There's Something About Ellen

All Ellen Oldfield wants to do is read. Books, that is, paperbacks usually, mainly fiction. She needs to read. It's what gives meaning to her life and as well as a sense of purpose. It also keeps the world at bay, helping her to feel safe and secure. She likes nothing better than to curl up with a cherished paperback, either by a favorite author or one she is unfamiliar with (it doesn't matter the least to her) and wile away the time letting the hours pass, getting lost in the world of words. You may know people like Ellen, or maybe even are a little bit like her yourself. I know I am. My friend Charley employs her at his used book store and that's where I first heard about her. Her story has stuck with me.

            Most people would describe Ellen as a quiet, shy young woman; one of those people who, as you went through your day, you would never notice, and, if you did, would immediately forget about because she would have left absolutely no impression on you at all. None. And that would have been fine with Ellen. She doesn't mind anonymity, in fact, craves it. But she still has to work. She still has to go out into the world and having to do so is hard for her; being around people, possibly even talking to them, is not something she is comfortable with. In fact, it fills her with such an overwhelming fear that sometimes she reacts physically, tensing up so badly that her entire body will cramp into knots, collapsing in on itself, making it impossible for her to move. Her life is challenging to say the least.

            If you asked her about her job she would say that she lucked out when she was hired to work at Tennyson's, Charley's bookstore, located in a two story, dilapidated, brown brick building near the University of Minnesota campus. He sells used, and rare, hard to find books, and the store seems to have been around forever. I met him back in the late sixties when I was a freshman at the University and we have stayed in touch over all these years.

            The event Charley told me about happened this past summer. At the time, Ellen had worked at Tennyson's for nearly three years. Charley told me she found the job fulfilling and satisfying. She was in charge of cataloging his huge collection and wasn't required to wait on any customers, which suited her just fine. She was around books all day, and she loved her job as much as she could love anything. Plus, it paid the rent.

            Ellen worked at the store full-time and when she wasn't working she was home in her tiny, third floor, efficiency apartment near Loring Park in downtown Minneapolis. There you'd find her curled up on her Victorian style couch reading, letting the hours slip away until she had to get ready to go out again. It was a life she didn't necessarily choose, but one she worked at, trying to keep the panic attacks at bay. She did the best she could.

            On this particular Saturday, Ellen is stretched out asleep on her couch. Her cat jumps up on her, kneading her tee-shirt with her paws, waking her.

            "Prudence, whatever is the matter with you?" She asks her kitty, "hungry again?" Prudence responds with a dramatic rattling purr, loud for such a petit animal. Ellen takes a hold of her and draws her close, petting her lovingly. Her affection for her pet is strong.

            She then sits up, blinking herself fully awake and carefully closes the Anne Tyler book she is reading. She continues to caress the three year old calico, smoothing the fur on the top of her head. The repetitive motion is calming. Prudence purrs on and on, enjoying the attention.

             Ellen looks around and mentally checks over her tiny apartment. Her small, square, kitchen table is where it should be with two, shaker style wooden chairs tucked perfectly under it. The table is six feet exactly in front of the refrigerator and six feet exactly from the end of her couch. A white vase of pink and lavender carnations is in the middle of the table flanked by two braided yellow place mats. Her pair of dark green, corduroy, winged back chairs are next to her on either side of the burgundy couch she is on - right where they should be.

            Her kitchen is neat and clean. Next to the refrigerator is the sink with a red dish cloth folded over the faucet, and next to it is the four burner stove with a bright yellow teapot on it, just as they should be. In the middle of the far wall, six steps across from her, is the small work table that holds the old singer sewing machine she inherited from her mom. A clear plastic storage container filled with fabric is placed underneath, the dress she is currently working on lays neatly folded on top. Her I-Pad in its light green case is on the glass coffee table right next to her in front of the couch.

            Nothing is out of the ordinary. Good. She realizes she has been holding her breath, and exhales, breathing a sigh of relief.

            She looks at the clock on the wall, 4:46 pm, and sits up. Prudence moves next to her, sits down, still purring, and watches her owner. Ellen runs her hands over her faded blue jeans. They feel soft to her touch and give her a sense of security. She adjusts the old Bonnie Raitt shirt she is wearing, loving the feel of the worn fabric on her skin. She runs her long fingers through her thick brown hair that she cuts herself in a page boy style, deciding at that moment she'll put off giving herself a trim for another week. She stretches her thin arms over her and tilts her head back, checking for cob-webs on the ceiling. Since she had dusted the day before, she doesn't expect to find any and she is not mistaken. Prudence jumps to the floor and saunters to the corner of the kitchen where her food is, nosing at her empty dish. Always hungry, Ellen thinks to herself, smiling. She loves her cat, or 'kitty' as she often refers to her pet, and would do anything for her.

