“May I help you?”
Scene 1. Home
After my surgery, recovery and a bit of physical therapy, the hospital administration finally kicked me out, even though I told them that I wanted to stay longer as it is a great place to write.
After my sister dumped me back at home, I did everything from a wheelchair for three months, much of that time in the dark. I continue writing stories in my dark house, as I did in the dark hospital ward rooms. I continue to use the narratives from my invisible friends, The Voices that came out of the walls at the hospital and may be with me for the rest of my life.
Eventually, my friends and family became aware of my new interest in writing stories, helping by referring me to established authors to critique my writing and recommend references. These author friends provide many useful criticisms and comments, recommending books that I might find helpful. Their book lists include classic and contemporary story collections, as well as grammar and punctuation style guides.
I am able to resume driving after a few months of home physical therapy. I don’t go far, just out to visit the local retail stores in my neighborhood, in 2019 before COVID-19. Thanks to my critics, I now have an extensive list of reference books. So one clear sunny California winter day, as I am driving over to my local Barnes & Noble book store, I thought,
These popular class textbooks are likely to be found at this store with its broad inventory.
Scene 2. Barnes & Noble
I drive in to the mall parking lot, parking out a way from the store to avoid ‘door damage’. Entering the store, I walked over to the rows of classic literature, seeking the books on my list and finding, George Saunders’, A Swim in a Pond in The Rain. While examining the book, I see a pair of erect black rabbit ears, bobbing up and down over the top of the shelf of books on the other side of the aisle. The view of the owner is otherwise blocked by the aisle bookshelf.
What the hell is that?
I look up from the Saunders book I am holding and stare, as the owner of the ‘rabbit ears’ walks around the end of the bookshelf into my aisle. She is a young, petite black woman, walking toward me with her head turned, scanning the books on shelves along the side of the aisle.
Is she going to collide with me? I needed to move out of her way, but the aisle is not wide enough to move aside. I’ll have to back out of the isle or say something to her.
Staring at the woman, I see that she has her curly black hair tied up into two vertical black buns on the top of her head.
Her hair buns do look like black rabbit ears. Have I noticed her before? Has she been following me?
The young woman is cradling a thin large-format book in her arms across her modest chest, appearing to be a children’s picture storybook, on the cover is a distinctive fairy-tail castle illustration, a painting.
She must be a grammar school teacher or maybe a children’s book author. She appears to be very young, perhaps a student.
The shape of her head is vaguely non-human, with eye sockets facing out to the sides of her skull, suggestive of the side-facing eyes of a prey animal, such as a rabbit. The projecting hemisphere of her right eye is large for the size of her head, filled with her light violet iris with a jet black horizontal bar for a pupil in the center.
She has the eyes of a sheep, her odd eyes are drawing me to her.
Her head is still turned to the book rack as she stops walking forward. Not turning her head, her right eye moves to stare directly at me, magnified by the lenses of her glasses. Her peculiar wire-frame glasses rest high up on the bridge of her nose, customized to accommodate her wall-eyes.
As her large violet right eye is carefully regarding me, her lip curls up slightly as she smiles. Then she suddenly winks with her large violet right eye, flashing her long black eyelashes.
At me? Oh no, I’ve been ‘spotted’, she has caught me staring at her.
Surprised by her wink, I stepped back. She stands, still facing the shelf only a few paces from me.
She knows that she caught me.
Turning her right eye back towards the books on the bookshelf, never turning her head. I am fixated, continuing to stare at the strikingly unusual features of her sideways standing profile, even after I have been ‘busted’.
Her face is either dark brown or jet color, with a smooth and glistening texture, such as with short fine black fur, lying flat, and shiny, reflecting the bright light from the overhead lights in the bookstore.
Her fluffy curly black hair is piled high on her head, crowned with a golden band. She has numerous long beaded black braids streaming down the back of her neck to the center of her back. Her curly black hair flows down the side of her head, hiding her ears. She has high, slightly projecting cheekbones. Her eyes are shadowed by a deep wide skull brow with thick black eyebrows that project out to the sides of her long narrow face.
She has a thin petite figure and is wearing semiformal business office attire: a light solid violet skirt; matching long sleeved shirt; light yellow jacket; yellow boots with tall spike high-heels; and yellow gloves. Her violet dress color matches the color of her iris. Although I am embarrassed at my behavior, I cannot look away.
I really am becoming a creepy old stalker.
The woman paws at the books on the shelf with two fingers of her yellow glove. She draws her lips back from her long jaws into a closed-lip smile. Her mouth and lips are also long for her head, extending back beneath and behind her high cheekbones.
She lets me stare a bit longer, then standing up straight and away from the shelves, turning, staring at me with her black-barred pupils that have moved forward to each side of the bridge of her long broad nose. I gaze at the wire-frames of her spectacles, customized for the unusual shape of her face.
This young lady has a supernatural, alien presence that extends out into the universe far beyond her petite stature.
