PG; Language

Time: 5:13 PM, May 5th, 2017

Location: Olympia, Washington

The rain platted on my umbrella as I ran inside. That whole stereotype about Washingtonians not using umbrellas? Not true right now. You’ve never seen rain like this.

I step inside and shake my umbrella off through the door before putting it in the stand. Then I turn around. Every other Friday, after class, I come to this store. No, they don’t sell food or video games. This store was more about… the curiosities. From the fascinating to the bizarre, this store had items from all over the Pacific Northwest. Historical machines, artisan furniture, glass art, and odd-looking decor are only a part of this store’s unusual inventory.

I first came here when I moved to Olympia from Tukwila back in ‘14. I didn’t have many things to fill my apartment, so my mother took me around town to different stores to make my new place feel like home. After visiting several chain stores and warehouses, we decided to stop for a burger before heading back.

However, next door to the restaurant was this place I now frequent: The Curious Store. Throughout our lunch, my mind, for some inexplicable reason, kept wandering to this store. Was it the name? Or what the name was implying? When we walked out of the restaurant, I asked my mother if we could go in there. She sighed, saying we had already spent too much that day. However, she gave me an ultimatum: I can buy one item, for under $20 of my own money, as long as I meet her back at the car in ten minutes. I quickly thanked her and went in.

As soon as I opened the door, the spectrum of colors from the oddities immediately overwhelmed me. I was pulled inside purely by intrigue. My autistic brain spent the first three minutes cataloging every detail of the items I picked up. I wanted to look at everything in the store, but I also knew mom would be pissed if I dawdled too long. I looked around for any signage in the store that would lead me to something I would at least use instead of a weird trinket I’d only use once before tossing it onto the top shelf of my pantry, never to be seen again.

My eyes landed on the sign pointing towards the clothing area. At least clothing would be practical. As soon as I got there, I saw what I wanted: The perfect sweater. A yarn-woven, long-sleeved sweater with patterns that could keep my eyes occupied for days. A beautiful tapestry of blue, orange, purple, pink, and brown. Not colors you’d usually think of together, but they worked on this sweater. And I saw the price tag: $18.95. How lucky could you get?

When I went to pay for the sweater, I was stopped in my tracks by the man behind the counter. He was striking. His silver-green eyes made contact with my hazels. His short, black pompadour greatly contrasted my messy blonde waves. He smiled at me, his teeth sparkling like the rocks in his ears. I was hoping to God that I remembered to brush my teeth that morning.

“Did you want to ring that up for you?” he said, snapping me out of my stupor.

“Um… yes?” I squeaked out as if I wasn’t sure.

I sweated like a crazy person. Because of course, I was nervous! Here he was, a well-groomed, put-together beauty of a man, while I stood in front of him in a wrinkled hoodie and a pair of sweatpants I’d been living in that entire weekend. I wish I had known that day that I’d be meeting a guy like him, but that’s not how life works.

He put the sweater in a paper bag with the receipt and two wrapped mints. I blushed as I struggled to get my next words out.

“Thank you…” I started, glancing down at his nametag. “…Brandon.”

“No problem… sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Christian.”

“Nice to meet you, Christian. Feel free to come back anytime.”

I wear that sweater a lot. Every time I do, I sit on my couch after dinner, tracing the patterns with my finger, thinking of Brandon.

I went back to The Curious Store two weeks later. However, unlike my first time, it was crowded in there. I’m not too fond of crowds, so I instinctively went right back out and sat at the burger place instead. My bacon and mushroom burger didn’t taste as good that time because I was mad at myself for chickening out.

So I made a plan: every two weeks, no matter how crowded it was, I would stay in the store after class for an hour.

This isn’t just for him, although I am glad that he works in this store. The store itself is good for me. I get stressed easily with Asperger’s and ADD, especially near the end of the quarter at school. This store, I find, has helped me calm down when I need it. When I come in, I go to the last place I was the previous time and look at the details of anything that grabbed my attention. Sometimes, I would trace my hand over an object. Touch is an overlooked sense. The feel of a certain texture can change your emotion. I enjoy smooth or patterned textures, but rough, moist, uneven, and sticky items make me uncomfortable. I don’t touch everything, though, either through my own aversion or if the item seems fragile.

