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It was a fairly pathetic hobby—compulsion, really.
After Anthony’s book was finally published—his dream since he’d begun mailing lecture notes to the hosts of popular children’s science (or rather, “science”) shows as a seven year old—he’d found it almost impossible to believe the book actually existed in the world. So he researched which shops in town kept a copy, and would periodically visit them. Despite the book’s rather…niche…market, he couldn’t contain a burst of pathetic pride at the idea of the next generation of astrophiles finding it while browsing the shelves (or, more realistically, finding an illegal PDF on one of the online forums, which Anthony did not begrudge).
He couldn’t come up with a better pretext line for the shop staff than, Do you have any astrophysics books? (He didn’t quite have the chutzpah to ask specifically for his title). Some bored and/or high employee would point vaguely or lead him to the general area of the science books before going back to their phone. He knew objectively that he should be a lot more embarrassed than he actually was.
But he’d dedicated his life to this pursuit, after all. At 53, with no partner and no children, he found himself more often needing to reassure himself of the wisdom of this decision. It wasn’t that he’d regretted his choices or his life focus. But, it was just that now, he sometimes now felt a niggling uneasiness while assuring his sister that he would be on the apps “if he wanted to date.”
It was after one particularly tough morning with the faculty head (prick) that he decided to visit the last remaining shop whose Astrophysics for Everyone inventory he hadn’t perused. It was an independent shop that had bizarre hours and the least helpful website that Crowley had ever encountered. But it was the middle of the day on a Tuesday, and if the shop wasn’t open then, when would it be?
He realized if he shifted his walking commute a few streets, he’d pass right by the shop on his way home, which was where he intended going now, as sitting in his office stewing was hardly a more productive way to pass the day.
When he approached the blue-fronted shop, the lights were on for the first time in his memory, and there was a hand drawn sign cheerily announcing that the store was open.
He paused with his hand on the door. There seemed to be some kind of event going on at the moment.
There was a blond man who looked to be around his age in a top hat and cape (was that a wand?) speaking excitedly to a group of bored children sitting crosslegged on the floor.
Well, Anthony thought, at least my choices in life haven’t led me to performing close-quarters magic tricks for the unappreciative youth.
The man’s almost psychotically cheerful expression suddenly morphed into one of horror as the children began screaming. There was a bunch of running, including the blond man who was bumping into children trying to scoop something off the floor.
Anthony laughed, and walked on before the man could realize someone had witnessed the entire display. Perhaps today wasn’t the day for a visit to Astrophysics for Everyone at this establishment.
He passed by the shop again the next evening. The shop was closed, but he saw the failed magician helping an elderly man into a sweater.
The next week, Anthony walked by the bookshop again on a whim. It was an oh-dark-thirty type of morning, as he had to prepare a presentation whose audience would include his cursed faculty head (with whom relations still hadn’t exactly…normalized).
Anthony quirked his eyebrow as he watched the blond man handing out plates of covered food to a group of people outside the shop who were very clearly sex workers at the end of their shifts. He put some distance between himself and the group on the sidewalk so he wouldn’t be noticed, but couldn’t help but guffaw as he heard the man declare, “It’s so wonderful what you all do, offering therapy at all hours!”
Anthony tried to play his laugh off as a cough, which was difficult to do while watching the (presumably regular) recipients frantically making “shut up” hand gestures at the other ladies and gentlemen who seemed ready to correct the blond man’s misunderstanding.
Holy shit, this guy is hilarious. Anthony thought, almost amazed. He should have his own show.
Because it only added a few minutes, Anthony began walking by going by the shop every day on his way to work. The blond man was usually doing something ridiculous, which fulfilled the dual purpose of making Anthony laugh and assuring him that though he’d gambled on a lonelier road less traveled in his own life, this man appeared to have taken one suspect left off the main road and had remained in the wilderness for the entirety of his.
One day, Anthony saw an orange cat sitting by the entrance. That’s new, he thought. The next day, small blue bowls of food and water appeared against the wall of the shop, back a bit from the street. The cats and food bowls multiplied over the course of a couple of weeks, culminating in a frantic plea on the Facebook page of the bookshop to adopt the cats that had finally been picked up by animal control after complaints by the bookshop neighbors (the blond man included photos of all 15 cats with their names, of course.)
On a whim, Anthony wandered over to the shelter indicated on the Facebook post, and ended up leaving with a white cat. He didn’t name it; figured it didn’t need a name (he’d never owned a cat).
He quickly ascertained the cat had a fondness for red wine (much like himself). At the end of “cat’s” first week with him, he spent a very enjoyable five minutes watching the spectacularly dumb creature clumsily trying to stick his whole head in a wine glass, only to end up scaring himself and leaving that particular corner of his living room destroyed.
