If I ever meet God, it will be in a place like this.

Not in a church. Not in a secluded forest clearing. Not on the beach, staring at the ocean. No, it will be in an office supply store.

I don’t tell people this, because I know exactly how it sounds. I tried to explain it to my mom once, but that didn’t go so well. I told her how they’re so full of possibilities. So many things to write with, on, and even about. More ways to organize things than I will ever need. Ways to join things, separate them, and file them away. And none of the things there have to be used for their intended purposes. She was not impressed.

She’s the one who told me how it sounds. In no uncertain terms. She made sure I knew it was ridiculous, sacrilegious, and, in what was clearly not just her opinion, but a fact handed down from on high, just plain wrong.

Once I told her, she wouldn’t take me anywhere near one. Until I got my own car, I had to make do with the school supply row at the grocery store. Or, once, when I got lucky, an art supply store. Don’t get me wrong. I love a good art supply store, but it’s not the same thing.

I don’t tell my mom my inner secrets anymore.

That’s probably for the best, all things considered.

I’ve been saving this one. It was almost the first one I visited after I got my car, but I wanted to keep it for a special occasion. I didn’t know if it would be to make a bad day not so bad, or a good day even better. Turns out, it’s the former.

I put that out of my mind. I’ll process tomorrow. Besides, it’s less than a year until my eighteenth birthday. Less than a year until I can move out.

Deep breath. It’s almost six, and this place closes soon.  For now, I’m going to walk in and enjoy. 

It’s not that much to look at from the front. Just two six or seven foot display windows on either side of a wood framed glass door. I don’t see a name anywhere. I only know about the place because my family drove past it one evening when we got lost looking for our lawyer’s office, downtown. I couldn’t say what was special about it, and it was not the right time to ask if we could stop. I’d memorized the location, though. I never bothered looking it up online. I like a little bit of mystery. Besides, I knew I’d be back. 

Now that I am, I look for a sign.

There isn’t one. Not one naming the store, anyway. Just the signs for the things on sale. Reams of paper. Some really sweet moleskines. A fountain pen that I would sell my body to science for. Some stuff a little less expected as well. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sale on paperclips before.

I hear the sound of a bell when I open the door. Not a beeper. Not a buzzer. A bell. Huh. That’s old fashioned, Something I’d expect more from an indie bookstore than an office supply store. The old guy behind the counter looks up just long enough to give me a nod, then he returns to whatever he’s reading. 

I like this place already. No “can I help you,” which, at my age usually means “where are your parents?” “I’ve got my eye on you, so don’t even think about stealing anything,” or “Please, just get what you need and get out.”

It’s also bigger than it looked from the outside. Not in a freaky, tardis kind of way. It’s not bigger on the inside. It’s that it goes back about fifteen feet then opens up into a larger space. I wonder, for a moment, what’s in the place next door that it only goes back fifteen feet. Then the spirit of the place hits me.

This is the mother of office supply stores. It’s not old, or unkept. It’s not even out of date. It has all the modern needs. Ink cartridges. Printer paper. Thumb drives. Even bank CDs, which, apparently, some people still use . Of course. Andnone of it seems like an afterthought. Nothing  is wedged where it doesn't belong. Every item is exactly where it should be. 

I wonder about notepads. They should be right over there, just past those pens. And they are. I want to marry this store, and have its babies. But that’s impossible for more than one reason. 

I look around a bit more. Hah. There is one thing out of place. There, on the floor, barely under the edge of a shelf, is a paperclip. A simple, traditional, metal paperclip. I pick it up. Yeah, just a paperclip. I slip it into my pocket. Something to remember this place by. It’s just one paperclip. Not exactly stealing. 

I think I’ve covered the whole store. Other than the guy at the register, I’m all alone. I close my eyes and bask in the atmosphere. It feel connected.

“Excuse me,” a voice says behind me.

I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Maggie?”

What the hell? I open my eyes and spin to face the speaker.

“Maggie?” he repeats, “Or is that too familiar, is it Magdalene?”

I don’t know what this guys problem is. He looks like he’s around my age. Within an inch or so of my height, maybe five-ten. And he doesn’t appear to be blind.

“My name’s Daniel,” I say, in my reasonably deep voice. I try to keep it level. Something freaky is going on here.

Now he looks a little puzzled. “That’s odd. My sister insisted she would be here, and here you are. She’s never wrong about these things.”

“Do I,” I gesture down at myself, “look like someone named Maggie?” I’m wearing a boy’s t-shirt. A boy’s jeans. A boy’s shoes.

A boy’s body.

He considers this for a moment. “If you say so, Daniel.” He pauses, “You’re quite sure?”

“Completely,” I lie, “No one has ever called me Maggie, or Magdalene.”

