Page 2 of It’s Me They Follow

“Can I have you?” the bearded man asked with a hard stare. She didn’t know how to answer that, so she just stared back, trying to look unphased. Then he caught his mistake. “I mean, it. The book, I mean.”

“Naaah naaah nah naaah,” she sang to lighten the blow of “no” and the breaking of the long stare.

“Your gap is spellbinding,” he said, cutting her off.

He stared at her mouth, then his eyes began to dance with hers.

“I know who you are.” He’d changed the subject again, and then grinned an August Wilson–like grin, getting closer and closer to her.

Though The Shopkeeper loved August Wilson’s grin, more eyes than teeth, she didn’t like people moving close to her.

“Me?” she asked, backing up. “You think you know who I am?” She hoped he wasn’t in her writers’ group. She forgot about people in the group whenever she didn’t like their writing.

“Yes, you. I know exactly who you are. I never thought I’d meet you in person, of course.

I thought you weren’t a real person at all,” he mumbled to himself.

“I could only find bits and pieces of your work online, screenshots and carbon copies, but to find an actual physical book to have and to hold... and now to meet you in person... Mannnnnn I am gonna have a field day with this.” He hugged her book to himself. “It’s... May I?”

She wondered what part of the city he was from.

He looked very North Philly with his bald head and full beard, but he smelled like West or Uptown.

She hoped he wasn’t from Bucks County, claiming Philadelphia when it was convenient, or Pittsburgh, August Wilson’s home, which was a whole other world completely.

She wondered what kind of field day he would have with her book.

“Who still makes carbon copies?” she replied to him with a giggle.

Regardless, The Shopkeeper was pleasantly surprised by the news of a stranger reading her work.

She used to wonder if she was the only person on the planet who read it, and if so, then what would be the point?

It was sad to imagine. That’s why she joined a writers’ group.

At least there she knew she would always have an audience.

She certainly had no idea her pieces were circulating on the internet or that she had any sort of following.

Sharing other people’s work was strictly prohibited in her group.

She still didn’t believe the bearded man, but it was fun to play make pretend with a sweet-smelling, sweet-smiling young writer in the middle of the night on New Year’s.

“Well, the bookshop is not quite open yet. I don’t even have a register...”

“So books are free here?” He picked up a copy of homegirls it was simple.

She was going to sell the books she’d collected over the years as an interior designer, collect more, and continue like that for the rest of her life.

She’d sell anything, except her Sonia Sanchezes, until she finally worked up the courage to go back home Down South to Hampton, Virginia.

Down South was where she’d find the ending of an old chapter.

She was a big-picture thinker, not great with details; she honestly hadn’t thought about what to do if people wanted to buy her books, especially her self-published one. She only had a few copies.

She had a month to figure things out. Or so she thought.

She added to her mental checklist: Get a cash register.

“My book is not free,” she said, and returned to unpacking boxes. It had cost an arm and a leg to self-publish the softcover. She told him so. She wondered if he enjoyed watching her tinker in her bookshop; the thought made her twist her hips a bit when she walked.

“Okay, it’s not for sale, and it’s not for free.

.. I like how you think. It’s like choosing your own adventure .

I guess I can read it right here, then. That’s GENIUS too, though.

.. A bookshop where you have one-on-one time with the author and get to read the only copy of their book with them, praying maybe they’ll choose to give it to you, even though it’s their last copy, and sign it for you, not for free but not at a cost. That’s very you.

Very unusual.” He stopped talking and fanned through her pages; every few seconds, he murmured “hmmms” and “ahhs,” which gave her stomach the birds.

Maybe he’s a playwright. She compared every man to August Wilson. He would have been her perfect match if he were still alive. His skin looked soft. He kept to himself. He dressed like a monk. He loved words. This sweet-smelling man even had August Wilson’s thick wavy beard.

“‘The path with no beginning!’” snapped her back to reality as he quoted from her own book. “I know this one.”

“No, not out loud...” The Shopkeeper tried to snatch the book from him to stop his reading, but she tripped and almost fell into his arms before deciding she didn’t want to risk triggering her haphephobia—touching him, getting shocked, and falling asleep on the bookshop floor.

The other reason she didn’t snatch the book was deep down she wanted to see if he really knew her writing. She softened. “Continue. And if you can recite that entire piece, you can have me... I mean, it. I mean, the book,” she fumbled over her words.