As she stands motionless staring at me, I feel her narrowing eyes as if they are shooting lasers beams at me, burning holes in my soul, frozen as a mouse stared down by a cobra. I begin to feel dizzy, as if I will faint if I do not move. I close my eyes in an attempt to regain my composure. Upon opening my eyes, I see that she is still staring at me. I begin to panic.
Is she about to scream for help? Am I about to lose consciousness and collapse in front of her?
Scene 3. Hello
I am relieved when her face relaxes into a smile, but she is still holding her grip on me with her unblinking stare. She breaks her stare with a nod of her head, a communication in an ambiguous body language. She then speaks to me with perfect diction in a slow deep voice, lilting with an unidentifiable foreign accent.
“What are you looking at, sir? Bah. I mean, what book are you looking for, sir? Are you an author? You look like an actor, playing the part of an author. Bah. Haw, haw. Oops, sorry.”
Do I really appear to be a ratty-looking author actor? Did also I hear short ‘bleats’ in her phrases?
Now that she has spoken, I am even more fascinated by her. As she is facing me, I notice that her black upper lip and philtrum are slightly drawn up, splitting slightly, revealing her large white upper-incisor teeth. I cannot help thinking,
She resembles a black sheep with that little rise at the front of her upper lip, especially when she smiles.
As strange as these features appear, I feel that something more is ‘off’ about her. Something that I cannot quite pinpoint. She doesn’t seem real, appearing as an anthropomorphic rabbit or sheep character, perhaps one I saw in an old Walt Disney cartoon as a kid. As I stare into her seemingly friendly smile over her imposing and hostile body language, I progress from feeling dizzy to feeling cold. I shake with a case of the ‘willies’, I have goosebumps on the back of my neck.
I feel as if someone walked over my grave.
Looking down, I close my eyes and shake my head to clear it, embarrassed for staring at her for so long. I try to smile back to her, mumbling unintelligible nonsense apologies.
“I’m sorry, I don’t get out much. You caught my eye with the book you were carrying. I love the cover drawing. And yes, I did find a book, this one was recommended to me.”
I held out the Saunders book for her to see. She stares at the book I am holding for a what seems like a long moment. She nods.
“I have read that one, for a class. That’s a good review of the short-story medium using examples from classic Russian authors' minor works. I also like the classic Russian authors.”
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Her smile fades, raising her gaze up at the ceiling, trying to remember something from a long-lost world, then speaking slowly, wistfully, she recalls a romantic past.
“Ah yes, Chekhov, I liked Chekhov. He was a very nice man, very humorous and intelligent.”
She stops and turns to me, her eyes are wide as if she has accidentally revealed a deep secret, then closing her eyes, shaking her head muttering,
“I mean, his writings, bah. I mean that his writings convey much thought and humor, bah.”
Her eerie comment, punctuated with bleating sounds, freaks me out once again.
She spoke as if she knew ‘Anton’ personally.
Her unsettling looks and weird comments are getting to me. I have to get away from her before I collapse. I grunt again,
“I have to go now. Nice to talk to you. Thank you for your comments.”
She is still staring at me as I nod and turn from her and stride out of the isle and over to the store’s check-out counter. I feel the winter cold upon me, even on this warm winter day. I panic as I fumble, dropping my wallet and credit cards on to the counter. My mind is a mess.
What the hell is she? And what was I doing, staring like that?
I looked down at the floor, trembling, walking from the check-out counter to the exit doors. I calm down as I walk, deciding to try speaking to that woman again.
My abrupt parting was very rude. She seemed nice and also quite interesting, even perhaps having some interest in me. I should ask her if I might accompany her out to her car, at least, to perhaps make up for my ‘staring rudeness’ in the store. I also want to ask her about her book’s cover illustration.
Looking back towards the store to see if she was following me, she was nowhere in sight, vanished, shaking my head as I walked to my car.
I did buy two books from my list.
Perhaps I just imagined her?
Scene 4. Boo!
Walking up to my car, looking down, fumbling for my keys, I consider the conflicting confused thoughts of my strange encounter and short conversation with the woman in the bookstore.
She must think I hate black people, or that I am a creep, or both, with all of my staring. Oh, well…
As I stand facing the lock of the driver’s car door, fumbling with my car key, I hear a shuffling sound behind me.
“Boo! Bah.”
Startled by the sudden voice and bleating, I spring up in the air with a “Squeak!” as I drop my keys on the pavement. Turning around, I see the woman from the bookstore standing close behind me, almost touching me. Her arms are crossed, still holding the book against her chest and smiling her odd smile. Her exposed front teeth are glistening white in the bright sunlight through her split black upper lip. She stares at me, then calmly speaks in the same odd vernacular.
“I am sorry sir, did I frighten you? You know, you should always be aware of your environment. You might get mugged if you’re not careful. Bah.”
What’s with that odd voice? Did she just bleat at me again? OMG, she is almost touching me! I am glad that I did not swing around, I would have knocked her over.
I choke up as I try to speak with some humor.
“Why, am I about to be mugged? Cough.”
She chuckles at my response, grins and continues to tease me,
“I got you, you stalker! Bah, haw, haw.”
I muster a rapid-fire response, I rattle off,
“You chased me down in a parking lot. Who is stalking whom?”
