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- 11/13/2015
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Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are based on the authors' lives and experiences and may be changed to protect personal information. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
My LIfe: In Pieces - 1. One Who Saw Me
One Who Saw Me
I was tired of day-time TV, of smoking dope and blowing Jeff as ways to pass the afternoons. Today I put on my too-thin coat and cheap second-hand boots; I took $10 out of the orange tobacco tin that held all my money, and decided to go buy a book to read. The thrift store was the best place to buy second-hand books.
On a good day it was a 30-minute walk, today you could add another 10 minutes to that; sleet came down heavily making slippery conditions even worse. I’d always gone to the thrift store if I was in the area. It was warm there and I liked to look at the books. But I was the wrong sort of poor person to be in there, and the women who ran the place usually chased me out after figuring out I wasn’t going to buy anything. Today I made sure I had some money.
I was soaked through and shivering by the time I made it to the store. My hands were frozen. Inside was warm and I made my way over to the bookshelves. I was almost 17 years old at this time and I knew I either had to give up or keep trying to learn on my own. So, I looked on the shelves for books that could teach me something, and I found National Geographic, and I found old school books and a math text book. The National Geographic’s were 10 for $2.00, and I picked an English book and a math book, those were 50-cents each.
As I stood choosing the books, one of the clerks came to and told me I couldn’t loiter in the store. I said to her I wasn’t, that I had money. But she took my books and told me to go, or she’d call the police. I didn’t need the police in my life again, so I turned away and started to walk to the door. As I did, I looked at the cash desk and I saw a new woman there. She was short but had a beehive type hairdo; it was black and silver. I remember because the silver was so bright. I felt like crying at the unfairness of it all as I walked out and she watched me go.
It was awful out, rain now mixed with sleet, and the ground was icy. I stood outside and waited to see if it would slow down some or stop. I was so cold and I couldn’t stop shaking. I guess I’d been out there about 15 minutes, when the little woman from the store appeared beside me.
She held out a Tim’s cup to me and a bag. “Here, please. Take this, it’s hot and there’s a donut in the bag. You come back into the store with me. I’m the new manager, Isabella. Come on.”
I shook my head to all of it and walked away – into the shitty weather and went home. By the time I got in I knew I was sick. I barely made it upstairs, to our couple of rooms.
Jeff saw me come in and I fell to my knees, dizzy and ill. He got up and helped me out of my wet clothes. He rubbed me with a towel until I was warm. “Jesus, Timmy. What the fuck are you doing?”
He put me to bed and boiled some water and made me weak tea. I was in bed sick for the next few days. I had terrible congestion and a worse cough. Jeff really didn’t know what to do for me. He found a dealer who got him some antibiotics; I have no clue what kind, but he gave them to me and after a few hours I began to feel a little better. It was a while before I went back to the street. But I did eventually, working johns at night, and sleeping during the day.
In February, on the next sunny day, I left Jeff sleeping, and walked back down to the thrift store. This time I wasn’t going to let them throw me out, I’d show them I had the money to pay for what I wanted. I felt scared when I got there, nervous there’d be some kind of argument.
I looked in before I opened the door and saw the kind manager, Isabella there. Sucking in a deep breath, I went in and headed to the books. I dug around searching for the books I’d picked out last time. I found them eventually and it was like déjà vu – as soon as I found them, the same clerk was back, telling me to go.
“I have money,” I said to her. “I just want these; I’ll pay for them and then I’ll fucking go.”
She grabbed my coat sleeve, but I managed to shrug her off and head to the cash desk.
As I got there, Isabella was coming around the desk. She looked concerned. “Laurie, what is going on? Why are you bothering this young man?”
“He’s always in here, loitering; he never buys anything.”
Laurie was right behind me. I stopped and backed away from them both. I was upset and blushing red. “I have the fucking money! I told you that. I’m paying and then I’ll go.”
Laurie started to say something but Isabella held up her hand. “Laurie I’ll look after this. Please go and tidy the china. We need some shelf space. There’s a lot to put out.”
