On Eternal and Tender Bonds

by K. Antonio

His name is Benjamin—but you can call him Benny; that's how he introduces himself—and I've been with him for a year now. I arrived just like everything else, in a box, drowning in packing peanuts, alongside newly printed Baroque renditions of St. Jerome Writing and Narcissus, staring at his own liquid reflection. I was dormant, blinded, and sealed by a dark slumber as I traversed the Atlantic and across state borders. It was his touch, the warmth of his palm on the side of my cracked and splintered body, his thumb rubbing the dust from my hardened cheeks, and his smile, the pair of dimples, the curve of his peach-colored lips, that woke me.

"I've got just the place for you."

Benny placed me on the wall before building the bookshelves or opening up more boxes, before the paintings, the plastic flowers, and the Japanese cat that would double as a clock and good-luck charm. He stood before my idle husk and brought his hands to his hips in a heroic fashion—not to demonstrate authority but content, like an artist drinking in the image of his own lustrous creation. We locked eyes. I lost myself at the sight of his tousled brown mop and round spectacles, his loose-fitting shirt unbuttoned at the keyhole of his clavicle.

"Perfect," he remarked, then let out a soft sigh. "Just perfect."

Like myself, he's not from around here. Benny's from a small town in southwest Washington, where the fog rolls thick, and people follow dense gray giants to Cape Disappointment to take pictures of storms and towering waves that could swallow a person whole. He has a specialty coffee obsession and spends too much money buying freshly brewed cups of bitter blackwater whose roots can be traced to places like Columbia, Brazil, and Mexico. He sleeps upstairs in a small studio space with a cramped bathroom, a single bed, throw pillows on the floor, and an induction burner he generally uses to heat up leftovers or boil water for ramen noodles.

I've been shadowing him the entire day. He climbed a ladder to string up a banner with curly-cue letters spelling, BENNY'S BOOKS: 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY DISCOUNTS. It was hard for me to pay attention to anything but his plump bottom, defined by the tightness of his crude, linen trousers. He swapped the fake bouquets for lively arrangements of lemon-yellow buttercups and pink peonies reminiscent of frosted cupcakes. He swept the floors and ran a duster over each shelf, tickled my wooden shell of a mask with the fuzzy edges of his feathery wand, and grinned—oh, how I love to see his pearly teeth and his eyes that glimmer in tones of honey—all while humming a tune I've heard hundreds of times.

I know he can't see me, so consequently, he'll never know I'm watching, that I project my spirit outwards and hover around him like a guardian angel. That's not to say that I don't give him privacy, that I lurk in his peripheral when he changes or showers, or that I make funny faces at him from behind when he's brushing his teeth and peering into the bathroom mirror. Call me a dud, timid, or a simpleton, but I still believe in chivalry and a little bit in damnation, so I would never want to disrespect him like that.

This year's been pretty tough for Benny. From the phone conversations and the few video calls I've witnessed, Benny's mother doesn't support his decision to have a bookstore, saying things like, You're throwing your life away, and, This is not what your father would've wanted for you. His mother doesn't visit, claiming that the airline tickets are pricey, that she's busy, or that she's going on a spiritual retreat to find herself or some latent chakra yet to be discovered. Benny's mother is not much of a reader and has let slip that she would've preferred that her son studied something more relevant like law or engineering, as opposed to literature. I get the sense she knows very little about him, that his life and hers don't coincide, that she doesn't know what he wants, what he needs, what makes him Benjamin.

I also know that his father died a couple years ago.

I imagine that Benny's dad must have been a good man, that it was he who instilled in Benny a love of books. He's written about him in verse, in long flowy lines that radiate nostalgic joy and melancholy. He builds sonnets that depict their final moments together, a trip to Ruby Beach, where one minute they were hopping over sodden logs of driftwood, and in the next, Benny's father was writhing on the ground like an earthworm. They were all alone, no bystander or tourist in place, the two of them on a sandy strip with protruding stone figures that riddled Benny with nightmares. When help finally arrived, it was too late.

The overhead bell chimes and the door's hinges complain slightly. Benny lights up, bringing himself up from behind the counter where he usually sits. He sets his book aside and springs into work mode.

"Welcome to Benny's Books," he announces with a warm voice and wholesome smile, the kind that any good salesman, selling something he truly loves, should have. "What can I do for ya?"

The young woman walks in, raising her hand while offering a polite grin. She eyes the banner from left to right before saying, "Well, ain't I lucky." She's wearing bell bottoms and a striped pink and white tank top even though it's October, and most people in the city wouldn't dare leave their homes without at least a light jacket or sweater. She brings a wily loose strand to the back of her ear and asks Benny what he's got on hand for someone who wants to get into some classics.

Benny has the terribly adorable habit of biting his bottom lip, of adjusting his glasses as if they were out of place, whenever he's thinking. In those few seconds, he delves into the archives of his headspace, filters through a series of alternate realities, and answers, "I think I've got something."