“I apologize for jumping just now and for staring in the store. But I did want to ask you about your book. I love the fantasy art on the cover. To answer your question from the bookstore, yes, I am a ‘fledgling’ author. I am impressed that you could tell that from my ratty clothes. Maybe I can commission your book’s artist for the cover of one of my books. I like the style and the colors of the castle and the background.”
“Are you a teacher or an author?”
The woman rocks forward onto the toes of her boots, moving her face closer to mine. Her nostrils at the end of her long nose twitch as they approach my face. She demurely smiles and softly murmurs, still teasing,
“Good to hear you that you aren't some ‘creepy stalker’ that likes to follow women around in stores, bah.”
I grimace as she smiles with a wink, taking a step back, placing her gloved hand to her chest with pride, expounding,
“Yes, I sometimes teach, but usually, I just encourage people.
I am more of a ‘motivational’ trainer than a teacher, applying ‘encouragement’ when needed.
I encourage folks to write and to do other things too, fine artists, explorers, scientists.
But I prefer to work with authors and writers, where I can help as a ‘critic’ or a ‘proofreader’, bah.”
“And I have my own unique method of encouraging my ‘wards’ to ‘persevere’, bah.”
She slightly cocks her right foot up and stares down at the large right toe of her high-heeled yellow boot.
“But to answer your first question, the artist who painted the book cover illustration died more than a century ago. He was another friend. So many of my friends are dead. You humans go so fast, sniff, bah.”
He was your friend? And he has been dead for more than a century? Humans go fast?
As we are facing each other, she frowns, staring at me intently, slowly speaking in her unidentifiable accent.
“So if you are an ‘author’… Bah, hah.”
She raises her arms and wiggles her two large gloved fingers at me.
Is she about to grab me? Does she only have two fingers on that glove?
She closes her palms as she notices me staring at her odd gloves. I look up, returning a weak smile, feeling pain as her large lenses of her glasses reflect the image of the bright afternoon sun directly into my eyes, covering my eyes and choking.
“Cough, cough, I am a ‘wannabe’ author, attempting to write my first fiction novel.
You say that you are an instructor who provides encouragement to writers and others.
If you give writing critique or lessons, perhaps you could help me.
I could use a tutor, or a critic, or especially, an editor.
And, I confess, I need help just to keep going on this ‘writing adventure’.”
I look up, trying to look serious, assuming my most ‘professional’ pose.
“I will pay you your hourly rate and work at your preferred venue, of course.”
She turns her head slightly and her glasses suddenly clear of the brilliant reflection. Her face is close to mine, her eyes are magnified by the lenses of her glasses, displaying her strange light violet iris and black-bar pupils, now smaller in the bright sunlight. Staring into her eyes, I reflect in fear.
She has human Knowledge and Wisdom from The Ages, but how inhuman she looks and acts.
Deciding to stop frightening me, she steps back, relaxing, dropping her arms to slap her sides. She emits a long braying laugh with her mouth wide open, revealing her large pink tongue, rows of white teeth with long canines.
“Bah. Haw, haw, haw!”
As she rocks her body back and forth, lost in her world of joyous braying laughter, not finished with teasing me,
“I thought that my scary looks would frighten you away. This is your last chance to escape, so you had better start running, or I’ll ‘get’ you.”
“But my car is right here.”
I stood stock still at her teasing, not knowing what to do or think, looking around the parking lot, no one was close enough to hear us over the roar of the nearby freeway. The woman is calm as she sets her fists on her hips, rocks back in triumph, looks straight at me again, pronouncing my sentence in a defiant tone,
“Of course I can help you and I will. But only if you are willing to work hard and not waste my time. As for my hourly rates and venues, if you accept my help (by your own free will), we will start with a free trial period. If that goes well, we can negotiate ‘my fee’. Call me over to your working venue when you are ready to start.”
She cuts off further discussion by backing away from me and turning around. She steps out and across the parking lot. I shake my head again, still dizzy and confused, shouting to her across the parking lot, over the freeway noise,
“Before you go, please tell me how I may contact you. By phone? Text message? Email?”
She shocks me again as she turns her head upside down over her back, like a parrot. She winks at me again.
“Just ‘whistle’. I cannot whistle, my lips won’t let me. But you can. You know how to whistle, don't you? You just put your lips together and blow.”
She feigns a sad sniffle, then she laughs, teasing me once again. She turns her head back forward as she emits as short chuckling laughter with bleating as she walks away, fading into the noise of the freeway.
“Bah. Haw, haw.”
As her laughing is lost in the roar of the freeway, her short stature disappears behind the parked cars. Gazing out into the bookstore parking lot, my new ‘tutor’ has vanished. I am alone in the bookstore parking lot.
I guess she didn’t come here by car. What a strange and fascinating woman. I do feel that she can help me, even as threatening and alien as she appears.
How do I call her? Whistle?
What does that even mean?
Did I really meet her or even see her? Does she really want to help me?
Will I ever see her again?
End of Chapter 3. Muse – Part 1. Encounter.