Glaring at me, Laurie walked away.
Isabella turned to me. “It’s all right. Please, come up here and we’ll get it sorted out.” She walked back around the counter. She held out her hands and I gave her the books.
“Okay, well that will be $3.00 altogether.” She smiled at me as I handed her my $10.00 bill. She gave me change. “I see you have some school books, do you have paper? I think I have some notepads or books around here. Just wait a minute, okay?”
“Um … okay.” I wondered how much they’d cost, but I figured that I’d need some.
She was gone for about five minutes. As she returned she was smiling and said, “Look at these, some proper school workbooks, and there was a package of pencils, an eraser and a sharpener.” She put them in the bag with my books.
“Um ... how much is all of that?” I didn’t want to spend money unless I had to.
“Will $1.00 be okay?”
I gave her a loony and thanked her.
She smiled at me. “I’m Isabella. May I ask your name?”
“Tim.”
“Well, Tim it’s nice to meet you. I’m here Monday to Friday. You come anytime and I’ll be happy to help you, okay?”
I nodded at her and said thank you. I picked up my package and walked back home.
Jeff of course, teased me terribly, but I was determined not to lose what I knew and I wanted to try to learn more – whore or not.
I was back in the thrift store in March and Isabella insisted this time I take some fiction to enjoy, and she had also put aside a book of poetry. I told her I wasn’t into it, but she said I should read it at least.
I did and I found it was enjoyable, and that you could use it to tell a story or share feeling and thoughts.
She asked me if I could return the next time on a specific date. I said I probably could. So I returned to the store on April 20th. Isabella was alone and was closing early. She locked the doors and had me follow her into the back room. I was a bit concerned as to what was going on, but she had me sit at the small table back there and proceeded to heat up a plate of lasagna for me. We sat and had lunch together. It had been three years since I’d tasted homemade food of any kind. It was beyond delicious.
Isabella was talking about books she loved and about the poems she’d given me.
“Well, Tim? What did you think of them?”
I swallowed the last of my lunch and thanked her. “I enjoyed them very much. I even wrote one. I’m not too good at it, but, well here it is.” I pulled the paper where I’d scrawled it from my pocket.
She smiled as she took it from me to read.
Some fathers love their sons,
Others despise them deeply.
What crime did you commit, boy?
Your birth an untold horror – no.
Your only crime, you say?
Was to be born gay.
She folded it up and said, “Tim, that’s good for your first poem. You must keep on writing. Do you have this written somewhere else? May I keep it?”
“You want it?” I was surprised but not really surprised; she was so nice. “Yeah I do, so sure, keep it.”
She handed me another book and said, “This is my gift to you. This man is a Canadian poet. His name is Raymond Souster. I hope you enjoy these.”
I saw her again a few times. She always put books aside for me. I could read them and return them, or I’d pay for them if I wanted them. She’d often send me home with food as well.
One day I went to the store, and she wasn’t there. I asked the manager, but she said she’d only heard that Isabella had passed away – that she’d been ill for a while. The woman at the desk asked me my name and I told her.
“Wait a minute. There’s something here for you. Isabella’s husband brought it and said I had to make sure a young man named Tim got this – that you’d probably ask after her. Wait now, it’s here ….” She squatted down to look under the counter.
Getting up, she handed me a package of brown paper. I thanked her and left the store. My friend, someone I could actually call a friend, was dead. I felt so sad. Isabella had been a wonderful person.
I got home and unwrapped the package. I couldn’t hold my tears when I saw a beautifully bound book, The Collected Poems of Raymond Souster. There was also a pen and pencil set and a note that read:
Tim,
You are so much more than what you do. Don’t be afraid and take the chance when it comes, because it will. I’ll be gone when you get this, but I’ll always be in your heart when you think of me.
Love
Isabella
I never forgot her and still remember her as one of the few people I met who wasn’t afraid of me, one of the few who saw me.
Oh and I just remembered, it was your idea I write this piece.
So thank you for that too.
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Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are based on the authors' lives and experiences and may be changed to protect personal information. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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