Paul

My first job in Boston was at the Kinko's in Copley Square. It felt cool to be a part of something, though my second job was even cooler, because it was working in the office at Harvard Book Store, which meant I got to walk through Harvard Square every morning and pick up my vanilla latté from some independent coffee shop I can't remember the name of.

When I started working at Kinko's, I didn't feel confident that I was properly trained to do anything, as the training session was mainly mumbo-jumbo about personality and team building, which seemed a throw-back to the start of the company. I mean, really. It started as a hut that had a xerox machine and folks could come and get copies made. Then it ballooned into this megalith and the company policy is that they try to make it still feel like some cute, corny, little hippie operation when really it's just a corporation like any other.

So there's this thing about working at Kinko's. There's always the lead copy guy. He's the one that takes charge of all the machines and feels sort of infringed upon when others come in and mess up his groove. Paul was this guy.

According to the other employees, Paul was intimidating. He had a goatee which possibly made him look surly, as his facial hair covered his mouth. He wore glasses, so maybe it was hard to see his eyes through the reflection on the lenses. He had thick black hair and good, square, sturdy build, so maybe that seem imposing. He was also rather quiet, so maybe they thought he was always pissed off. But I put on my little orange dress and didn't care what he thought because, fuck him, I wasn't sticking around there forever. I'd worked customer service jobs before, I was in graduate school, I didn't care.

He started training me on the equipment and every time I messed up, I thought that would be the time he lost his patience with me, but he never did. As the days went on, the personal space between us would decrease as we worked on the auxiliary machines together. Jogging enormous documents, coil binding, slicing stacks of postcards. First an arm casually brushing by mistake while reaching for something. Learning glue binding. An accidental movement readjusting the hem of my skirt. Breath on the back of my neck.

Our manager was PaulBrian—a glorious, manic/depressive gay man who was in love with Paul. So the three of us often went on adventures together. We had enormous fun when it was the three of us. One morning, we went out for an extravagent breakfast that ended up costing us $60.

So it seemed natural that Paul and I thought we could go it alone. Our chemistry was obviously there, and clearly we had the extra added edge of feeling like we were somehow cheating on PaulBrian. So we went out. I ended up having to ask him to walk me to the train because it was midnight, but then I feared that I would make the green line in to the center, but not be there in enough time to catch the orange line for transfer. So he walked with me back to his apartment.

While we were in the midst of the sidewalk, he suddenly grabbed my shoulders and steered me aside. It was a movement that was shocking in a way that was at once frightening and thrilling. We had not yet kissed. And so.

We still did not. He was saving me from a skunk that was toddling along, about to cross our path.

I stayed the night at his house and he used my skin like braille, smoothing every inch of it with his fingers. Light dusting butterfly wings. And still, I don't think we ever kissed. But we were working our way up to it. The next time we went out, the conversation was stilted. We were awkward. It was like we were forcing something. A magic that wasn't there without PaulBrian with us. I made the joke that we needed to drink in order to have fun around one another.

As it was coming out of my mouth, I didn't think it was true. Until 3/4 of the words were out, and then I finished the sentence.

I quit Kinko's shortly thereafter, or maybe right before that time.

I sort of wonder whatever happened to Paul. I think if I had been a little more comfortable with myself and confident of other people at the time, it probably would have gone a little better. Been a little less forced. I really did like him, after all. I just couldn't talk to him.