In a faint squeak and mechanical groan combined with a facsimile of air slowly fumbling from a clumsily mishandled balloon the automatic doors breathe in the early autumn morning. Two employees calming from a chuckle in the settling smoke of an anecdote greet him smiling sincerely; just another man.
{…...........................}, I see him lean over the Information counter obtrusively and whisper. Dirty strands of peppered hair fall against his face in an unkempt, unctuous veil. With an arm and pointed finger angled in my direction, they whisper back.
{“Just the young man!”}.
He explodes to life, flinging his arms open as he tramps in my direction. Dust falls off his coat with each zealous step, twirling in the agitation of his brisk walk. His lips spread wider with each inch of progress towards me; his eyes glare dilated directly into mine. I become enclosed in a pair of calloused hands, gripping and squeezing my shoulders heartily. His enthusiasm overflows into my day, drenching my perception.
“Hi”, I spit out in a joyous crescendo, “Can I do something for you?”
Nodding his head, he searches my eyes, mouth, and hair.
{“Yes...”}
Narrowing from an orbital nowhere, like M.C. Escher's Reflecting Sphere, his arms hold on to me reflecting back from the dime sized pool of his pupils; my face littered with childlike mysticism.
{“...I'm looking for a book. A memoir.”}
His face melts to one of patience and his eyebrows raise to a curious perch on his forehead.
“Let's see what we can do. Do you know the name or author?”
In a position of great stature, he pulls his feet together, standing tall and proud.
{“The name...”}, a deep, lung capacity inhalation, {“is Steps You Haven't Yet Taken.”}
Typing, searching, nothing. “Hmm...”, I murmur standing in the glow of the search engine's lack of results. “Do you happen to know the author's name?”
As he rubs the ashen growth of his chin, pinching and twirling, he studies me further. Hypnotic, yet soothing, his eyes settle into a enigmatic blur of familiarity with their blend of rainforest greens gleaming with longs years of love and loss; pain and triumph.
{“It's been a very long time, I can't remember exactly.”}
His smile morphs, his eyes narrow as if to hint something.
{“I've seen it right here, in this store.”}, he breaks the mutual reverie, crossing his arms more for comfort than confrontation. {“Could we maybe have a look around?”}
Every few steps, he looks toward me while I diligently scan the titles, reaching for alternatives that may suffice. “This is breathtaking!”, I exclaim, shoving a copy of Augustin Burrough's Wolf at theTable in his line of sight. Studying the cover, fork prongs bending inward menacingly amidst the ominous black and red eclipsed cover, he asks,
{“You're not married yet?”}
“Ha! No you need a girlfriend first”
{“Well... you're young...so young...”}
Aisle after aisle and nothing to show for it, except the relinquishing personal information about myself: plans for college, hopes, dreams, passions, etc. Maybe I'm the son figure he never had, one in which to impart his sage years upon and feel like this life that may have not been for nothing. Maybe he's just a bored and lonely old man taking advantage of any opportunity to converse. Passing the neon blue script of the Coffee Shop, we simultaneously laugh at a shirt hanging nearby reading, “Instant Human. Just add coffee.”
“Sir I'm so sorry we couldn't find your book.”, my hands held out, palms up, in a sign of exasperated defeat.
{“What's that?”}, he crones, fingering the rough edges of a U- shaped scar on the underside of my forearm. This permanent reminder of adolescent days gone by; the vortex of a series of past memories I would prefer to not remember.
“Oh...this? Its a burn from a cigarette lighter.”
I trace the blistered skin with my fingertip, reliving that night, and explain, “Supposedly if you do it right, the burn and subsequent scar are supposed to resemble a smiley face.” Shy grin. “I just got a freakish abnormality...”
{“Its not so bad.”}. Words from the wise. {“I appreciate your time and effort.”}
Those eyes...that slightly off-kilter smile...
“I'll keep my eyes open for it. I promise.”
{“Don't bother. You haven't written it yet...”}
Like quicksand, his words creep into my mind; a taste one bud away from recognition. He turns away and walks a few steps then turns back. In a swift motion, he raises a hand into the air, his coat sleeve falling loosely toward his elbow. He waves his hand and below it are the hieroglyphics from the not so distant past; a scar with the frown turned upside down.
Mouth ajar, I watch him walk out the door and all I can think is, “From a distance, it does look like a smiley face.”
