Mind Over Matter - 1. Chapter 1

“Yeah, Mr. D?”

“Joe,” he repeated. “Did you place that magazine order today like I told you to?”

I made my way through the bookshelves until I got to his office door. “Yeah, Mr. D,” I replied. “Right after you gave me the sheet.”

“Well, where is it?” he snapped, rummaging through the piles of papers on his desk. “I don’t see it.” If the Arbor Foundation could see the mounds of crap my boss has hoarded on his desk, they’d faint.

Shaking my head, I wove through stacks of books and files until I got to the back wall. From there I inched my way past his chair to another abnormally tall stack of stuff, which I picked up and dropped – carefully – on the floor. Mr. D’s office looked like a mess, but he usually knew where everything was. Unless, of course, someone else touched it. I’d have to put it all back when I was done. Underneath the lot was an old fax machine. I reached into the feeder tray and pulled out the page he was looking for. “Here,” I said. “I faxed it already.”

“Damn well better have,” Mr. D said irritably, snatching it away from me. “Aren’t you supposed to be sweeping?”

I picked up the stack I’d moved, set it back on the fax machine and threaded my way out of the office. There wasn’t any point in answering him, I knew. We’d just get into a fight, say a bunch of stuff we didn’t really mean, he’d fire me, I’d storm out and we’d be back together to open the store in the morning. If I kept my mouth shut, I wouldn’t have to freeze my ass off tonight. I live over the store. If he gets pissed at me, he can turn down the heat.

I’ve been working in Mr. D’s bookstore for about a year now. He seemed like a grouchy old man – and he was – but he was basically a good guy. Better than most. Hell, probably better than all of them. When I first walked into his store all that time ago after seeing a sign in the window saying ‘help wanted’, his attitude took me by surprise.

“You gonna rip me off?” he asked, when I told him I was there to apply for the job.

“No sir.”

He stared at me over his glasses for a second and then asked, “What the hell do you know about books?”

I stared right back at him and said, “I know I like them a hell of a lot better than people.”

He smiled then. “Damn right,” he muttered. “Let’s go in the office.”

My interview lasted all of an hour. At the end of it all, he handed me a form (where he got it from, I never found out. His office was a hell-hole even then) and told me to fill it out. When I got to the part of the application form that asked if I knew of anything that might affect my ability to work, I tossed the pen down and sat back in my chair with a sigh.

“All done?” he asked, reaching for the paper. I waited, tension crawling up my spine and tugging the hair at the back of my neck, while he read my responses.

I gotta give the old man credit. He didn’t say much, just lifting his eyebrows once or twice. When he was through he set the paper down and looked at me. “You didn’t finish it,” he said. That was all.

“No,” I replied. I knew I wasn’t going to get the job. In a minute, he would too.

“Why not?”

I didn’t answer right away. He took off his glasses and waited. At last I said, “I’m homosexual.”

I braced myself. Back when I was younger and realized I was gay, I’d done some snooping around on the internet. I’d read all the stories about guys like me – good home, loving parents, average kid, well-liked – and knew that if my secret ever got out, I’d be okay. I’d also read the information websites on ‘coming to terms with your sexuality’, STDs and the rest. I thought then that I’d make it through alright if it ever got out that I was gay. I had a good family, good friends and a good school. My support system was in place.

I was an idiot.