I mean he was kidding, right?

“Don’t you just love Stephen King?”

“Who doesn’t?”

He’s not stupid. I’ll give him that. He read my face and he didn’t like it but he ate the chicken sandwich. And you know what? He didn’t puke after. But he’s a nervous wreck and a slob and he misses the toilet when he pisses and twice he has vomited all over the toilet. And twice I’ve had to cuff him to the cage and clean up his mess. Labor is cleaning up a pansy’s fluids after you just restocked the shelves and the window display with the new Stephen King for the third time in one fucking day while dealing with all the people who worship Stephen King bombarding the store for the Big New Stephen King Book that they all need on the same fucking day because God forbid they opened their eyes to a lesser-known author. People. What can you do, right?

My phone buzzes and it’s 6:00 P.M. and it’s official. The only books I sold today besides Stephen King are those Rachael Ray cookbooks and no wonder Benji never read any of his favorite books because most people don’t read anymore and this is not the way I want to be when I’m less than three hours away from sitting with you on the steps.

“They say this is his best book yet.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Curtis will be here in ten minutes because he’s supposed to get here at six and he’s never been on time because he’s part of Generation Benji, all busy with his fake life in his fucking gadgets, tinderokcupidinstagramtwitterfacebookvinebullshitnarcissism incorporatedonlinepetitionsfantasyfuckingfootball. I’d love to fire him, but he respects me so I let him stay even though he asked me to hold a Stephen King book for him and listens to Eminem through unnecessarily giant headphones and takes like a year to read a single fucking book.

“Did you read this yet?”

“It just came out today.”

“Well, they must ship them a day early, though. You can’t tell me you didn’t read the first chapter.”

“No, I didn’t read the first chapter. Is this gonna be cash or charge?”

I wait. The after-work depressed book buyers are coming steady, going home to their dungeons to let Stephen King distract them from their pathetic, lonely lives. We’re so lucky, Beck. So much of America—Benji included, cuz I’m a nice guy and I gave him one before I took off—is gonna be hunkered down reading Stephen King tonight but you and I are gonna be out living our own lives together. I pity these people.

“Do you mind if I run over and grab another book?”

“Actually, we’ve got a line and I already ran your card.”

And there’s no way I’m pissing off everyone so this broad can buy some Candace Bushnell because she is so slow to realize that she doesn’t like Stephen King. She’s only buying it because of the crowds. It’s the original virus, this kind of shit.

6:06 now and I know what you’re doing. You’re smearing on eyeliner to get that Olsen-twin eye you think you need to look hot, which you don’t. You’re blasting your Bowie, Rare and Well Done—the music you play before you go on a date, music that makes you feel cool, crutch music you can talk about when you feel insecure—and you’re deciding which little tank top best accompanies which little bra and eventually all of it gets to you and you’re on your green pillow because the only way to get bed head is to get in the bed and fuck yourself. It’s true what they say about you chicks being dirtier than us dudes, you are. I’m still keeping up with your e-mails as I wait for credit cards to run and you girls e-mail each other about your bodily events. It’s all so un-Victorian. You are a Bowie girl, futuristic in your clinical control of your skin and your eyelashes you get sewn on in Chinatown, so crass that you tell your friends you’re gonna rub one out before our date.

Rub one out.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you all set?”

“Yes. Can I have a bag for the book or are you gonna charge me extra?”

6:08 and the next dude in line is buying the new King and The Shining just to be bold—he calls The Shining a prequel and I want to cut his face—and what an awful world it is out there, Beck. What a miracle that you came in here, so happy, when most of the people who come in are so miserable, everyone except for you and me and Curtis, who holds the door for Mr. Shining and starts with his bullshit.

“Dude the L train is wacked.”

“Take over the register.”

“Fifteen minutes I stood there. Nothing.”

“It’s nothing but Stephen King tonight so you can close when the last copy goes.”

“Cool. But, like, I just really need the hours.”

6:11 and the punk wants hours and it’s a waste of my time and I gotta get hot for you and clean for you and close my paper cuts and brush my teeth with my new Tom’s natural toothpaste (thanks, Benji!) and I clench my jaw but Curtis is dense and not good at reading faces because of the way his head is shoved in his phone most of the time.

“Just close up after the King is done.”

“Yeah, this city can blow me if it can’t even get a train to run on time, you know, brother?”

“Just try and text if you’re gonna be late next time.”

“You look beat, son. Go on. I got this.”

The little Beastie Boy motherfucker was late and I’m his boss and he is calling me son and the last thing in the world I need is this little shit telling me I look tired.

“You got a line, Curtis,” I say and when I walk outside, away from the basement, away from the books, I smile at nothing, at the idea of you, like me, preparing. You’re probably on your green pillow because it’s almost time and for the first time in a long time I head home with drippy Simon & Garfunkel in my head because it’s not Stephen King Book Day anymore, Beck. This night is ours.

11

I don’t get home until seven and I’m not out of the shower until 7:15 and I stub my fucking toe on one of my typewriters and there’s blood but I won’t see this as an omen. The typewriter—Hector, an ’82 Smith Corona I found in an alley off Bushwick—was in the way, but I’m nervous and maybe a little bloodshed’s good for the nerves and fuck, maybe Hector’s nervous too. You’ll meet them all soon, Beck, all the typewriters I collect because one day, the computers will all blow up and I’ll be the man with twenty-nine (and counting) beat-up machines and everyone will be standing in line to get into my apartment and buy one. Because obviously, one day, the world is gonna reverse and I’m just waiting.

You like that movie with that guy who pulls a rickshaw around Canada and that dude’s mostly about the white T-shirt so I’m going for a classic white V-neck tee and jeans and the belt I found at the Army Navy store. The buckle is big, but not in a bullshit Ryan Adams kind of way. It’s the real deal and it’s old and dented and you’re gonna wanna touch it when you see it because it’s just like the one the cowboy in your story wears.

I get onto the subway and I text you:

Running a little late.

You text me right back:

Me too.

The road goes by in a slow flash because I’m not really on this train. I’m so excited to see you that the world doesn’t even exist right now. I get off the train and send a tweet from Benji:

I’d fuck Miley Cyrus. For the record. #deepthoughts

And I’m done with my work and the air is perfect and when I arrive in Union Square I hide behind a kiosk and watch you arrive at the steps and look around for me and sit down and wait for me. It’s 8:35 and you were lying, you weren’t running late. You were just as excited as me. I text you:

Sorry. Be there by 8:45.

And I watch you text me back:

No worries. Me too! See you at 8:45.

You care what I think and you’re nervous and I’m nervous and at 8:52 I take my first step toward you and I can hear my heart in my throat, I can’t believe it’s happening, us, together. You see me coming and you smile and wave and you stand up to greet me and you look so fresh and clear-eyed and ready and you bite your lower lip and you smile with every part of your body and you play. “You’re late, mister.”