My attire was black and my hair was as well. An unkempt Scottish beard and my untied brown boots show me as a man who does not consider the aesthetic. Walking from my also black car to the front of the bookstore, I see many people. All in bright, clean clothing. Their shirts with collars all seem to be ironed and their hair typically gelled. Their necks trimmed perfectly.

Walking into the store I duck my head under the threshold. I only stand at 6'3" but I am used to ducking under thresholds like the doors of the subway or the entrance to my bedroom. Before I enter, I swing the door wide open and keep it open for an Asian mother of four. She speaks incoherently to me briefly before passing by.

Upon entering I scan left and right. Within two seconds I see the 'FICTION' signs, and immediately after I see the 'J' section. It is as if God knew what I wanted, and wasted no time. So I pace myself, giddy with excitement, towards the 'J'. I walk with purpose and with my head held high. As I turn the corner, approaching the 'J', two people are also there. A man and woman. Perhaps a father and his daughter. The daughter is around my age, and she looks up at my with her eyes widened. She is surely not used to seeing men such as men. I doubt anyone is. People like me belong in the woods, or at home. People like me are busy driving motorbikes fast through the forests of Aberdeen back home, or out at sea. It's not every day I am seen.

Her father speaks rapidly and loudly about the Nobel Prize of literature.

"And you know what happened? He lost the damn prize! He told reporters he woke up after the party and it was gone."

I look at him in disgust. What kind of man comes to a place of peace and tranquility; one of words and silence, and begins to yell? I stare down at him also, and I squint my eyes. He glances at me briefly and turns away, looking down. His daughter is still looking right at me, almost in shock.

Not in shock, I look back towards the 'J'. I find Joyce, and I contemplate if I want the soft or hard covered 'Dubliners' novel. I pick out both with one hand, and the girl, still staring at me, stares even wider.

"How are his hands so big and strong?" She surely ponders.

I find 'Portait of The Artist As A Young Man' as well, and grab it. Three books in one hand, thick books mind you. I place the soft covered 'Dubliners' back, and look towards them.

"You know, I tried reading 'Finnegan's Wake' one time and it hurt my head. I am going to try reading these two first to get a better, simpler grasp of what Joyce tries to convey in his writing. Any way, it was nice seeing you."

Turning normally, and walking normally, I walk to the register. Following behind me without books is the wide-eyed girl. She stands behind me as I am called up to pay.

"Would you like to join our membership club? It's free." The cashier asks me.

"No." I reply.

"Ugh, just say yes. I need an excuse to ask for your number." She smiles and blushes deeply.

So I speak my number softly to her. She writes it down and tells me to "Have a swell day. I will call you in a few hours." I thought that to be odd. I feel the wide-eyed girls breath on my neck like a hot fog, and walk outside to my car.

Within seconds of sitting down, my phone buzzes.

"Hey, this is the girl from the bookstore. Not the one you gave your number to, but the other, smaller one. Hey."