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This is a fictional story involving alternative sexual relationships. If this type of material offends you, please do not read any further. This material is intended for mature adult audiences. Names, characters, locations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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********************************************************************** Age Before Beauty By Tom Cup Chapter 2 Shop Talk
When the shop's doorbell jingled, announcing an entrance, I was busy in the back sorting some new additions to the store's collection. I called out my greeting and stated that the visitor was free to look around, and that I was quite at the visitor's service. My shop, "The Book Loft," is in a quaint area of town. When I opened the shop, some fifteen years ago, one would have said the cheap part of town. Since that time, storeowners and restaurateurs wanting to avoid the high priced retail space of the city have moved into this neighborhood. We have a nice, thriving, community with a diversity of shops and slow pace of living that draws people from the busied, harsh, sales regime of the city.
So I didn't rush to see who my visitor might be, or greedily rub my hands together anxious to make a sale; or, for that matter, worry that it might be some miscreant looking to steal my property. We chatted informally through the shelves as I placed, arranged and rearranged one book or another. I invited him to help himself to coffee and to brows my selection with dignified ease or to sit in one of the comfortable chairs or tables that I provided for my regulars -- I always keep a pot of fresh coffee, a mixture of Kenyan and French roast, on a side counter away from my books, of course. There are comfortable chairs tucked in various nooks and crannies, one leather couch against the front window and a few small tables sporting board games; a number of the older crowd visited the shop to play chess or checkers, sip coffee and chat, which I didn't mind because being a rare and out of print book dealer can at times be fairly lonely work.
"You really do have a nice collection here, Terrance."
It was at that moment I realized that it was Troy that was visiting me. It had been several weeks since our first encounter, and though I remembered that encounter fondly, I had not dared to hope that we would meet again. There are moments in our lives that can be spoiled by analyzation. We look at the wonder of those moments and then attempt to fill them with hopes and dreams that turn them into something that they are not. In that dimwitted failure of trying to make something that possessed the essence of uniqueness better, we often make it commonplace and thereby destroy its' innate magic. My first encounter with Troy was such a moment and I had refused to sully it with foolish dreams. I wanted it to remain as it was, unencumbered by childish fancy or aging fantasy. And yet my heart raced at the realization that Troy had come to visit my store, and perhaps, to visit me.
I stepped out into the center aisle. Troy was leaning against the front counter staring in my direction, smiling. He straightened as I approached and we embraced. My heart was giddy, yet I relaxed into a reserved contentment. I was happy to see my young friend, happy to allow the moment to unfold as it willed.
"It's good to see you again," I stated the obvious.
"And you," he answered.
"How did you... ?"
"Oh," he laughed, "first I called information and tried "Crawford's Books," "Terrance's Books," and "Crawford Rare Books," no good. Then I called Joe at the bar and asked if you had been around. He told me you hadn't. I was about to hang up when he said if I wanted to get a hold of you that I should try here. So here I am."
I smiled. I owed Joe big time. Joe was a curious fellow and most likely the reason I had become a regular at the Hat Trick -- it was a curious name for a gay bar. I asked Joe about the name one night, he grinned widely, shaking his head, as he was apt to do and said, "Could be cause the proprietor owned two bars before this one and he figured three time's a charm; or maybe he figured that most gay men were secretly hockey fanatics and thought it was clever; or maybe, just maybe, he bought the place after getting laid for the third time in one day!" In many ways, Joe was as alien to the bar as I. As I got to know him, I learned that he didn't drink or smoke. He was bright with knowledge in a well-rounded group of categories. He was an excellent conversationalist and an avid reader. Of those that I had met at the Hat Trick, Joe was the only one, until Troy, to visit my shop.
So it wasn't a curious thing that since my first meeting with Troy the dim lights and dimmer wits of those at the bar offered me no comfort. The thought of returning to the bar and being questioned by lecherous minds as to the nature of my evening with Troy made me ill. Joe would have been curious but dignified enough not to ask. The others would have pried into my personal feelings, hoping to excite their loins vicariously through an evening that I didn't want to share with anyone. My time with Troy was a gentle, precious, moment in the aging life of one gay man. I wanted to keep it to myself.
"Well, I can't say that I'm not pleased to see you," I offered timidly.
He laughed. "I hoped that you wouldn't mind." Troy had a way of bowing his head and looking up at me through his banged hair that could only be described as looking at me with doe eyes; the look that endeared "Bambi" to both children and adults. Had it been someone else looking at me as Troy did, I might have thought it a flirting, practiced, and even a pretentious look, but with Troy all the childhood innocence remained. He was truly doubtful as to whether I would be pleased to see him.
"Of course I don't mind. Truly, I am happy to see you."
Troy took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Again he looked up into my eyes. He blushed slightly and I realized that he was nervous. I had been so caught up in my own nervousness, the fear of knowing how easily I could fall for this young man, that I hadn't appreciated the fears that Troy might harbor.
"I thought about our meeting quite a bit," Troy told me as we made ourselves comfortable on the couch, respectful distances apart but facing each other, "it took me a week to convince myself to look you up and then when I called the Hat Trick and discovered you hadn't been back in since that night, well..."
"You thought I wasn't as interested as I seemed."
"Yeah, I suppose. That or that you really were after just a quick lay."
I laughed. He blushed. "But you pursued me anyway."
He nodded. "It was Joe really. He said you were worth pursuing, that you are a really good guy." He shook his head as if trying to wake himself from a dream and began to stand. "What am I doing here? This is crazy."
I instinctively grabbed his hand. I wanted to pull him to me. I wanted to wrap him in my arms and tell him I was scared too; that I didn't know where our meeting was leading us but that I hadn't been able to get him off my mind. I didn't want to stop thinking about him. I loved thinking about him. I loved being with him. The doorbell rang. I released his hand and his eyes. It was Molly.