            Then the pleasurable moment begins to slip away. She feels herself start to tense up, her heart rate increasing, a red flush beginning to grow up her neck. She glances at the clock again. 4:52 pm. She has to go out today. She has the evening shift tonight at the bookstore. She volunteered for it to test herself - to prove to herself that she could do it; run the store by herself and even talk to customers. She's never done anything like it before in her life, but she promised herself and her boss that she would. She intends to keep her promise. The time has come. Her shift starts at 6:00 pm and runs until 9:00 pm. She has to get ready, go out and face the world and the idea of it fills her with a fear bordering on terror.

            Charley Tennyson (only a very few friends are ever permitted to jokingly call him 'Alfred' or 'Lord') glances at the clock on the wall. It reads 4:55 pm. He's saying good-bye to Crazy Pete, one of his best customers.

            "Enjoy that Kerouac, CP," he says, watching the old guy go out the door. Crazy has bought a first edition of 'On the Road' and is clutching it tightly to his chest. He's a huge man whose white hair frizzes out around his light blue Twins baseball cap like an out of control, white, Brillo pad. He's dressed in a colorful Hawaiian print shirt with green parrots on a yellow background, faded, cutoff blue jeans and a pair of falling apart leather boots held together with duct tape. He's a good, long time customer, one of many who frequent Charley's store.

            "Peace, brother," CP smiles in return, flashing a two finger 'V'. Crazy's an old hippy and one of the best wood-workers Charley has ever seen. Right now he's making a series of carved cherry wood wind chimes he's planning to sell at the Uptown Art Fair, starting the first weekend of August, coming up in two months.

            "Same to you, man," Charley says, waving good-bye. Then he walks to the front of the store and  looks out to the busy street outside his shop - the store he's owned for fifty one years.

            Charley's a friendly, gregarious man, who enjoys being around people. He idly scratches his full, bushy, white beard, his bright blue eyes accentuated by wire-rim glasses. He is bald, short and squat, and today is wearing sandals, baggy chinos and a red plaid, flannel shirt cut off at the elbows. The afternoon is pleasant, the sky colored robin's egg blue and the temperature's in the low 80's, not too hot at all. People hurry along the sidewalk, finishing errands, perhaps going home to get ready to go out for the evening. Warm Saturday nights in the summer in Minneapolis often prompt a party like atmosphere, with residents young and old letting off steam and enjoying the pleasant weather - the chance to be out and about and not cooped up like they usually are in the winter is too enticing to not take advantage of. Business could be good tonight.

            Tennyson's is located just a few blocks from 'Dinky Town' a hot spot of bars, restaurants and shops near to the north end of the University of Minnesota campus. This is the first year Charley has considered keeping the bookstore open until 9:00 pm on Saturday's to take advantage of the increased street activity during the summer season. Ellen has volunteered to do the shift, something she's never done before. Volunteer, that is. In fact, to be brutally honest, it was the last thing he expected out of his shy, withdrawn employee. But she offered and he had agreed.

             He looks at the clock. The time is fast approaching for her shift to begin and he seriously wonders if she is up to it. He walks back into the store, nervously shuffles some books around, and then looks through a few pages of a rare volume of John Updike's poetry. He glances at the clock again and walks over to the cash register. She has just over an hour before she is supposed to start. He nervously taps his fingers on the counter, pulls on his beard some more and contemplates going out back for a calming smoke, but then quickly squelches the idea. Better wait inside in case Ellen shows up ahead of time. He doesn't want to do anything to rattle his diffident employee. Sometimes she is early to work, but one thing she is never, and that is late.

            When Charley first met Ellen he had no idea what he was getting into. To him, she was just a quiet, somewhat retiring, young woman, who avoided eye contact. He hired her not only because she impressed him with how well read she was and her almost encyclopedic knowledge of books, but because on that first job interview, after talking for a while (actually, him doing most of the talking), he had taken her on a stroll through the long rows of tall stacks toward the back of the store and she quickly began pointing out how she could re-arrange his haphazard cataloging system, coming up with a workable plan right off the top of her head. Being around books seemed to excite her and get her out of her shell. He liked that. He also realized he needed someone with her organizational skills, and he hired her on the spot. The fact that she was quiet and withdrawn didn't bother him in the least.

            Over the ensuing three years she has worked for him, however, he's realized that her shyness was only the outward manifestation of something deeper. She was meticulous in her dress and her behavior. She never laughed, only giving him or a customer the very occasional smile if something tickled her fancy. Which wasn't often - maybe once a year. And that smile? Well, a slight upturned tick at one corner of her mouth was more like it, with the emphasis on slight. She talked only when spoken to, and although she was never, ever rude, she was not exactly outgoing either. But all of that was fine with Charley. He liked her. He and Sara, his wife of forty-nine years were parents and grandparents and they treated Ellen, who was in her early twenties, like an adhoc granddaughter. She was a good worker: smart and dependable. But there was something different about Ellen that he couldn't put his finger on.

            It was Sara, who, after she got to know Ellen a little, suggested early on that she might have Agoraphobia. "She's so painfully shy, Charley," she told him after Ellen had worked at the store for a few weeks. "And did you ever notice, she never looks directly at you, either. I think that's a symptom. You should look into it."

