Time to Bloom

Lalo was a simple man. He didn’t need much. Just food that was easy to cook and tasted good and was moderately healthy. (At thirty-five, he was starting to worry about his cholesterol and high blood pressure.) Headphones that blocked out the sound of the train wheels shrieking on the tracks when he was on his way to work. Thunderstorms that happened when he was cozy at home and didn’t need to go anywhere in the rain. Tea that had cooled to just the right temperature to gulp, warmth and flavor filling his mouth and warming his esophagus the whole way down to his stomach.

He was a self-made man, and proud of it. He worked out three times a week and marveled at the way his muscles grew so quickly under the influence of different hormones. He stared into the mirror, urging the patchy array of hair on his face to grow, grow, grow, and resolve itself into something he could shave with the brand new razor that had been waiting in the medicine cabinet since the early days of his transition.

On this particular day, sunny with a chance of rain, Lalo spent the morning sweating out his stress at the gym. Then, after a quick lunch, he decided it was time to duck into that run-down little bookshop. He had showered after his workout, don’t worry. His smelly gym clothes were safely stashed in a duffel bag that hung by his side, an unavoidably annoying weight on his shoulder.

This bookshop was of the kind you see in every city, the storefront smashed in between buildings, as if it had sprouted there like a mushroom, rather than having been planned ahead of time. Sun-faded books crowded up against the windows, blocking out the view of the inner sanctum. And, of course, books spilled out onto the street, too, stacked haphazardly on rusting metal shelves with wheels that no doubt squeaked with every revolution.

Lalo loved to wander through bookshops like this. He’d done it many times in his life, only the older he got, the more it seemed that there was no time for these sorts of aimless expeditions. It was the tragedy of modern life. Rush, rush, rush, and for what? He missed when he was young, playing outside every day during the summer, blissfully unaware that anyone had tried to contact him save his mother, who would shout his name every so often to make sure he hadn’t wandered too far.

Today, he could feel that it was time. The run-down little bookshop had been calling to him for months, its musty claws digging into the meat of his chest, surrounding his heart, beckoning him to come experience the wonders of this particular little universe within a universe.

Lalo, as a seasoned bookshop browser, didn’t bother with the outdoor displays. Those he liked to save for when he didn’t have enough time to go inside but still wanted a brief taste of adventure.

The inside of the bookshop was everything he had imagined it would be. Dust, must, and more. The scent of old paper assaulted his nostrils as soon as he entered, and he hid a sneeze in his elbow. Somewhere nearby, two people were talking with the kind of hushed urgency that suggested that they’d just been arguing loudly before hearing the door chime announce a new customer. He started down the main alley of teetering shelves and stopped when he heard an indignant meow. A plump orange tabby was blocking his way, tail curled into a question mark.

“Awww!” Lalo crouched down, holding out a careful hand for the cat to smell. “Hello kitty!”

The tabby briefly tapped his knuckle with a cold, wet nose and then abruptly shoved its head under his hand. In the background, he heard one of the voices hiss: “Fine! Have it your way. I’m late for my other job, where I actually get paid!”

Just then, someone rounded the corner. Lalo caught a flash of black hair dyed lavender at the tips, a pointy chin, and a furious expression before the man tripped over the cat and crashed into him. They fell together in a tangled heap of arms and legs. Lalo grunted as he got kneed in the stomach, sputtered as he got a mouthful of hair, and just barely managed to avoid being clocked in the face with a black backpack. The zipper promptly ripped open and it spilled its contents everywhere.

“Thanks a lot, Hank!” the man shouted, shoving away from Lalo and scrambling back to his feet.

Lalo never thought anyone would ever mistake him for a "Hank," but there was a first time for everything. 

“My name isn’t Hank.”

“I was talking to the stupid cat,” the man said, already turning away to scoop up his stuff.

“Do you need—”

“No.” Without a second glance, he barreled out the front door, the chime ringing shrilly.

“I’m sorry for my nephew,” a rasping voice said a moment later. “He wasn’t properly socialized as a child.”

Lalo, still sprawled on the floor, craned his neck up to spot the old woman who had wandered down the aisle to peer at him. Her salt and pepper hair was bound back into a low braid, wiry strands escaping to form a halo around her face. She wore thick glasses, aviator style, and had another pair hanging from a chain around her neck. Her faded old sweatshirt had dancing gnomes on it. She held out a hand to help Lalo get back to his feet.

“You’re not one of my regulars.”

“No. It’s, uh, my first time in here.”

The woman straightened. “Ah, I see. What an inauspicious beginning to your journey.”

“That’s all right. I’m not that fickle of a bookworm, and this is my favorite kind of bookshop.”

The woman grinned, revealing an array of silver-lined teeth and one pure gold canine.

“And you are my favorite kind of customer. My name is Geraldine. Please don’t hesitate to call out if you need any assistance. Or if you get lost.”

Lalo couldn’t help grinning back. “That’s really happened?”

“Anything can happen at Geraldine’s Books.”

Lalo felt a shiver of foreboding. Not that he believed anything supernatural might happen. It was more the realization that he had stumbled upon lost treasure, one of those rare places that had truly managed to escape the sterilization of the modern world.

“So the cat’s name is Hank?”

“Humph,” Miss Geraldine looked down at the orange tabby, who was currently flopped over onto his side kneading the air with his front paws. “Useless troublemaker. Doesn’t catch a single mouse or grouse or silverfish.” She paused. “Er, nevermind. You didn’t hear that. Yes, his name is Hank. He will monopolize your time if you let him.”

Lalo looked down at the cat, who did not look like a Hank, either. He was expecting Sir Contrary or Ristopheles or Mouse Attack or anything but Hank. But it was perhaps as the great poet B.S. Chariot once wrote in his Old Blossum’s Book of Fantastical Cats: “Every cat has multiple names.” Hank must be the cat’s every day name, meant to be worn through like an old pair of slippers. His secret name must be much more inspired. Lalo crouched down to give Hank one more scritch behind the ears.

“I’ll find out your secret name, I will,” he whispered. “Sir Contrary of Orange.”

Hank meowed loudly, thrashing his tail to signify that he had reached his threshold of petting, or perhaps in protest at the clumsy attempt at a glorious cat name. Either way, Lalo took this as his cue to move on. He hovered for a moment, looking over the books that crowded in around him. The Eleven Neuroses of Highly Ambitious People. Drink, Shout, Laugh. The Enigma.

No. These were not the books he was seeking. He wanted the strange. The illicit. The arcane. He wanted books that twisted in his gut and made his heart swell with understanding. He wanted books with sentences that made the hair on his arms stand on end. He wanted to fall into another world and breathe its air and come to know himself more fully through his love and yearning for that other place.

He encountered a small obstacle on his first step forward. A small book lying forgotten on the floor. It slid across the worn wood with a near-silent hiss. He bent down to pick it up. The front cover was the back cover. Oh! His cousin Claudio had books like these. He flipped it to look at the front.

Kitchen Boy Losange, Volume 1

His heart thudded in his chest. It was a manga. A beautiful androgynous-looking fellow, probably the titular Losange, glared out at him from the front cover, a kitchen knife held loosely in his hand. Behind him stood a broad-shouldered man, gorgeous in his own way, arms crossed across his powerful chest, buttoned up into a chef’s uniform shirt. Lalo opened the front cover and began to read.