeine deprived from Mr. Savona’s policy. It was loud in the coffee shop, both physically and mentally, so he just slipped past me. It happens and part of my head tells me I should be happy because his presence gave me nothing.
Marissa thinks, Woah. What is that? I circle around the counter and climb up onto the little island in the middle of the bookstore. She forms the question in her head, but I answer before her lips even move.
“I bumped into someone as I left Blue Iris. Spilt a good part of my coffee on myself.” Marissa goes blank, thinking Woah and Umm. I grab the coat I wore over here this morning off the back of the chair and throw it over myself. “It is nothing severe.”
“Oh ok, I’m sorry, but how did you know I was going to ask that before I did?” Starting to feel anxious, she awaits my answer.
“I saw it in your eyes. Just the way you glanced at me when I walked through the door. Besides, it is a pretty huge stain.” I zip up my coat up to the top of my stomach. “Nothing really discrete about it.”
I guess, she thinks feeling satisfied. “Were did you learn that whole face reading thing anyway?”
Motioning around us I tell her, “Read it in a book.” It’s an old joke but she feigns laughter.
“Ok, well do you want me to stay here while you go back home and change or something. You’re here for like another 4 hours, right?”
Marissa is sincere when she says that, but I can also sense how worried she is about Mr. Savona coming back and finding only one register open and two employees. I doubt he will come back. I heard him think It is too nice to stay in here all day and Better go work on the boat while the weather is nice before lunch. I could go back home, but I can only read minds, not the future. I tell Marissa, “I think I’ll live.” She gets out of the chair and feels relieved that I didn’t take her up on the offer. I can’t get another demerit or talking to. She can deal with it. You got to stop being so nice.
I watch her walk away from the desk and take the bend at the travel section. I hope she doesn’t stop being too nice; she’s an easy read.
* * *
At 5:45pm, I am alone in the store. Marissa left at 3:30 and Mr. Savona never returned. I start to close the store; flipping off light switches and re-shelving loose books people leave in the wrong sections. Poetry with poetry, history with history, and humor with humor. I only do the really noticeable ones; like having Crime and Punishment sandwiched in between Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul and Yes, You Can! I take a copy of Invisible Monsters someone left next to Greatest Military Blunders and head towards fiction. I take the bend at travel and I hit a wall of flesh. I drop the book and the tip of the spine hits my big toe; it’s a hardcover and I’m wearing sandals. Curling my toes into rubber sole and biting my lip, I look at whoever I hit and it is him. The same guy from the Blue Iris.
He has a lot on him, but he carries the fat well like if his eyes were meant to sink into two pudgy sinkholes. From the crinkles under his eyes I can tell he is old but he still sports a tuft of gray and black hair under a cap. His skin looks permanently tanned a deep toasty brow, a color I have only seen on pictures of people from islands in the South Pacific. He has no coffee but instead carries a plastic bag from the supermarket, filled with odd polygonal black shapes. Our crash didn’t seem to faze him and he chuckles while I wince. The laughter sounds neutral and hearty, but I don’t know where it’s coming from.
I pick Invisible Monsters off the floor. “Sorry. Um, we are closing in like ten minutes. Is there something I can help you with?” It is the first time I ever ask the question without knowing the answer. Without knowing what section to point to or if we have the book in stock. I only have my thoughts and I wonder how Marissa or the other employees handle customers. The questions are pilling up in my head and I have no way to answer them, except by waiting. He laughs again and I think if people always take this long to answer questions. Is he being rude or should I just give him another second?
He points at me with his bag. “I’m sorry if I surprised you. I just came in here to get a little break from the heat and must have lost track of the time. Afraid I don’t read very much.” All his words come out very slow and long like he is spelling everything out nice and clear. I stare at him, wondering what Marissa, Xander, or Mr. Savoan would do. I remember all the store meetings where Mr. Savona would talk about customer relations and wish I paid attention. He takes the initiative and speaks again. “But since I have troubled you and your store I will buy something.” He looks at the shelves, tilts back a burgundy cap that reads “Xavier Brick Works”, and scratches his head. “You know what I have always liked?”