            Charley had noticed and he did look into it. He researched on-line and he and Sara talked about what he found and how it related to Ellen. The more they talked and the more information they uncovered, the more they became convinced that Ellen, that nice, shy woman, indeed, was probably Agoraphobic.

            "It's a serious condition. That's why she's so withdrawn, you know," Sara told him. "I'm surprised she's even able to do what she does."

            Which was really the crux of the matter, as far as Charley was concerned. From what he'd read, most people with Agoraphobia had trouble going outside at all, let alone were able to work in at any kind of job, especially one like in his store, where there were people around.

But Ellen is different, unique to herself, and her story came out bit by bit, especially during this particular summer when she volunteered to work the Saturday evening shift. She prefers to think of herself as quiet, and resents being labeled as withdrawn or 'put in an agoraphobic box' as she puts it when she discusses her issues concerning the outside world with her confidant, Prudence. Something she does quite often.

            "It's just the way I am!" Ellen will say, putting an emphatic exclamation point to her statement just to make sure she is clearly understood.

            Prudence, who is used to her owner's somewhat quirky ways after living with her for three years, will sit on the floor in the middle of the apartment, keeping her company, listening and casually licking her paw to clean her face. She's heard it all before, but is happy to listen anytime, because...sometimes when Ellen is done ranting, she feels the need to burn off some nervous energy, which often leads to her not only cleaning the already spotless apartment, but also to giving her beloved kitty a much appreciated extra helping of food in her dish. Prudence is all for that.

            Ellen keeps a calendar from her bank hanging in her kitchen on a cupboard next to the sink. Each month is a different photo of a different building in downtown Minneapolis and she likes that she knows where each of them is located. Every morning she circles the date with a black marker and puts an red 'X' through the circle of the previous day's date. If she doesn't kept track, she won't know what day it is, let alone how much time has passed since she started working for Charley. A quote from Thoreau might define her outlook: to paraphrase...'Time is but a stream I go a fishin' in. I drink from it, but it soon passes, and eternity remains.' The point is that Ellen has learned to take things as they come and not put too much emphasis on the future. Living one day at a time is good enough for her. It helps her stay focused and secure, and helps her to function in a world that threatens her at every opportunity.

But three years at Tennyson's was a long time. She liked her job and she liked Charley, so she felt she owed him an explanation, since, after all, he was the guy who signed her paychecks.

            "Let's talk," she told him earlier that summer when discussions of opening up on Saturday evenings first started to take place. "I need you to understand a few things."

            So at the end of May, on a Friday night after work, Charley and Ellen sat down in the back room office and had a heart to heart chat. He fixed English Breakfast tea, their favorite, on the little hotplate he kept on a filing cabinet in the corner, and then offered her a mug, sipping his carefully, blowing on the surface to cool it. He sat in his old, broken spring chair behind his cluttered desk, suddenly, for some reason, feeling nervous. But he really needn't have been. Ellen was just being Ellen, that was all, someone, even after all this time, he was still getting used to.

            "So you're thinking of opening on Saturday nights?" Ellen asked, making herself as comfortable as she could in a metal folding next to his desk, "I'm thinking of trying to handle running the store all by myself. What do you think of that?"

            Charley wasn't sure what to think. Ellen rode her bike to work (no matter what the weather), did her job and went home. She had never initiated a conversation before, preferring to spend her time back in the stacks, cataloging, dusting and re-arranging sections and lovingly caring for the old books. Even though they'd worked together five days a week for three years, Charley had to admit he really didn't know her at all, only that she was a steady, dependable employee.

            He liked the directness of her question and responded with the first thing that popped into his brain, "Why now?"

            To which Ellen replied, "Why not?"

            Well, there you go, thought Charley, she's obviously got something on her mind. And she did.

            "My mom was shy like me," Ellen told him, "Not like my dad at all. He's outgoing and friendly. He sells insurance and was on the road a lot when I was growing up. It was me and my mom and my other sister and two brothers. I'm the third oldest, with my two older brothers and then me and then my little sister. They're all pretty much like my dad, you know, friendly and outgoing. Me, I've always kept to myself. Just like my mom."

            While she talked, Ellen had not once looked at Charley, which he was used to. Instead she focused on the watch on her left wrist. A watch she wore every day. It had a blue background with Minnie Mouse on the face.

            "Mom died when I was ten," she continued, her voice soft yet confident, "She taught me how to sew. We were always close."

            Charley watched as she closed her eyes, lost, he figured, in some long ago memory of her mother. A tear suddenly formed and slowly trickled down her right cheek. He felt a fatherly desire to wipe it away but held back, respecting her private moment.

            Why she felt the need to tell him all of this, he had no idea. He and Sara had seven grandkids but none of them were like Ellen. She was quiet and remote. Distant. Not talkative at all. She never complained and rarely said more than a few words to Charley. But she was likeable in her own way. It was hard to put into words, but there was something about her that both Charley and his wife admired. The more Ellen talked the more he realized what it was. Life had not been easy for her, but she made no excuses and went through her day doing the best she could. And the best she could was really quite admirable, as far as Charley was concerned.

