David Jackson: The Helper

She doesn’t know it yet, but she needs his help.

The special kind of assistance only he can provide.

He’s in a used bookstore, pretending to browse. She’s behind the counter, pretending she hasn’t noticed that her favorite customer has graced her with his presence. Which would be difficult, seeing as he’s the only customer here. He was the sole customer here last time, too. And the time before that.

He wonders how the hell this place manages to stay in business.

It’s called Brownlow’s Book Emporium, which makes it sound like something straight out of a Dickens novel. Not that Mr Fuzzypubes or Ebenezer Scrotum or whoever would seem out of place in an antiquated dump like this. Listen carefully and you’ll swear you can hear the scratching of ink-dipped quills on parchment.

The tiny store is squeezed incongruously between a Laundromat and a massage parlor, here on East Tenth Street. Farther along the street there’s a place offering tarot reading. The owner of Brownlow’s might be well advised to drop in there for a quick peek into his future. Alternatively, he could compare the present with the past by turning the corner onto Fourth Avenue. The stretch running from Astor Place up to Union Square was once known as Book Row. In its heyday it offered a home to something like four dozen bookstores. Now they’re all gone, which says something about the book trade. And when even the big players like Borders are struggling with the recession, how the hell does the owner of Brownlow’s Book Emporium even manage to pay the staff?

The man wonders if there is something about the book-buying business of which he remains blissfully ignorant. Some special time of day when a plague of frantic bookworms descends and purchases every dusty volume on the shelves. Maybe he should ask the girl.

She’s looking at him.

Even when she’s not looking at him, she’s looking at him. She’s one of those people who can keep their head in a fixed position while their eyeballs roam around and take in the surroundings. Like a gecko or chameleon or some other creepy reptile.

Not that she’s repulsive. She wouldn’t shatter a camera lens. But on the other hand she’ll always be a stranger to the catwalk. For one thing, she has no bone structure. Her contours are buried beneath a thick layer of pallid flesh. And a million freckles congregate around the bridge of her nose like they’ve come to hear the sermon on the mount.

These things he could overlook. He could easily while away a few hours talking to a girl whose primary drawback is a spherical dotted head.

But the sniffing, no. Not the sniffing.

She does it every few seconds. She does it so often it’s a wonder she isn’t dizzy with oxygen overload. It’s probably the reason her face looks so inflated.

Stop the sniffing, girl. Let some of that air out so we can see your cheekbones.

He guesses she’s not aware of the habit. That it has never occurred to her that her frequent snorting just might be a source of intense irritation to others. That maybe it’s one of the reasons she’s stuck behind the counter of this dingy little bookstore in the East Village.

Nonchalantly, he reaches at random for a book. Moby Dick , it’s called, and it’s not even pornographic. Although it could be called obscene. Heading out to sea to kill a big whale just because it’s, well, big. And things aren’t much different now either, the way those so-called ‘research’ programs involve hunting down those innocent blubbery creatures.

Speaking of which. .

No, that’s too cruel. She’s not fat. Not even especially overweight, in fact, although she could do with a little more muscle tone. She should try hefting a few of these books around instead of sitting there scribbling in her little notebook all day.

He opens the first page of his book and reads. Call me Ishmael . Well sure, if that’s your name. Pleased to meet you, Ishmael. My name’s. .

What is my name today?

It needs to be something with a hint of mystery, an undercurrent of danger. A name a spy might have. Or the hero in a cowboy movie. Something like John Rambo or James Bond.

Hi. The name’s Gordon. Flash Gordon. Wanna see why I’m called Flash?

He feels her eyes on him.

They’re her redeeming feature, those eyes. Huge and wide and wet, they make Bambi look shifty in comparison. She doesn’t realize what an asset those peepers are. She should use them to her advantage a little more often.

Her tits too. That’s quite a rack she’s got there. If she unfastened a couple of buttons she’d have guys eating out of her hand and drooling into her cleavage.

He looks across at her and she bows her head even further. She brings pen to paper, pokes out her tongue in mock concentration. But he knows that in another few seconds her head will tilt slightly upwards and her eyes will roll around in their sockets until they can lock onto him again.

She’s smitten, is what she is.

He’s not surprised by this, and he acknowledges it without arrogance. Girls go for him. They find him attractive. Years ago he went to live in Paris, France. The only thing he was good at was languages — science and technology just never interested him — so moving somewhere where his forte might actually come in useful seemed a potentially fruitful idea at the time. He ended up teaching English at a girls’ school.

Now that was an experience.

It began with the suggestive remarks. Passages of text would be deliberately mistranslated to give them lewd overtones. Some of the girls would exploit any opportunity to sit next to him, sidling up close and sucking on their pencils, one too many buttons unfastened on their virginal white blouses. Others would jockey for position at the front of the classroom, affording them an optimal view of the shadowy region beneath his desk. They would sit there, whispering and giggling and constructing their fantasies.

He let it all pass him by. He knew what they were doing, but was never tempted to succumb. He saw them initially as childish, later as faintly ridiculous, later still as irritating and even despicable. They held no attraction for him.

Not those girls, anyway.

There were others, however. The less than beautiful ones. The quiet ones. The girls who would sit at the back of the class, hiding their faces and their fears and their very presence. The vulnerable ones. They were the ones who fascinated him. He would go out of his way to talk to those girls, much to the chagrin of their more assertive and voluptuous classmates. When he could do so without inviting criticism of his motives, he would chat to them in private. And what he quickly discovered was that he had a talent for getting them to open up to him. It was as if he possessed a magic key which, when he turned it, released a flood of emotions and tales of personal woe. His secret was to listen intently, with an interest that was never feigned, and he knew that they relished the attention from this dashingly handsome teacher. This was when he first became aware of his ability to help life’s unfortunates.

Like the bookstore girl.

He decides it’s time.

He tucks the book under his arm, picks up his sports bag and starts toward her. She continues her pretense of being unaware, but he knows that his every footfall is the first beat of a whole bar in her fluttering heart.

When he reaches the counter, and any further denial of his presence would be so obvious as to be rude, she looks up at him and blinks myopically.

Those big eyes.

She gets off her chair, smoothes down her skirt, affixes a warm smile. He notices how round-shouldered she is. Throw ’em back, he thinks. Stick that chest out. You wanna shift some of this paper, then give the public a reason to come through the door.