Charles at the bookstore

At noon, my quiet little empty city bursts into life for one hour. All the business professionals and corporate somethings come crawling out of their cubicles and offices for an hour of sunlight, to devour sushi from a styrofoam box and to order a Venti Mocha Frap to get them through to five o'clock. The Tuesday that I went to the bookstore, I had to park all the way in front of T.G.I.Fridays and I had to walk more than the usual 50 feet to get to where I wanted to be. Because for some reason, I decided to go during lunch hour. Genius. Thanks for nothing, corporate scum! I thought as I walked past parking space after parking space taken by a BMW or an Audi. I wanted to slash all their tires. Tuesday has never been my day. 
Walking through the sliding doors into the bookstore was like walking into heaven. There was not a suit to be seen, no briefcases or Bluetooths, just books upon books upon books. I walked slowly, savoring the silence and the smell of new books. A bookstore is a funny kind of place. It's full of words, but no one talks. The words just stay hidden on pages in little secret black characters and no one dares to say them out loud. But it's nice like that. 
I made my way through the maze of bookcases to the section called LITERATURE AND POETRY and began the hunt for the book I needed. I ran my fingertips along the spines of all the books and I imagined them all calling out to me, pleading "Please pick me! Take me home and love me, I want to tell you my secrets." My dears, I thought back at them as I made my way to an orange book with pretty black script on the cover, I can only take one of you. I felt saddened by the fact that I couldn't bring them all home with me, those sad little books with their secret words and meanings. I picked up the orange book and flipped through it's fragrant pages. I was in love. I tucked it under my arm and made one last trip around the bookshelf, picking up books I've read and smiling at them like old friends. I know your secrets, I thought at them as I held them briefly, but I won't tell them to anyone because I like you. I finally came out of the labyrinth ( just barely making it past Camus without picking up another book) and made the short journey to the checkout counter. I put my nice face on and approached the counter. An old, tall, skinny man met me there. His hair was white and thin and messy. "I can help you right here," he said. I set my book down next to the cash register. How are you? I asked. Standard checkout protocol. "Fine," he said back as he examined my selection. "Fine as frog hair." He looked up from my book with this sad little smile and I wanted to die of sadness. I looked at his name tag. "Charles" had been scrawled onto it in black ballpoint pen. I noticed his white tee-shirt. It was too big for him and there was a little hole in his left sleeve. My eyes started to well up. "That'll be $13.64" he said with the big pitiful smile. I handed him a $20 bill. "You got 36 cents?" he asked. I said no I didn't, sorry. He screwed up his eyes behind his little round glasses and entered the price into the register. Slowly, with a careful pointer finger he tapped out some numbers and opened the register to give me my change. "Do you have a Borders Rewards card?" Again with the sad smile. I wanted to tell him to stop smiling and being so happy because he was old and probably alone and probably going to die soon but I just said no, I don't have a rewards card. "Would you like one? They're free!" his enthusiasm was killing me. He was such a nice old man but I just couldn't deal with it. I wanted to get out of the bookstore as soon as possible so I just said sure I want one, so that he wouldn't have to try and convince me to sign up. That would have done it, and I would have been there crying at the register in a bookstore and I would be so embarrassed that I would never be able to go back there, to that bookstore, my favorite place in my quiet empty little town. He asked for my phone number and email address and I obliged. He poked at the keyboard and kept pressing the wrong buttons. "Dag gummit" he said as he searched for the backspace key. He finally typed my information out right and entered it into the system. He handed me my book in a plastic bag with my new Borders Rewards card inbetween it's pages. Have a nice day, I said. "I will, I will." he said, tapping his fingers on the counter with the big smile on his face. I hightailed it out of there, walked for forever to get to my car, got inside it, locked the doors, and I cried.