            "I had one close friend in school," she went on, wiping the tear away, "His name was Sammy. Sammy Watkins. We met when mom had me in pre-school. She worked at Northern Data Systems as a computer programmer and trouble shooter for their computer network. She was really good at it. Also, she didn't have to talk to people too much. So, you know, that was a good thing for her."

            Charley found himself nodding his head in agreement even though Ellen wasn't even looking at him. It seemed like the right thing to do.

            "Anyhow," she continued, "Sammy and I were buddies from the very beginning, probably because we were both a little different. Sammy was born with one leg an inch shorter than the other, so he limped, even though he wore a brace when he was young and then a raised shoe when he was older, to help compensate for it. And me, well, I was very quiet back then, you know, pretty withdrawn. But one thing we both liked was anything having to do with drawing or painting. He was a really good artist, even back then. Very creative."

            She stopped talking for a minute and caressed the face of her wrist watch with her thumb. "He gave me this before his family moved to the west coast when he was in ninth grade. We missed each other a lot and wrote back and forth at least once a week. A year after they left he was killed in a car accident." She lowered her head, her hair obscuring her face. "He stole his parent's car and was trying to drive it," she said, sadly. Then shook her head, "Him with his bum leg."

            Charley was mesmerized by her story. He'd never heard her talk so much and it made him wonder where it all was leading. He didn't want to interrupt her, though, and found himself listening closely, not wanting to miss a thing, thinking about what Sara would say when he told her later that evening.

            "I became a lot more shy after that," Ellen said, sitting up and running her fingers through her hair, "after he died."

            As Charley listened, he realized that Ellen was using 'shy' to cover a multitude of personality characteristics. She still continued to avoid looking at him, but the words flowed more easily now, almost as if some internal spigot had been turned on and left to flow unimpeded. Her confidence was growing and her voice level increased a couple of notches.

            She continued with her story: telling him about learning to get along without Sammy being her friend. Learning to deal with the bullies in her school, both guys and girls, and learning to accept the fact that she was different. "I realized it was up to me to learn to live with not being able to do the things others did so easily, like go out on dates, work at a job after school, or even stand up in front of class and give a speech."

            Charley laughed out loud, "Ellen, dear, no one likes to do that."

            "I know," she responded, "I've read that more people are afraid of giving a speech than fear dying, but people still do it."

            Charley nodded, understanding the point she was making.

            She paused again and looked into space, seeming to tap into some inner well of strength. After a minute she continued, "I couldn't do any of the things other people did. My dad, my teachers, everyone realized by that time I'd never have any what they all called people skills."

            Charley sympathized with her and wanted to tell her there was more to life than just people skills, but she was on a roll and he let her talk.

            "My grades in school were really good and when graduation came I even received a couple of academic scholarships, but..." The words trailed off.

            "It would have been hard for you to go away and be around people you didn't know, right?" Charley asked, to let her know he understood.

            "Yeah, it really would have been. Others might have liked the attention but not me. I'm not one for being in the lime-light as you can probably tell."

            Again, Charley nodded, and again, Ellen didn't notice.

            "What I really wanted was to be independent. My dad understood and was very supportive, but things were tough at home with mom gone. Money was tight. I got a job cleaning houses with Minute Maid, a company that provided cleaning services for homes in Minneapolis and the western suburbs. I worked for them for three years, living at home, helping dad out and saving my money until I had enough to move downtown."

            She raised her head and, for the first time, looked directly at Charley. Ellen's eyes were deep, dark brown. There was a luminescence to them he'd never noticed before, like flecks of gold maybe. "Finding this job and working here in the store is, I think, what I've always wanted to do...What I was meant to do."

            Outside, the street was full of traffic noise: big, side loader dump trucks were rumbling past, carrying debris from a high rise apartment building going in a few blocks away down University Avenue. Inside the office, though, they heard none of it, focused as they were on their conversation. Charley glanced at an old mini-grandfather clock on the wall. It read 6:48 pm. They'd been talking for nearly an hour. Time had flown by. He wondered if Ellen had finished her story and had said all there was that she wanted to say. She wasn't.

Ellen went back to starring at Sammy's watch as she continued filling Charley in on her life, feeling the need to express herself to this kindly old man who had given her a job she could only have dreamed of in her wildest imagination. As she talked she could tell Charley was enthralled  (if that was the right word) and she truly was trying to be as open and honest as she could be. But, if she stepped back outside herself and watched the conversation as a third person, and really, really listened, she could tell that as hard she tried to be honest and express herself, and no matter how sympathetic Charley was and truly seemed to hear her and absorb her words, when it came right down to it, she really wasn't doing a very good job of telling him what was on her mind. But maybe that was all right. Maybe that's the way it had to be. Maybe, for now, she would have to accept that it was the best she could do.

            "I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wanted to learn how to live on my own and be independent," she finally said, sighing and glancing into her tea mug. She picked it up and took a sip, then set it back down on the corner of Charley's desk, running her finger around the rim.

