One of the things I enjoyed most about owning a bookstore in Los Angeles was the array of interesting people that walked through the doors. It was a feast of characters. One of my favorite people only visited the shop twice. I called her the Beta Fish lady.
The first time she came in, she began telling me about her pets as she was purchasing a book about crochet that she had found on the dollar cart. “Are you familiar with Beta Fish?” She asked me as she fumbled through folded paper squares and credit cards stuffed into an old beaded change purse. I told her no, I was not that familiar with them at all. She stopped fumbling and looked into my eyes.
“Oh, they are fascinating fish. Fascinating!”
I nodded politely.
“I put them in the oven,” she continued.
It takes her a second to notice the shocked look on my face and a few seconds more to process why my face might be frozen in such a look. With a big smile she says, “Oh! Not to cook them. So they can mate. It’s quiet there. I put some candles around the inside, on the racks, and along the bottom edges to set the mood.”
“Oh! Good. Good. Cool. Cool,” I say breathing a sigh of relief. “That IS interesting!”
With one final dig into her change purse, she pulled out a thin well worn dollar bill, handed it to me, walked out and did not appear again until almost a year later. I thought of her often during this time, so when I saw her again lingering around the dollar book cart outside my shop, I felt gleeful. I watched her through the window pouring over each and every book until she found one that pleased her.
When she finally came in and walked up to the counter, I greeted her with a big smile.
“Hi. How are you? Haven’t seen you in a long time.” I asked, “I remember you had the beta fish, right?”
Her eyes were bright, pleased, her mouth held a slight smile as she spoke. “You remember that?” she beamed, as she placed a book about knitting on the counter. “Well, the fish died. I have a pet spider now.”
“I am so sorry to hear about the fish. But hey, that’s cool about the spider.” I replied, leaning on my counter, easing in for the conversational adventure.
She leans in too.
“He comes out at night. He is quite large,” she reveals.
She looks down and starts to go through the book she chose, flipping each page carefully. Her gray shoulder length hair frames red cheeks and a doughy face that is deep in thought, eyes scanning page by page slowly from top to bottom. She handles it as if it were a rare tome, an investment she is considering adding to her collection. She gently closes the book, folds her hands upon it and looks back up at me.
When she speaks, it is like a lazy morning her words rolling out like warm sunshine, soft, but full of curiosity and passion. At the same time, her hands tell a different story. Her fingers work frantically at the frayed edges of a crochet shawl she is wearing draped over a baggy teeshirt donning a fading peace sign. “I had some pet ants over the summer. But they don’t come around anymore.” She pauses and asks, “Why do you think that is?”
I shrug my shoulders and suggest that it may be the colder weather, or all the rain we had been having. She nods politely, offering back, “Yes, well, the spider keeps them away too, I suppose.” I agree with her that this could indeed be the reason, while trying at the same time to recall if I had ever seen an ant trapped in a spider web.
She continues, “I have been eating at Kentucky Fried Chicken. Do you eat there often? Kentucky Fried Chicken?” She talks about it as if it is a fine dining establishment. “Other places, the chicken is so scrawny. The chicken is never scrawny at Kentucky Fried Chicken.”
After a final flip through the book, she closes it definitively, deciding it isn’t advanced enough for her skill level.
“I really liked that other book I got from you. I’ll come back again soon and look for another one like that,” she said, “I am always looking for new ideas. I made this, you know.” She lifts one side of the shall around her shoulders. “I made it the perfect size to hang just right and cover up my chest. I had a mastectomy, you know. I don’t want anyone to notice.”
I think about this as she walks back outside to put the rejected book back on the cart. About the idea of hiding something that is no longer there. And the seemingly impossible task of just being okay with our own beautiful selves.
Walking back to my counter to say goodbye before she leaves, she makes a sudden stop in the middle of the store and points to her shoes.
“Do you like crocs?” She asks me, “they come in so many colors. I just bought hot pink ones. They are really well made. Expensive. But they last a long time. Okay, well I’ll see you soon.” She waves and walks out the door.