Propinquity
copyright (c) 1998

     “Stop staring at me,” I say to the man in the horror section who has this way of
sneaking glances at the most opportune times. Of course, he can’t hear me. He’s at least
fifty feet away, but I know he’s staring at me.
     This happens every time I wear my purple sweater. It’s so aggravating. I mean, my
grandmother bought me the damn thing- it’s not like she intended for it to be one size too
small. So anyway, I sort of expected to get a reaction from the boys. But this is no boy.
He’s gotta be at least forty-five years old. He doesn’t even match! Brown pants, pink shirt,
lime green tie. Christ!
     A customer comes up to me and asks me where the bathroom is. What is this, a
restaurant? 
     “I’m sorry, ma’am, the bathroom is employees only,” I say with a polite smile.
     I’ve figured out that dealing with customers at a video rental is easy. First, you have to
know your customers. Now, I don’t like to stereotype people, but stereotypes do exist for
a reason. The most frequent customers are the stressed-out middle-aged moms. They’re
fairly easy to pick out in a crowd because they’ve either got three or four brats clinging to
their waist or they look like they’ve just been released from the psycho ward. I can usually
guess what they’re renting before they even get to the counter. The dedicated mother will
probably be renting some cheesy Disney flick like Dumbo Learns to Ride a Bike or
something. The more sexually frustrated mother will go for something racy, like Fatal
Attraction or- well, you know what I mean.
     Then you have your prepubescent boys who are always hounding the staff for the dilly
on new video game releases. Like the Super Nintendo Play Station 3000 they got for
Christmas wasn’t enough. “Does this have 64-bit graphics? Is this the one where Donkey
Kong sprouts a second head and shoots fireballs out his ass?” 
     Next, you have your super-hip high school boys who have this universal infatuation
with Adam Sandler. All they have to hear is “I got a snake, mang” and they’re amused for
the next four days. It’s either Adam Sandler or Jim Carey- basically the same thing. They
always look at me like I’m going to be impressed by their taste in movies. Like toilet
humor is a major turn-on or something. 
     The last little category consists of what I like to call “lurkers.” They’re the older men
who rent out porn flicks. But it’s not that simple. They make the whole process into this
ridiculous routine in attempt to maintain whatever ounce of dignity they still have left in
their withering bodies. First of all, the majority of them dress in dark clothes- usually a
trench coat and sometimes even a hat to shadow their face. They enter smoothly and head
for some unrelated section, usually new releases. Slowly, they creep toward the adults
only room, which is ironically located right near the children’s section. Sometimes they’ll
go so far as to briefly finger through the kids’ movies- one guy even rented a fucking
cartoon along with his Debbie Does Denmark, or whatever it was. While all this is going
on they’ll keep looking up at the counter to see if we’re noticing what they’re up to. I
mean, I see this every day. It’s not like I care or anything.
     Now this guy, he’s just creeping me out. He’s been in that horror section for like ten
minutes now. At first, I thought he might be a lurker, but he’s like beyond lurker.
     I page my manager Nancy. She’s a nice lady, fifty or so, usually wears a sweatshirt
and jeans. She doesn’t take shit from customers. One time this guy was bitching to me
about our supposedly limited selection, so I paged Nancy and she came up to him all
sweet and nice and said, “Can I help you?” I don’t know what it was, but he could just tell
she was a tiger waiting to pounce- she didn’t even do anything! But he took his business
elsewhere.
     Nancy comes out of the back office and walks up to me, smiling. 
     “What’s up Annie?” she asks.
     “There’s this guy,” I say. “He’s got a staring problem.”
     “Where?” 
     “Horror section.”
     She turns and apparently spots him right away, cause she’s right in his face in like two
seconds. A moment later he leaves the store without looking back. Nancy turns to me and
winks.
     Now, like I said, I expected some reaction from the boys, and so far I’m getting it. I’ve
always considered myself to be pretty, at least as of lately. I may not be supermodel
material, but let’s face it. A nice body and golden-blonde hair will get you places. This
sweater hugs my body nicely- if my grandmother saw the way it showcases my breasts
she’d probably have second thoughts about it.
     It’s not like I’ve always been this way. When I was younger I was the awkward little
fat girl who none of the boys wanted to dance with at the Christmas Ball. I remember in
seventh grade I was the only girl there without a date. What a loser. I think ninth grade’s
when I finally got sick of being ugly and started dieting. I went on this crash diet and lost
like fifty pounds in two months. I was like 5’7, 125. The guys were totally in awe.
     The first guy to ask me out was this dickhead Joey Terno. He was the type of guy who
spends like three hours every morning applying just the right amount of gel to his hair. The
sick part is that I actually had the biggest crush on this dork in eighth grade. I asked him if
he wanted to be my date to the eighth grade semi-formal, and he said he wouldn’t go with
a fat girl. So here he was, asking me out on a date one year later. I should have ripped his
head off! The nerve of some people. Then again, what else could I expect from an
egotistical son-of-a-bitch like Joey Terno?
     So now I’ve got my shit together, and I’ve got this sexy purple sweater, courtesy of
dear old granny. It makes me laugh. My mother raises her eyebrows whenever I wear it.
She knows.
     It’s almost time to close- twenty more minutes. There are no customers left- just me
and Nancy. I begin to straighten out the front desk when I hear the front door swing open-
there he is again! The weirdo with the mismatched clothes. He’s heading straight for the
horror section. Nancy’s in back vacuuming the break room. Should I page her? He picks
up a tape and heads for the counter. My hands begin to sweat. The sweater’s itchy for
some reason. His eyes penetrate me, his shoes are like drums, thumping. He places the
cassette on the counter. Gates of Hell 2: To Hell and Back.
     “You remind me of my daughter,” he says.
     His voice is raspy. He coughs.
     “She passed away. Last month.”
     I don’t know what to say. What can I say?
     He takes the tape and leaves, never looking back.