“Signed copy?” he shot back faster than she’d expected.

The Shopkeeper shook her head in a sideways yes while shrugging her shoulders in disbelief.

Without hesitation, he closed her book, placed it down on her desk, and began, loud, clear, proud, slow—the same way that she heard it in her head. “‘THE PATH WITH NO BEGINNING IS WORTH BEGINNING. IT IS WORTH IT TO WALK TO STOMP TO DRAG OR DRIP.’”

He stared her in the eye. She stared back.

He recited more and more.

“‘And with no knowing of what lies ahead, what makes this path most important,’” he continued, “‘are the footsteps that follow...’ This is my favorite part,” he interrupted himself, pointing to an invisible path in the distance between them.

The Shopkeeper was frozen. “‘It’s me they follow.’” He pointed to himself while reciting her last line.

“‘It’s me they follow.’” He tapped his chest repeatedly.

It’s ME they follow. She could only think the words because she could not say them. Or move.

“So yeah, I know who you are. I know exactly who you are.” He grinned. “The question is, do you know who you are?”

She didn’t blink.

He winked.

Not quite sure if he was crazy or funny, cute or otherworldly, The Shopkeeper bit her bottom lip and changed the subject. “Well, we are not quite open yet, sir, but it looks like you’ve made yourself my first... my first... customer.”

“Makes me kinda...” His grin turned into a grimace. He looked disoriented and began to slide down the wall a bit. “Dizzy.”

She extended her hand to him.

“Naaaaah naaah nah naaah,” he sang as he plunked to the ground, still grimacing.

He shimmied his shoulders. “Get it? Will Smith? Only the most conflicting rapper of the twenty-first century, the one you grew up loving but no longer understand—and of course he’s from West Philly.

” Then the bearded man got serious. “No, but really, I would shake your hand or give you a hug, but I don’t. .. I can’t touch you.”

She reached for him without thinking, then immediately jerked her hand back.

“You’ll sign it for me,” the bearded man asked, “and make it a collector’s item?”

“Sure,” she said.

He squeezed the book so tight that her face on the cover wrinkled in his grip.

“Why would anyone handle a book like that?” The Shopkeeper said.

She had always had a quick temper when it came to her books.

“Watch how you’re handling my things.” She wished she’d invested the extra money on a hard copy, but it would’ve cost twice as much to print. “It’s my last one,” she softened.

He corrected himself while she searched for her blue Sharpie and a clever message to write on the title page. “Who should I make it out to?” This was her first time signing a book.

“Make it out to OUR GREAT-GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN WITH LOVE.” He flashed August Wilson’s grin.

She started to write that slowly but was distracted by him still sitting on her bookshop floor.

Can I help you off the floor somehow? The Shopkeeper wanted to say, but the thought of her condition and him touching her and the two of them lying there as her future customers strolled by made her think twice about getting too close.

“No, no, no.” He’d read her mind. “Your writing always has that effect on me. I don’t know why.”

He amused her even if she didn’t believe him.

“It should make you feel something...” she responded, trying to think of something more clever to add, but she had nothing.

“I am something like a monk,” he continued. “Well, something like a monk in training. So in the words of a great philosopher, ‘Naaah naaah nah naaah.’ It’s against the rules for us.” He flashed his August Wilson once more.

This role reversal had never happened to The Shopkeeper before. Usually she was the one fanning out over authors, memorizing lines from books, hyping up Philly, and running from a helping hand.

“I’ll go now.” She watched as he got up.

“I heard you’re not quite open yet.” As he opened the front door, the “dong” of a vintage trolley car dinged by.

“Hold the trolley,” he called out to the driver.

“Can I come back? Pick up my signed copy... later...?” he asked, walking backward toward the trolley.

“I don’t see why not.” She accidentally smiled a real smile, then remembered she was a shopkeeper and she shouldn’t be flirty with customers, especially her first customer—a young something of a monk in training.

She made a straight face, turned up Jill Scott on repeat, and was about to get back to her book business with his smell lingering on in her bookshop air when she noticed that he’d left his leather-bound notebook on the floor.

It looked a lot like one she used to have.

She couldn’t decide if he’d left it by accident or on purpose, but boy, was she tempted to peek inside his mind.