            "Something was driving you, right?" he asked.

            "Yeah. I just wanted to be on my own and learn to live my life in a way that made sense to me. You know," she added, "given the fact I'm so shy and all."

            Charley smiled when she used finger quotes around 'shy'. She didn't see him, focused as she was on telling him her story.

            She told him that after her mom died when she was in the fourth grade, she sank into a deep depression. Her dad took her to numerous doctors, both for physical and psychological reasons and it was decided that she should take medications for both her depression and her anxiety being around other people. And she did for five years. Right up until she was fifteen. On the day Sammy and his family left for the west coast she decided to quit them cold turkey. She had read that the after effects could easily have long term consequences on her and her health. She felt she was too dependent on them, possibly even addicted to them, and she decided she didn't want to be. So she quit, and that decision was the beginning of her trying to established herself as an independent person, relying on herself to function in the world and not be dependent on drugs or medications.

            Then, a year later, Sammy was killed, and while it could have been easy to go back on her meds, she didn't. For a while, she used her books to escape whenever she needed to, which, in the beginning, was quite often. (Her rather formidable collection of books nearly doubled during that period). Then she bought a bicycle and started riding it to get out outside, see the world and to get out of her head. Then she learned the trick of talking to herself, working her problems and issues out in ways that made sense to her.

            "So you learned how to get through it, right?" Charley summarized what she'd said.

            He knew what she was getting at. He'd lived a lot of years and seen his fair share of people with problems. He had them himself. The fact that Ellen had issues certainly was apparent. He had no problem with that at all, but the fact that she felt she needed to confide in him was something he hadn't expected. He appreciated the effort that it took for her to do it. In fact, to even attempt expressing herself was a pretty big deal, in his opinion.

            "Yes, that's what I'm getting at," she said, picking up her tea mug, taking a final sip and then setting it down. It was empty.

            "Want some more?" Charley asked, motioning to the mug.

            "That would be nice," she said, with the hint of a smile.

            If in thankfulness for the tea, or relief that she was able to talk and express herself, he didn't know. Probably both.

            "I'll heat some up."

            While Charley went to the sink and drew some water, Ellen got up, walked out of the office, through the tall stacks of books to the front of the store and looked out the window. University Avenue was one way, traffic moving left to right. It was nearly seven-thirty and the sun was low to the west, a golden glow of light reflecting off the buildings of the campus to her left. Dusk was settling in and street lights would soon be coming on. Cars and trucks sped by in bursts, vying for space with the never ending stream of bicyclists. Across the street were big, old homes some of which were divided into rooms and rented out to students . Under the canopy of tall trees, people strolled by on the sidewalk, enjoying being outside in the warm evening.

            Ellen looked at the scene but didn't really register any of the activity, thinking instead about her talk with Charley. She had told him more than she'd ever told anyone in her entire life, and with it she felt a measure of relief. But with that relief came disappointment. I'll never be any good at this interpersonal stuff, is what she thought. Even though Charley is a really nice man, I just don't like talking to people. It's hard to do, makes me uncomfortable and it's not enjoyable at all. Then she made a snap decision. I think I'll just go home.

            She turned and went back into the office. Charley had poured out some more tea and looked up as she walked in, smiling encouragingly at her, in a good mood. He held up one finger, Just a minute. He was on his phone, talking, she could tell, to Sara. "Yes, we've had a really good, conversation," he was telling his wife, "I'll tell you about it when I get home."

            Ellen tuned him out. She was suddenly exhausted and needed to get away. She looked around and found a Post-it tablet and quickly scratched a note: I really just wanted to tell you I would like to work on Saturday nights. Thanks. She pulled the note off and slapped in on the desk and turned to go.

            Charley continued talking for a minute before he glanced at what she'd written. "Wait, Ellen!" he called to her, then said to Sara, "I've got to go. I'll talk to you later."

            He stood up and rushed from the office. Up ahead he saw Ellen pushing through the front door and getting on her bike. By the time he got to the front of the store, she was pedaling down the block, heading for home.

            What the...Charley thought to himself, watching her until she disappeared in the traffic. He went back to the office and looked at the note again, re-reading it. Then he smiled to himself and shook his head. All of that just to tell me she wants to work on Saturday night. He got up and walked through the store, making one final check, turning the last few lights off, getting ready to leave. But before he went home he sat down and sipped his tea, rolling the note like one would a rolling paper for a smoke. He tapped it on the desk, thinking of the effort it took for her to even talk to him. He smiled, knowing that he didn't even have to think hard about his decision - of course she could work on Saturday nights. Anything he could do to help her out, he would. The key to it all, though, was Ellen. It would be up to her to follow through.

