Jim

He's big and round and his pock-marked face is accented by a scraggly goatee. His eyes are black and set deep into their sockets. His hair is stringy and greasy and sparse on top. He keeps it long at the back, and tied in a ponytail. His distended belly precedes his arrival behind the cash register. His name is Jim and he owns the book store just around the corner. He's kinda creepy. Actually, the man has always given me the heebie-jeebies but until today, I didn't quite know why. I greeted him this afternoon as I entered his shop.

"Hey Jim. What's goin' on today?"

"Not much, Dale," he answered. "Long time no see. Where you been?"

Jim's a Newfoundlander. He speaks with a discernable east coast dialect, although he refuses to admit it.

"I fell and broke my leg back in February," I told him.

I'm so tired of relating that story, Ms J.

"Broke yer leg?!" Jim exclaimed as he worked and wiggled to extricate himself from the tight space there behind the counter.

It's a book store, alright. But it's no Chapters or Barnes and Noble. There are thousands of books - used books - on homemade wooden shelves standing taller than a man can reach. Still more books are contained in dozens of cardboard boxes, piled high on the dusty plank floor. Others are stacked willy-nilly behind, beside and upon the painted plywood counter. The dusty musty air in the shop smells of dusty musty books. I don't know how he stays in business. He seems rarely to have customers.

"What happened?" asked Jim as he approached me.

"Fell down the stairs," I answered, for what seemed the millionth time.

"Where? At home? Work? Where?"

He was standing too close to me and I felt uncomfortable. I took a small step back and bumped up against a carton of paperbacks.

"Church," I said and I wished he'd back up a little. I could see the blackheads on his oily nose.

"What'd the wife say?"

It was an odd question, Ms J. Incongruous, somehow. My wife? Was he trying to find out if I was married? If so, why? It was none of his business, was it? Why was he always so interested in my personal Life? I decided to be less than open with him.

"Not much," I said. I was feeling cornered and threatened. This guy was really making me feel ill at ease.

"Not much? Whadda ya mean 'not much'? You don't even have a wife, do you?"

And then he did something really strange. He grabbed the hem of my sweatshirt and lifted it, exposing my bare stomach. I was shocked, Ms Journal! Shocked and outraged. Angry. I felt violated. Is that the right word? Too strong, I think. But he had touched me and in doing so, had invaded my aura. He'd stepped over my boundary and into my private space. Son of a bitch! I pushed him out of my way and stepped around him.

"Fuck off, Jim," I said. "Don't you touch me. Don't ever touch me, OK?"

I hobbled to the back of the shop to be alone and to collect my thoughts. I was angry and, to be completely honest Ms J, a little frightened. Jim was gay. That's why I'd always felt anxious in his store. Jim was a homosexual who was attracted to me and he wanted ... Well, I can imagine what he wanted.

But I was at the back of the shop. Jim was at the front. I'd have to walk past him to get out. Things were bad. The tension was nearly palpable. My mind whirled. I pretended to browse the titles on the shelves, but I was actually trying to think of a way to help both of us feel better.

"Got anything by C.S. Lewis?" I called. I sounded pretty calm.

"Yeah," he called back. "Should be right there. Nearly in front of you."

I looked down.

"No. Up," he said. "Up. Just above your head."

I looked down the row at him. He was pointing to a spot somewhere above my head. I looked up and prayed.

Please, God. Just let me find this fucking book. Don't make him come down here to help me.

And there it was.

I grabbed a tattered paperback copy of "Mere Christianity" and walked as calmly and as deliberately as I could to the cash register. I wished I'd been brave enough to have simply walked out the door but I'd fled instead to the back of the shop. Now, I just wanted things to be normal again. And I wanted to get the hell out of there. I paid for my book and as I left, I thanked Jim as though nothing had happened.

Safely at home later, I replayed what had happened at the book store. I don't think I was imagining it. Jim was attracted to me. What does that mean, then? Gay men are attracted to me? All gay men? Am I gay? Do I look gay? Do I exude some sort of gay vibe? I was not attracted to Jim. I find the man repugnant, gay or otherwise. What if Jim had been handsome and fit? How might I have felt then? I believe I might have been a little flattered that someone found me attractive. That's the Truth. But would things have turned out any differently?

No, Ms J. They would not.

***