As old rags soaked up the red puddles on the linoleum, he looked up the photos of the cats again from the bookshop’s page. “Cat’s” name had apparently been “Hemingway.”
Appropriate, Anthony thought as he watched Cat (no, Hemingway) stare at Anthony’s newly-filled glass from his “hiding place” behind his blinds, burgundy mustache visible and fluffy tail sticking out like a feather duster.
Hemingway had about as much subterfuge as his original bookseller patron.
After a particularly trying day of office hours prior to exams, he noticed that the bookshop was unexpectedly open for once at an odd hour. Crowley crossed the street out of curiosity, wanting shed the neurotic vortex of his students’ anxiety.
Anthony saw that a space had been cleared in the center of the floor, as had been the case when he’d seen the children. But the attendees of this particular gathering skewed very much to the older side. He could hear faint old-timey music from behind the glass.
So the ridiculous man teaches ballroom dancing to coffin-dodgers, he thought.
Of course he did.
After a moment, Anthony realized with the start that the couple closest to the window consisted of two men. A quick survey confirmed the other couples were all single-sexed, as well—old biddies unexpectedly light on their feet, old codgers laughing as they bumped into each other bungling the steps.
Gay coffin-dodger ballroom dancing then, he amended, inexplicably uneasy now.
It wasn’t exactly…shocking, that the ridiculous blond man who ran this shop was a poof. Almost cliched, in fact.
But Anthony was surprised all the same.
He was so enthralled with the goings-on in the bookshop that he failed to notice the group of extremely young, extremely loud boys in football kits approaching on the other side of the street.
The noise eventually startled Anthony, and he began walking away from the shop. At least the rowdy youths were on the other side of the street, he told himself. The twinkle-toed attendees probably wouldn’t be able to hear them.
After less than a minute, Anthony heard a faint banging. He quickly turned around, heart sinking when he realized the rowdy group had crossed the street, and were now banging on the window of the bookshop.
He began walking quickly back towards the shop before he’d thought about it.
Anthony could see the door of the shop opening now, the almost whiteness of the blond man’s hair glowing in the dark in the light from the street lamp.
Anthony walked faster as he heard the blond man began to exchange words with the boys.
He felt a thrill of dread when he spied the door of the shop opening again, and the old man he’d seen being helped with a sweater walking outside, as well. He seemed to have difficulty moving.
By the time Anthony was nearly there, conversation had apparently taken a bad turn, because one of the young men was now in the older’s man’s face, pointing a finger. Anthony watched the scene from across the street, anxiously waiting for the traffic on the road to clear so that he could go to the bookshop before the scene got worse.
Horrifyingly, it did get worse quickly, as Anthony saw the young man shove the older man hard enough that he thumped against the wall.
Anthony began running—the cars could stop for him—but someone else in the group moved even more quickly, and the young man who had shoved the old codger was suddenly on his back on the pavement.
Anthony stopped in surprise, and realized the one who’d so spectacularly laid the little shit out was the blond man.
Him? He thought incredulously.
The other boys seemed as shocked as Anthony was, simply standing there for a moment before another one made a belated move in the blond man’s direction. With astonishment, Anthony watched as the blond man aggressively lunged at the second one approaching him, prompting the group to finally decide this wasn’t worth the laugh and run.
Anthony was still in the dark center of the street, and thankfully he didn’t think either the blond man or the old man noticed him there. The old man was leaned up against the building, cackling loudly. As he watched the blond man begin helping the older one inside, he was close enough to hear the old man bray, “Not bad, for a ‘silly old faggot,’ eh?” as he clapped the blond man loudly on the shoulder, still laughing. The blond man looked embarrassed.
The blond man was received by an uncharacteristically (for him) appreciative crowd, including applause. He looked even more embarrassed, making a series of exaggerated conductor motions with his hands to get the dancing started again.
Anthony had the sudden, stark realization that he was not good enough for a man that he’d spent months laughing at.
He doubted anyone was.
A pang recurred each time Anthony passed the shop now. He couldn’t help but check the bookstore’s Facebook page on his phone every day as he ate lunch, as it seemed updated vastly more often than the website. The amount of exclamation marks, bold fonts, and emojis probably would have given the old man a heart attack.
A month later, Anthony was walking home, steadily instructing himself not to check his text messages. He was about halfway home before pulling his phone out—still nothing from last week’s Grindr date. Not that much of a loss (what would they even have to talk about?), but he felt chagrined and slightly embarrassed, regardless.
At least I can still get Grindr dates, he thought somberly. He knew that window was quickly closing.
He paused when he was across the street from the bookshop. It seemed open at a normal time, for once.
Fuck it, he thought, and walked inside for the first time.
It became overwhelmingly clear very quickly that this man was indeed, much too good for him.
The pang in his chest grew as he walked away from the shop and he felt something very much in the ballpark of despair.
“Oi!”