Now it's Saturday. Ellen gets up from the couch and walks into the bathroom. Her efficiency apartment is small -  takes her five steps to cross. She looks into the mirror, something that for many years of her life she was not always been able to do. But she's come a long way from those days; now she can. The image reflected back is a young woman of average height and slim build, with, straight brown hair and a light complexion, with a slight blush of freckles on her cheeks. To others, her eyes would be pretty, but to her they are plain brown accented by full eyebrows. Her nose is angular and her lips are thin and naturally tinted pink. Her jaw is oval, a few teeth are slightly crooked.

            For years Ellen has tried and tried to accept her physical self for what she is, a pleasant looking person, but she can't. Her looks just aren't that important to her. She can only stare at the reflection in the mirror and then turn her thoughts inward and wonder if she can really go through with her promise to herself to step beyond the secure apartment she lives in do the evening shift tonight. Who cares about one's appearance when the real challenge is whether or not she can muster the courage to go outside? No one knows what she has to go through to abandon the security of her home at anytime, let alone now, and go to work at Tennyson's tonight without Charley being there. She's never been able to tell her father or Charley or anyone the depth of her fear of the outside world. No one knows and try as she might, she just can't. Only her mom knew, but, of course, she is gone. The fear is something she has to face every day of her life by herself.

            She steels herself and begins humming a song by Adele. She admires the personal strength and character of the singer. Ellen has a burning need to prove that she can exist in the world beyond the confines of the small room and apartment she calls home. Life means nothing if she gives in to her desire to stay inside and hide from the world. She will always be quiet. She will always be shy. But she doesn't have to be a prisoner.

            To others, it is just going out and going to a job. Everybody does it. No big deal. And that's fine for them. To Ellen it is much, much more. Her security lies in the 'knowns' in her life: her apartment, Prudence, her books. Having a job and dealing with people and getting close to people, well...that's different. You never know what they're going to do, how they're going to treat you. Her mom has died. So has Sammy. Her friend Charley will, too, one day. Yes, she knows that death is a fact of life, and yes, she knows it is inevitable, but this all consuming fear of hers is much more than that. This is about the risk of being around people, talking to them and interacting with them. Everyone does it, don't they? Why is it so hard for her? Maybe one day she'll find an answer. For now, the only answer she can give is that it is just the way it is. And she has accepted it for what it is because it's true. It's part of who she is.

            She feels Prudence rub up against her leg and she bends down and picks her up, cradling her kitty in her arms, absentmindedly petting her. She looks into the mirror some more, trying to gather her courage. She thinks about her mom. She thinks about Sammy. They would both want her to do this, to take the risk and go out and run the store tonight. She takes strength from their memory and the courage each of them found to help them to live in the world despite their handicaps. Adele's song keeps playing in her head. She hums along some more, tapping her fingers, feeling her courage building and the strength of her inner will taking over, transforming her. The image in the mirror is unchanged except for the fiery certainty that has taken place in her eyes. She is ready.

            "Ok, Pru, let's do this," she says, setting her kitty down. She turns the shower on and Prudence runs and jumps on the couch. Ellen steps into the little stall and stands under the stream, letting the water wash over her, working to quell the rapid beating of her heart, fear mixing with anticipation. She has no idea what to expect once she walks out the door of her apartment and makes her way to Charley's. Therein lies the challenge. And that's what her courage is for.

            She turns the shower off, steps from it, dries herself, then gets dressed. By 5:32 pm she's all set. She's as ready as she'll ever be. She gives Prudence a kiss good-bye and wheels her bike out the door and down the hall seventeen footsteps to the elevator. Then down to the first floor lobby and then out twelve footsteps to the street. She glances at her Minnie Mouse watch. She has twenty-three minutes to get to work. Plenty of time.

At 5:55 pm Charley says good-bye to Johnny and Lucy, two young people who work in one of the nearby restaurants and often spend time browsing the history section. They're an androgynous couple with purple dyed hair and tats and piercings and Charley likes them a lot. Today they each found a book and had spent over an hour curled up in the comfortable overstuffed chairs in reading area he'd set up (at Ellen's suggestion two and a half years ago) in the front window.

            "See ya' later Charley," Johnny waves at him as they leave. They are both dressed in black and play in a punk band called 'Wiley Coyote', that apparently has quite a following in the upper Midwest. Whatever the case, they are good people, like most of his customers. He is certain Ellen will have no trouble at all on this, her first night, working the store.

            He is watching the street activity outside the front window when he sees her pull up on her bike. He breathes a sigh, Thank god. She is dressed like she normally dresses, white converse high-top tennis shoes and a full length, granny dress that she has sewn herself. This one he hasn't seen before. She must have made it specially for tonight. It has a light blue background with tiny green and white flowers on it. Her hair is blown back from her ride and her cheeks are flushed. She jumps off her bike, an old, blue and white, three speed Raleigh and takes her tote bag out of the straw basket on the front, hoisting it on her shoulder. She looks in through the window, sees Charley and waves. Charley waves back as she pushes in through the front door.

            "Hey, there, Ellen. Ready for tonight?"

            "Ready as I'll ever be, Charley," she says, pushing the bike past him to the back of the store. "Let's bring on the customers."