He has a gift, he really does, of simply knowing what book will best suit someone.

"Right here," he says, plucking out a copy of Wuthering Heights followed by Frankenstein. "Emily Brontë knows her stuff, and Mary Shelley wrote a masterpiece when she was only nineteen." Another ding comes from the entrance. "I think you'll like them both," he remarks confidently, "but here, check them out. Feel free to read a page or two." Benny directs her to an armchair by the back window and tells her to make herself at home.

I catch her looking at his backside while he's leaving.

He scuttles back to the entrance just in time to catch the mother and son duo who’ve walked in. Just as he's about to greet them, the door chimes again, introducing an older man in khakis and a tweed blazer.

This is when the show begins.

Benny doesn't make a lot owning and running a bookstore, which makes me think that if he wanted money, he would invest his time in something else. He doesn't have anyone to help him. Benny refuses to hire someone who can't treat his books, his store, and anything else in it, with the same amount of attention and kindness as him. It doesn't matter because Benny is a showstopper, even if he doesn't see it, who gracefully juggles, glides, and pivots and makes anyone, buyer or not, feel special.

The mother and son entered looking for something in the realm of Harry Potter. "My son can't seem to get enough of reading anything with magic."

"I feel the same way," Benny responds, squatting down to the boy's level. "I have an entire fantasy section in the back. I bet you'd love C.S. Lewis or Philip Pullman. Their books have plenty of talking animals, and the main characters aren't much older than yourself."

The young boy's brow rises. He takes his mother's hand and leads the way, "Come on Mom," he begs as she follows while mouthing an appreciative thank you.

Benny turns his attention to the older gentleman, who looks quite amused after seeing the young reader tugging at his Mom's arm to hurry up as if the books themselves were in great dispute.

"Looks like you got a way with kids," the man remarks.

"Nah," Benny replies with a chuckle, "I was just lucky that we shared the same taste in books."

He never accepts a compliment, even if it's earned, even if his benevolent features are clearly visible. It's one of the lovely qualities that I hate about him, his ability to deflect, how he gives himself no time to bask in the glow of his own goodness. Part of me has always wondered why he can't see himself, his beauty, his brightness, his energy, like those around him who notice it instantly.

The day continues with the light outside streaming in through the windows, infusing the space in a golden, syrup-like coating of sepia.

Benny runs his fingers through his hair, tossing his loose wavy curls from one side of his head to the other. He paces around the shop and opens up several different novels and collections, saying things like, Take a look at this, Check this out, and I'm sure you'll love it.

People trickle in and out, but Benny always wears the same smile. It's in these moments, when he's happy, darting like a fire ant without breaking a sweat, treating everyone around him like the sun, that I want to walk into Benny's store and ask for his suggestion, Look at me, and tell me what you'd think I'd love to read. I wish I could melt into any book just for the chance of having him pick me up and race his fingers through my pages.

The young woman left with both of Benny's recommendations, and the mother bought her son a copy of The Golden Compass. Between one client and another, between welcomes, and Have a great day, time flowed rhythmically like a folk song, following the careful and gentle nature of its composer, Benny.

I watch him tending to the last lingering customer. "You know, you're really good at this," he says, casually slouching over the counter.

"Huh?"

"You know. . . this. The store."

"Well, it is just books. And people. And I happen to like both of them."

The man laughs, pays, and Benny follows him to the door before saying, "Thanks for stopping by."

After locking up, Benny lets out a contained groan, twists, and turns his back, relieving himself of accumulated tension. My spirit flutters around him, and all I want to do is nuzzle his shoulder like a cat, to give him comfort, tell him that it was a great day and that I'm happy for him.

He arches his head up towards the banner, his lips part slightly and curve. "Guess I'll pull this down tomorrow," he says.

Benny’s tired. I know he is. He's worked really hard, and though his expression and demeanor never wither while he's working, I'm sure his legs ache, and the soles of his feet burn. I'm also sure that to Benny, it was all worth it.

He walks over to the switch on the wall but doesn't immediately turn off the light. Instead, Benny looks at my mask, the object that tethers me to this place, this world, to him. It's the only part of me he can see, the only thing about me that he can touch and remark and speak to, even if nonsensically, even if his words are to the void or wind and never directly to me.

"It's been a good year," he says to me, to the mask, to himself. "I can't believe we've made it."

I want to hug him. "Of course you made it. Why wouldn't you? You're amazing. You really need to believe more in yourself."

"I know."

I'm flushed, shocked. Did Benny really hear me?

"I wish you were still around," he says.

My spirit trembles as coldness streaks over my astral body. "I'm sure he'd be proud of you," I say. "I'm sure he watches you, wherever he is, as I do."

Benny flips the switch, and everything goes dark. He can't read the words, BENNY'S BOOKS: 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY DISCOUNTS, hanging above, but that doesn't keep him from rubbing his eyes and then smiling.