My Wild Love

The cracked sidewalk led me from my crummy apartment complex into the city. This summer Los Angeles was having scorching temperatures and record amounts of tourists. They flooded the streets that had been my home since birth, snapping photographs of things that had become ordinary landmarks to me.

Heat bounced off the concrete, the walls, the building, everything. The sticky humidity made my bohemian garbs unusually clingy.

But this trip was definitely worth it. It always was.

Crossing the threshold into my favorite used bookstore was always more of a pilgrimage than anything else. I’d been going there for years, reveling in their five cent book deals. I could never understand how the owner could make a profit from his cheap sales.

The store owner was a man in his early seventies I knew as Henry. Just Henry. His hairline had long since receded. His head was filled with a few wispy strands of white hair along with thoughts of the war that still haunted him.

He had a persistent cough that never seemed to fully go away. Henry’s face was creased with both smile and frown lines. The frown lines were becoming more pronounced these days. I figured it was because of his wife; I’d heard that she died some ten odd years ago though he honorably wore his wedding band.

Smiling kindly, Henry greeted me on my way in, “There’s a new shipment in just this morning. I put them on the back shelf so no one would get to ‘em.”

“Thanks.” I said truly meaning it.

Every Thursday when I came in Henry would stack the new book arrivals on the back shelf. No one would bother combing those last few shelves. Especially because they were near the stamp collecting book section. I was surprised that there were so many stamp collecting books in the first place, but not so surprised to find them collecting more and more dust week after week I came in here.

I turned the corner towards the back and was taken off-guard to see someone sitting on the ground reading right by the section I’d long claimed as my own.

The boy, man actually, looked like he was in his early twenties. He had shaggy brown hair that fell down in his face over part of his eyes. Second hand clothes covered his back, and little holes in them indicated he must have purchased them at the thrift store.

He looked so intent in his reading that I was surprised when he glanced up at my approach.

Making it to the shelves next to him with the new arrivals, I noticed he was still looking at me. Studying was a better word. I felt like I was under some form of test the way his eyes scrutinized me.

That’s when I noticed the book in his hand, The Dharma Bums. It was the Kerouac novel I’d been combing the shelf for months searching for. And this stranger walked in the first day and found it.

“Hello.” He said simply.

Annoyance colored my voice as I answered him, “Are you taking that one with you?”

“Do you work here?” Countering my annoyance, his eyes held mine.

Taken aback, it took me a moment to answer. “No, I just really want that book. I’ve been searching here forever. I found On the Road a few weeks ago, half-hidden under some Thoreau.”

"Not a bad haul."

Distracted, my eyes shifted greedily to The Dharma Bum's torn cover and dog-eared pages. It attracted my gaze like magnets and I had the overwhelming urge to snatch it from the strangers hands.

It looked perfect.

“You’re a Kerouac fan?” The man asked, standing up slowly at my side.

He ended up being a little taller than me, but he didn't need height to be commanding. The persona surrounding him was something I had never experienced before.

It was untamed, commanding. Almost like a Navajo Indian chief. The strong jawline suited his face. With his chiseled features I could almost picture him in the traditional feathered headdress, dancing in rhythm to the ancient tribe drum beats.

The image was surreal, almost haunting.

In response to his question, I simply nodded.

"Well, I've already read this one. Along with everything thing else Kerouac touched. His work is like being greeted inside a woman for the first time."

The sexual comparison to Jack Kerouac's writing was the best description I had ever heard.

"You write much?" I wondered aloud, getting drawn in deeper to his eyes.

"Sometimes."

There was a slight edge in his tone that I almost did pick up on.

I raised my eyebrows. "Stories? Poems?"

"A little of both, I'd say. Writing anything makes you a storyteller no matter what it is. A poem is a story. A story a poem. The same for song lyrics."

"Are you a musician?" My smile looked amused.

"Are you?" He questioned, looking rather interested to know the answer.

Shrugging, I replied, "Haven't gotten around to it."

“Hmm… interesting." For some reason a smile played across his lips. "‘Admiration for a quality or an art can be so strong that it deters us from striving to possess it.’”

My eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t pass off Nietzsche as your own.”

To my surprise, all he did next was laugh. He looked down at his tattered shoes for a split second and then held a hand out to me. “I’m Jim.”