            Charley watches as she smiles. Not the slight smirk that he is used to, but a wide, full on happy smile. She's ready for this, he thinks to himself. She's going to be fine.

            "Here's the key. You know how to lock up, right?" he says, just to be friendly. He knows she knows what she's doing.

            "Of course I do, Charley. You just go on now and go home to Sara. I'll be fine."

            He watches her put the key in a pocket on her dress. He likes the sound of her voice. Firm and confident.

            So he takes her suggestion and leaves, enjoying the freedom he feels as he goes out the front door into the warm summer evening. He and Sara live on the street behind the shop, a block and a half away, and he's looking forward to a little stroll. Maybe they can go for a longer walk through the campus later after dinner. That would be nice, he thinks, realizing how certain he is that Ellen will do a good job tonight.

             A young woman pushing a stroller stops him as he starts down the sidewalk. She points and asks, "Is this store open, mister?" then reaches down to adjust a white sunbonnet on the young child's head. The kid is maybe two years old.

            "Yes, it is," he says, indicating the door. "Just go on inside. Ellen's running things tonight. She'll take good care of you."

            "Cool," the young woman says. She wears a wide-brim straw hat, flip-flops, a long yellow, floral skirt, a pea green tank top and has a red heart tattooed on her right shoulder. She pushes in through the front door as Charley holds it open for her, and he overhears her telling her child that they were going on an adventure. It's something he has said occasionally on outings to one or the other of his grandchildren and it makes him smile.

            As the door closes, he looks in through the window. Ellen is approaching the woman and her little kid. She is smiling a greeting, Hello. He watches as they talk for a minute. Then Ellen bends down and says something to the youngster in the stroller. He can see the child grin back at her. Then Ellen stands up and leads the way down one of the crowded aisles with the woman pushing the stroller, following behind. Charley turns and walks down the street feeling good, nodding Hello to passersby. Everything is going to be all right, he just knows it.

And it is. Charley tells me the story that winter when I am back in town. I'm here for Christmas, visiting my son and his wife who live with their two kids out west of Minneapolis in Long Lake, the town I grew up in. Charley and I have stayed in touch since the 60's, seeing each other maybe every five years or so. My son collects books so I like to stop into Tennyson's, see Charley, get caught up with him, and see what he has that I might be able to buy for a gift. That's when he tells me about Ellen.

            "So what happened?" I ask. This had all taken place seven months ago. To me it was just a simple little story, the kind you might hear on a slow night on the local news or read in the variety section of the newspaper on Thursday; you know, one of those 'feel good' stories. Nothing remarkable, that's for sure.

            But Charley saw it differently, "That first night went great. No problems at all. In my mind she rose to the occasion and it couldn't have gone any better." He hefts a box to the counter, straining a little. I rush over and help him.

            "And she's still working here," he continues, opening the box, an order of books from New York City. Outside it's ten degrees and starting to snow, light flakes drifting down, giving the late afternoon a feeling of Christmas, which is only two days away. "Business is really good. We've started keeping longer hours. I've hired another employee. A young man named Steven," he glances at the clock, "he'll be here in a few minutes."

            "What about Ellen?" I ask, curious now. Business couldn't be that good. It's a Friday afternoon and right now we were the only two people in the store.

            Charley laughs, "Oh, she still works here," he takes books from the box and starts stacking them on the counter. "She left at noon today. She'll be here tomorrow. She's not quite as withdrawn these days and a little more accessible. People like her and her knowledge of books. She's got a small, dedicated following."

            Weird, I thought to myself. "I thought she was 'shy'," I said, doing my finger quotes, just like in his story.

            "Oh, she is, she still is," Charley emphasizes, "very much so. But people like that about her." He chuckles, "You know, customers don't like to be rushed when they're thinking about buying an old book."

            I laughed. He was right about that. "So that's it?"

            "Yeah. She's also got a part-time job working with that woman I told you about. The one with the kid who came in right when I was leaving? Seems she has a dress shop, and...to make a long story short, Ellen is working there one day a week now. In the back room, of course, sewing and making dresses. She seems pretty happy. As happy as she can be I guess."

            "I thought this was her dream job. Working here. That's what you said she said."

            Charley smiles and starts pricing the books, "Well, it still is. She told me she wants 'to stretch herself out', as she puts it...and try something new. Besides, she's good at sewing and making dresses. Plus, you know, she can work pretty much on her own."

            "Huh," I say, still thinking it still wasn't that big of a deal.

            Just then an older woman comes in and tells Charley she is looking for a book on Native American archeology in Minnesota. Charley takes her back in the stacks, telling her he has just the book for her. I have some time to think as I browse, looking for something by or about Emerson for my son.

            The more I think about it, the more I begin to have second thoughts about my initial impression of Ellen. Maybe it is a big deal. We all have challenges in life, and the measure of how we grow and mature is how we rise up to those challenges, face them, deal with them and move on. It's less about success, and more about taking action and trying to do something about the obstacles life puts in our path. And that's what Ellen did. She put herself out in the world and challenged herself to get beyond her comfort zone. That's what impressed Charley so much about her. I certainly couldn't fault him for that. I was starting to kind of see it from his point of view myself.