Molly owned the bric-a-brac store three doors down. Tuesdays were a bit slow in the neighborhood so Molly, a lonely unprofessed lesbian, and I would head across the street to CeeCee's -- a small restaurant that was a cross between a diner and a European café. We could watch our shops from the front window, chat, and share each other's company. Though the subject of each other's sexuality never came up, it was refreshingly obvious to me that Molly wasn't interested in a male as a love interest, as our conversation some times dead panned as she gawked some female passerby. Neither of us commented on her interest or my disinterest in such spectacles. We enjoyed our non-committal artsy and bookish trade conversations, and that was enough.
"Oh," Molly said taking in the scene and recovering quickly but keeping her eyes fixed on Troy, "Hi, Terry. It's dead at my place and I thought you might like to grab a quick bite but I see you have a visitor."
Troy was standing and facing her. Molly wore a polite smile and she fortuitously looked from Troy to me, and back again. I stood and placed my left hand on Troy's back -- I wanted him to know I wasn't ashamed to be seen with him -- as I began the introductions.
"Molly Hinz, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine Troy..." And that was when it occurred to me that I didn't even know Troy's last name. I felt childish and foolish at the same time. Here I was, fifty-one years old, suppressing the hope, no, envisioning against all reason that Troy and I were falling in love and I didn't even know his last name. Molly extended her hand and Troy took it graciously.
"Allen," Troy said, "Troy Allen."
"Well, it is nice to meet you Troy Allen," Molly responded, "How about it, you guys up for a bite?"
"Well, I ..." Troy began as his head swung from Molly to me several times.
"I could use a bite," I offered, "What do you say Troy?"
"I really should be going Terrance," Troy answered. I sighed as he eyed me bashfully, a hint of rosiness rising in his cheeks. Molly quickly excused herself after smiling into my eyes and saying that she would be at CeeCee's. I was thankful for her thoughtfulness. She told Troy that it was a pleasure meeting him and that she hoped he would visit us again, soon. She left without applause. I liked Molly.
"I wish you would reconsider," I whispered as the bell tones floated in the air.
"I know. This is just getting weird. I mean, this is not my style. I don't even know what I'm doing here. You know?"
"I know," I answered taking his hand, "But I don't care. I'm glad you came by and I want to see you again. Can I call you?"
Some smiles are like the fragrance of spring. Troy had such a smile. He glanced toward the register counter, moved smoothly past me and found my pen and note pad. After handing me the information he wrote unhurriedly on the paper, we embraced. His whispered, "I got to go. See you later, OK?" sounded like a song to me. I inhaled the fragrance of that embrace, deeply. We held each other longer than a good-natured manly hug but not long enough for the embrace to be considered socially inappropriate. And then he was gone. I sat for a moment on the couch staring across the street at CeeCee's, reveling in the potential of a relationship with Troy, struggling to bring my head down out of the clouds and yet desirous of being swept away by euphoria. Managing to re-engage in reality, I rose, locked the door to my shop and crossed the street to join Molly.
"Oh no," Molly said. I turned my gaze from staring out of the window at my shop to her eyes, which peered over the triple sized tea cup for which CeeCee's gained popularity. "Terry, I know we have never talked about this and it is certainly none of my business but, my god, he's at least half your age."
I sighed. Molly had ordered the special, as usual; today it was an eggplant Parmesan sandwich with roasted red bell peppers, mozzarella cheese and garlic aioli on a toasted oregano scented hoagie roll. It sounded intriguing but I had no appetite and sat silently staring out the window. Molly, to her credit, had been content to sit silently with me enjoying her lunch. But the silence at the table was uncharacteristic and we both were conscious of that fact. There was no denying that something was on my mind; and that something was someone named Troy. I produced a half smile.
Molly rolled her eyes, shook her head, sighed and shrugged her shoulders. At forty-three, Molly showed a wisdom and patience beyond her years, with a mixture of the lasciviousness of youth. I found her refreshing and charming. She continued to shake her head.
"Really Terry," she continued, "I think you could be in for a heartbreak and I would hate to see that. I really like you."
"I know. I'm being a fool but I can't help myself," I answered feeling the heat rising to my face.
"Well can't say I haven't been there, done that. What a pair we make," she sighed.
"Molly," I ventured, "Is there anyone in your life? I mean, we have known each other for what? Three years?"
"Almost four since I opened "Things Remembered."
"Yes and this conversation never came up. Don't you think it's strange?"
"Not really. I figured you were gay and figured you knew I was gay. So, no big deal. I'm sure you are as disinterested in who I bed as I am with who you go down on. So we were free to simply enjoy each other's company. But I'm worried about you now Terry. I know it's silly. We see each other for an hour or so every Tuesday, wave at each other as we close up shop each day and here I am poking my nose into your business. I need my head examined."
"No, you're just being a friend. I'm the one that should have my head examined. I can't explain it, Molly. There is something special about him. And don't raise those eyebrows at me like that; it's not my hormones talking. He's special. I know it."
"OK, Terry. I'll make you a deal. If things don't work out and you need someone to help pick up the pieces of your heart, I'll be there for you; as long as you promise that when I make a fool move on some nineteen year old babe you'll hit me over the head with a baseball bat."
"Well," I laughed, "I can't promise to hit you with anything but I'll return the favor of this sobering conversation."
"Terry," she said, "I'll need the baseball bat then as much as you need one now."
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Tom Cup's "Of Our Teenage Years" is scheduled for publication and release in paperback in 2004. Check it out at http://www.tomcup.com!