I Remember You (COMING SOON)

When I First Talked to You

        After that week, I only appeared on Tuesdays. And every Tuesday, after roaming about the upper aisles for God knows how long and for what, you would come down and try to talk to me.

"Misterioso," you would call me.

Speaking of which, at home, thanks to your little activity, I had to brush up on my Spanish. It had been a while since I last spoke it, and believe me, I still messed up on my "pors" and "paras."

I did read the books you had gotten me, partially because I felt bad and partially because I was genuinely interested, and partially because I did miss reading for pleasure rather than for classes. But, I admit, I did buy them on my kindle, for I desperately needed the English translation. The Bookseller, Let's Get Lost, The Lost Boy's Symphony, Tuesday's at Morrie's. After reading them, I was proud of your choices.

I had to keep the clothes in the trash can, remembering to take them out every Tuesday morning before the garbage truck came. My mother was not pleased.

"Caspar!" she had yelled up the stairs, "For the last time, either wash these clothes or keep them in the dumpster!"

"Can't! School!" Her groan echoed in the stairwell. That excuse had been beaten to death in my house. Need more money? School, because I need new textbooks for class. Stay up late? School, because I have an essay due the next day. Need the car late? School, because I need to attend a night review session. Now whether those excuses were truthful or not, depended. I would

"How long will this last?" she asked, covering her mouth and nose as I walked by. I didn't blame her. In the past three weeks, these clothes had sat in fish grime, rotten taco meat, spoiled eggs, and old leftover Chinese food.

"Until my research is completed," I said as I grabbed the keys to my truck. "I still have to study an outlier I encountered."

"Well study it faster."

And I did. I stayed up all night trying to figure out how to stump you. But each time, I thought of at least three things you would do to counteract, and I wouldn't be able to combat it without blowing my cover.

So after a month and a half, I did the most logical thing I could do.

I went to Frankie on a Monday. Even he looked surprised of my clean appearance.

"No dumpster diving, I suppose, eh?" I have to give a chuckle.

"No." I walk up to the desk. "Listen, I need a favor."

He crosses his arms. "Aren't I in the middle of one now?"

"Yes, but I'm ending that one with this one, and it'll only take me one day!" He lets out a groan and eggs me with his hand.

"Come on, spit it out. What is it?"

"I need to see the security camera footage." Looking around, he calls another worker to take his place at the register and starts walking to the back.

"Follow me."

We go to his office, a back room whose door is painted like a bookcase. If I hadn't stopped and really looked, I would have mistaken it for the real thing. His office is a salmon color, wooden trimming framing the walls. There was a lone window to the outside, the sage green curtains allowing light to pour in. An oak desk sat in the middle of the floor, it piled with papers and folders and books. In the corner was a TV on wheels, like the ones I remember elementary teachers dragging in for Bill Nye and Magic School Bus videos.

Frankie invites me to take a seat while he rummages his desk, filled with VCRs.

"You know," I say. "There's these wonderful inventions called DVD and Blu-Ray discs."