            "So a happy ending," I say, as Charley leaves the woman in back and hurries past me (nodding, Yes) to greet a new customer coming in. It's that goofy guy I've seen ever since I went to college at the University, Crazy Pete. He's brushing snow off a heavy, dark blue, boot length wool coat. He has a Russian Cossack hat on his head and an orange scarf wrapped about ten times around his neck. His winter boots are caked in snow. In spite of the winter garb, he still looks frozen.

            "High there, CP," I say waving, not knowing if he'll recognized me.

            He doesn't. Instead, ignoring me, he asks Charley, somewhat petulantly, "Where's that Ellen? She was going to find a book for me, one on the history of woodworking in Tudor England."

            "She found it, CP," Charley says, and smiles when Crazy Pete's face lights up. "She left it right here for you," he adds, reaching under the counter. There's a Post-it note on it. I glance at it as Charley hands the book to CP, who eagerly opens it and makes his way to the front reading area, shedding his winter outerwear. He sits down and starts paging through the book, treasuring it, giving the impression he'll be there for a while. The note didn't take long to read. Here's your book CP. Enjoy! Ellen.

            Simple and direct. With an exclamation point of all things! Even though I've never met her, I can tell that it's the perfect way for her to express herself. And that, to my way of thinking, and Charley's, and the new friends she is making, is a pretty good thing.

            So I decide to go ahead and jump on Charley's bandwagon. Ellen's story is remarkable in its own way and there's nothing wrong with that. She sounds like an interesting person -  maybe one day I'll get a chance to meet her. Then I put her in the back of my mind and go back to my browsing, feeling myself closing in on a book for my son.

Back home in her apartment Ellen is comfortably stretched out on her couch, reading a new book. It's two days before Christmas and snow is beginning to fall, drifting past her window, dancing a little on the cold, north wind. The book is by a new author, one she's only just head about through an on-line class she is taking, 'Beginning Writing Fiction'. She likes the course, but is enjoying her book even more. It's been seven months now since she took the chance and started working Saturday nights at Charley's. She's still not been able to find the right words to express herself, not even to Charley. No one knows how much being out in public exhausts her. She's getting better at it, she's working at it, but it's certainly not her forte.

            "Nope, not for me," she says to Prudence who is still her confidant, her constant companion. Her kitty is lying in the chair next to her, curled up, sleeping. As if she can hear Ellen's voice subliminally, Prudence starts purring, a gentle motor coming from her throat that is loud in the tiny room. After a minute she stops and suddenly sits up, looks around and blinks her eyes. She sees Ellen, registers her in her furry cat brain and yawns, turns around once, lays down and goes back to sleep. Quiet returns.

            Ellen smiles an inward smile and goes back to her reading, a story about growing up in Los Angeles in the 1980's. It takes place before she was even born, but she is enthralled by the era, the strong female characters and the description of the city itself. She's never been to LA. In fact, has no desire to go there. But the author is wonderful and has a way with words, painting colorful images with the skill of an artist; like maybe her friend Sammy would have done. Soon she is transformed and carried away to the sights and sounds of the city and its people. Time slips by.

            After a while she stops reading, lays the book aside and closes her eyes, but she doesn't drift off to sleep. No, she remains awake but resting, relaxing, right here in her little apartment with Prudence, her sewing machine and all of the things that help to keep her feeling safe and secure. The outside world is still frightening to her. She is doing all see can to get along in it, but still... Maybe one day she will be able to express herself and tell someone what it's like. Maybe.

            Charley is a dear and he is helping, so is her new friend, Debra, the dressmaker. Even Debra's daughter, Kali, in her own enthusiastic, little kid way. She's been invited to Kali's third birthday, coming up in twenty-seven days (she's noted the date on her calendar), and is thinking about attending - again, to challenge herself; to push herself to see if she can do it.

            But really, the truth of the matter is, being around people is debilitating to a degree she is unsure anyone will ever know about, let alone be able to understand. The simple fact of the matter is that people are like human black holes, sucking the energy right out of her, leaving her emotionally drained, physically wrung-out. As bad as it is, is it facetious for her to say that it's Ok? Because it is. It...is...Ok. She's accepted that it's just the way life is. People are people, they are what they are and she is what she is, and she's doing her best to learn to live with that reality. That's all she can ask of herself.

            She opens her eyes, picks up her book and gently caresses the cover. Outside the snow increases in intensity, pelting her window, the beginning of a blizzard, perhaps. Night has fallen, dark and frigid. While the wind howls outside, Ellen is warm and comfortable inside. She is content and within herself, lost a the world of words, feeling energized by the story, recharging her emotional batteries for when she goes out of her apartment again.

            But that won't be until tomorrow. It's a long time until then. For now she has her book and Prudence and her apartment. She is safe and secure. She sighs a contented sigh. Her eyes are bright, reflecting the words on the page. She has a long night of reading ahead. She couldn't be happier.