Normally, I would know but this guy isn’t some fluke; he is a freak. I’m left to guess and I have never guessed with people. I shrug my shoulders and let my hair fall forward so he can’t see how red my face is. “I don’t know. That is up to you.” It is a lame answer and anyone else would have thought up something better, something clever.
“Well that is true.” I shuffled over to the side and points at the science fiction section. “I always loved those space stories. And the really campy ones, I mean. The ones with blue aliens, laser axes, and planets that eat spaceships. You have any of those?”
“Sure.” I motion to a bottom shelf and point out some trade paperbacks in bright neons, smooth pastels, and stylized covers. The art on the covers is better than the books, but it seems to fit the bill. He looks over the books—stuff with titles like Starburst Surprise, Bounty Hunters of Terra Nova, and At the End of the Eclipse. His bag is on the floor and I try to look into it. I make out some sharp lines, angles, and a lot of black. I need an excuse to peer in there. Drop the book again? Trip over him again?
He chooses a book, the bounty hunters one, and grabs the plastic bag. “I think this one will do.” He turns on his feet and walks right by me. I stand next to the shelves and see him take the bend to the front register. “You coming?” I hear the plastic bag crinkle with each of his steps.
I pull at my hair and tuck it behind my shoulders. Following him, I rub my eyes, trying to coerce some read from this guy. At the register I don’t focus on the beep of the keys or ring of change. I keep staring at this guy focusing my eyes on his pudgy ham of a face. The book is $10.15 with tax and I wish he pulls a credit card out of a pocket or that bag—something with a name on it, so I know who he is. But he pays in cash and with exact change.
“I don’t need a bag,” he lifts up his arm and shows me the crinkly plastic hanging from his wrist. “I got my own.”
I tuck the receipt into the book and tell him, “Thanks. Have a good night.”
Bag man says the same, but with a tip of the Xavier Brothers cap. I have never heard of any place like that in town, but I spend the rest of the night pouring over the phonebook. I try Xavier Brothers, then bricks, then masonry, then masons, but nothing. He doesn’t seem from out of town, but the hat must and I close the phone book. I tuck it under the counter and look at my watch—6:35pm. After closing the door and spending 35 minutes of unpaid overtime, I gaze around the street looking for him. There is a pair of parked cars and a jogger that thinks I feel so alive! Bag man isn’t around. I don’t hear the crunch of his plastic bag and I give up on sensing him.
* * *
Next day, I wake up having dreamt of Bag Man. In the dream, he came into the store and left his bag on the counter. I looked into it and saw a burst of light come from the crinkles and folds in the plastic. Then I woke up, a full hour before my alarm. I dress for work slowly, always thinking of Bag Man and still trying to remain collected, like if he were there, staring at me, looking for some sort of reaction to his unreadable state of mind. Outside the leaves on trees hang limp and the most common thought I pick up while walking to work is So hot! At the Broken Quill, Mr. Savona blasts the air conditioning and we have a dozen people loitering in the cool halls, escaping from the heat like Bag Man last night. Xander, the coffee maker breaker, stands at the register and rings up a beaded bookmark this lady is buying because she feels bad that she came in here just to dodge the heat. But it is so hot out there! This will make due.
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Any people from Ithaca might note the similarities to local stores or situations. Or maybe not. All my stories have a decent touch of self-awareness in them, particularly this one. Everything happens too neatly and too well explained. How you exactly "show" and "not tell" is still beyond my grasp.
I had several ideas of where to go with the Bag Man. One would be that he is somewhat mentally disabled. Autism was one specific idea. That would be hard to pull off without cowtowing to disability stereotypes. Another is that he suffered a head injury at the brick works. But that sounds too much like a Daffy Duck routine. I had a change set up for the main character, which is critical to fiction. The narrator, previously annoyed with her power (Who is not named in this excerpt, but in my proposal was called Emily), now needs to find out why the do not work on this man. Her whole life is suddenly thrown off kilter. The idea with Emily was that she had this power since birth. Imagine losing an entire sense or nervous reflex. How it would excactly end is always my big question.
Peace!
