the Banalyst

Nick Williams wanted to travel through time. He came into the bookstore one night and asked me if we had anything on the subject. His age was difficult to discern, partly because his face looked more mature than his wiry, adolescent body, and partly because the bifocal glasses he wore were tinted and I had never seen them on anyone under forty.
A boy masquerading as an adult, he could have been twelve as easy as seventeen, and the ambiguity of his age affected my suggestions for time travel.
"H.G. Wells?"
He shook his head, then bobbed it up and down.
"No--real time travel," he said with forced composure.
"Steven Hawkings? Brian Greene?"
Nick's patience burned low, and I wouldn't have even suggested those authors had he shown me his designs for his own time machine first. My heart sank as I flipped through page after page of squiggly lines and wobbly numbers that formed imaginary equations. I feigned astonishment as I mock-examined them.
"Impressive," I said when I handed him his blueprints back. If I had to guess which direction Nick wanted to travel, I would have said the past, and he confirmed that. The store was slow, and I was intrigued enough to put my B+ average in psychology to use.
"Where--er, when do you want to go?"
"Must go back to October 19, 1999. 3:44 PM. Need to stop something."
Damn, I was feeling pretty smart.
"What do you need to stop, Nick?"
"That is none, of your, DARNED, BUSINESS!!!"
He sprayed spittle in my right eye and all over my cheek. I have the nerves of an air-traffic controller during a power outage, and have always startled easily. His abrupt exclamation made both of my hands convulse, and I knocked over a coffee mug of capless pens, sending them rolling off the counter onto the floor. I peripherally noticed curious heads sprouting above the shelves all over the store and heard deep gasping breaths, although I couldn't tell if they were his or mine. We were both sweating by this point, and Nick was crying. My thought process switched to massive damage control and recovery of both my frenzied state and the horrible wound I had opened in the psyche of this poor , fragile boy. I knew fragility too well, and felt tremendous shame from toying with Nick's emotions. I tried to be as soothing as possible, and thankfully, the earnestness in my voice began to calm him down.
"Hey, hey...I understand. I understand, pal. That's classified."
"Darned right," he sniffed, picking up one of the pens and scratching "Clasifyed" on the front page of his blueprints. He wiped the snot that was dripping onto his upper lip with his sleeve and looked at my name tag.
"Thanks, Keth," he said. "If you get any time travel books please call me at 755-9588....and ask for Nick Williams," the numbers sputtered out of his mouth as he rushed out of the store with the same immediacy that he entered it.
"Will do, Nick," I gently assured him as I pretended to write the numbers down on a piece of scratch paper.