My favorite part of the store is the bookshelf in the back of the store, near the hallway leading to the bathroom and a barricaded staircase that I can only assume leads to the apartment upstairs. Like the rest of the store, the bookshelf is loyal to the PNW: you’ll only find titles from Washingtonian, Oregonian, Idahoan, and British Columbian authors on here. Like David Guterson, Debbie Macomber, Sherman Alexie, and Gary Larsen are among those that line the shelves. I look at the covers and read the descriptions on the back, trying to decide if I should buy a book that day, if at all. I sometimes peek inside that book, but never too deeply. Brandon gets annoyed when people get too into the books on the shelf, treating the store as if it were a library.

But there’s one other thing in the store that piques my interest: the phonograph next to the bookshelf, surrounded by paintings from local artists. I’ve never dared touch it, nor buy the unsurprisingly expensive antique, but I wanted so much to hear music played on it.

This brings us to tonight: May 5th, 2017. It was already dark thanks to the heavy rain. The sound of rain on a window has a hypnotic, relaxing effect on me, and during a storm like this, my mind will go where it wants to. As I was staring at the 90-something-year-old phonograph, a daydream took over my mind. I was attending a 1920‘s ball, standing by the phonograph as a waltz played, and couples in haute couture danced by.

And then I saw Brandon walking toward me. Instead of his usual green apron, polo, and khakis, he was in a luxurious tuxedo. He was stunning. That characteristic sparkle of his was there, too, in his eyes, teeth, and earrings. I wanted to say something, but he opened his mouth first.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Suddenly the daydream flew away, and the store was back to normal. His tuxedo was gone, as well, replaced by his uniform.

“Huh?!” I sputtered out.

“You were just staring off into space for a while there,” he continued.

“Um… sorry. I let my mind wander sometimes.”

“You come in here a lot. Remind me what your name is?”

“Christian.”

“Right. Why do you come in here so often?’

I’ll just tell him the truth. I won’t be able to come up with any less weird of a lie, anyway.

“I come here to stim,” I said.

“Stim?”

I have no idea why I’m telling him all of this, but the ball’s already rolling.

“I have Asperger’s, and ADD,” I continued. “Self-stimulating, or ‘stimming,’ is a repetitive behavior many autistic people perform to calm themselves when they’re stressed. When I stim, I trace patterns, like the hexagonal one on that wall hanging.”

I pointed to a wooden wall hanging covered in hexagonal tiles.

“Huh,” he replied.

Without queue, I continued. “My favorite pattern to trace is on this sweater.”

I opened my raincoat to show him the sweater I had bought the first time I was here. His face lit up immediately when he recognized it.

“That sweater,” he whispered as his hand reached out to touch it. “May I?”

I hesitated, trying to process the situation. But before I could string together a clear thought, I blurted out: “Go ahead.”

His fingers brushed down the sleeve on my right arm. His touch sent a shiver down my spine. I had never thought this would happen.

“I remember this sweater,” he continued. “You bought the first time you were here.”

“I was fascinated by the patterns.”

“I see,” he said, still brushing his fingers along the sleeve.

I could feel my face getting red. We’ve never been this close before, yet here he was, tracing patterns on me.

I think he realized how long he’d been doing this because he suddenly pulled away, blushing. It was weird to see him like this. Every time I saw him behind the counter, he was always focused and calm. Now he looked… flustered and nervous—time to break the awkward silence.

“How long have you worked here?” I asked.

“Ten years,” he said. “I started out helping my grandparents, but after I finished college last year, I’ve been running the store myself. They still live upstairs.”

“So, this is technically your store now?”

“My grandma still has the final say, but I guess?” he shrugged.

Trying to hide my blush, I looked at the phonograph.

“There’s no one else here,” said Brandon. “You can try that out if you’d like.”

My eyes widened. I finally get to play this thing?

He went over to the phonograph and opened the drawer, pulling out a blue phonograph record. He blew the dust off of it.

“This hasn’t been played in a while. Bear with me,” he said, slipping the record onto the turntable.

When the needle hit the disk, Brandon held out his hand, and the room filled with a beautiful waltz.

“Can I have this dance?” he asked.

Originally written for a Creative Writing class project at Eastern Washington University.