Not out loud anyway. And no one other than myself.

“Well,” he says,”I won’t let her live this down.”

I guess he’s talking about his sister, again. He looks me up and down, and I return the favor. He’s good looking. His hair is blond, with maybe a hint of red, and cut close. Almost a crew cut. His jeans are neat and clean. They might even have been ironed. I’d think he was cute, if I were into guys. Which I most definitely am not.

He looks sad. 

“I’m sorry,” I say. I want to say more. I’m sorry I’m not Magdalene. I’m sorry I’m not Maggie. But that would be stupid.

The lights flick off and back on a couple of times. I hear a voice call from the front of the store. “I’m closing up here. If you’re buying anything, now’s the time.”

I look around one last time. I’d like to buy it all. I do not have the money for that. Maybe something small. No, I don’t need another moleskine. My journal still has twelve blank pages. If I write small, I can stretch it for another month. 

I close my eyes and take one more breath. Hold it. Let it out slowly.

When I open my eyes he’s staring at me.  He looks pleased with himself.

“What?” I ask. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says.

I can’t think of anything else to say, so I walk away.

📎 📎 📎

The best parking spot I could find was a block and a half away. I’d expected it to be easier to find parking downtown on a Sunday, but that shows how much I know. I’m unlocking my car when I hear a voice behind me.

“Do you happen to know where I could get some food?” it asks.

It’s the guy from the store. Of course. This is getting weird. Weirder. I’m not exactly worried. I’m in decent shape, and he doesn’t look particularly dangerous. Still, I can’t help thinking how I’d feel different in this situation, if I really got what I wanted..

“How about there?” I point. There’s a restaurant right next to us. I look at his eyes again. Nope, definitely not blind.

“Perfect,” he says, “Care to join me?”

On the one hand, no. Some strange dude is asking me to have dinner with him. On the other hand, strange as he is, I feel like he’s okay. There’s something about him. Something almost familiar. And, I don’t need to be home for another hour and a half. And I was going to grab food on the way. I almost talk myself into it, but . . .

“That place looks out of my league,” I say. It looks like one meal would wipe out my eating-out fund for a week. And I don’t want to be making my lunch to take to school every day next week.

“Is there someplace better nearby?”

“I was just going to grab a taco on my way home.”

“That sounds delicious.”

Did I agree to give him a ride to dinner? Judging by the fact that he’s now standing at my passenger door, he seems to think so. Whatever. I unlock the door and slide into my seat. I lean over to unlock the passenger door, but he already has it open and is sliding in. Crap. I could have sworn I’d locked it. 

I do a quick survey of the interior. It looks like I got lucky and no one took anything. I’ll be more careful next time.

I pull out into the street. It’s a ten minute drive to the taco place. Plenty of time to find out a little bit about this guy, and what’s going on with him.

“What do you do?” he asks.

Dang. He beat me to it. With such a weird question that It takes me a few seconds to process. “I’m a student?” It comes out as more of a question than a statement. “I go to high school.”

He nods. Clearly that makes perfect sense to him.

“How about you?” I ask carefully. 

“I’m in office supplies.”

There is no way this dude is more than a few months older than me. “What do you mean you’re ‘in’ office supplies?”

He doesn’t answer right away. I want to look over and see what his reaction is, but I can only manage a glance.  I’ve only been driving since the beginning of the summer, and I’m not going to risk an accident.

“I shrugged,” he says.

When I don’t respond he continues, “It looked like you were trying to look over here, so I just wanted to let you know that I shrugged.”

I have to stop at a light, so I take a look at him. He’s fiddling with a paperclip, staring out the window like he’s never seen this area before. I decide to try a different angle.

“Are you new here?” After all, he didn’t know of a place to eat.

“Mostly”

How are you “mostly” new somewhere. Is it worth asking? The light turns green and I have to focus on driving again for a minute.

So many questions. Why is he so weird? If he was going to meet someone named Maggie at the store, why did he leave? What did he mean about being ‘in’ office supplies?

I don’t decide which one to ask before we’re there. Chelle’s Tacos is doing pretty well for itself. There’s just the one, for now, but I think Chelle is aiming for a franchise. Seeing how packed the place is on a Sunday evening, she probably has a shot.

“Go to the next entrance,” the guy says. He points ahead. I blink. For a second I thought I saw a woman standing at the corner dressed all in white.

“There’s only, like, three spaces back there,” I say.

“Trust me.”

Why not. I round the corner, and sure enough, a car is just pulling out of the little mini-lot around the side. I take the spot and park. I mutter a “Thank you,” under my breath.

I look up to see him looking at me. He looks pleased again. Why haven’t I asked him name yet. I will now.

“So,” he says, “This place is good?”

Is it ever. I give him a run down on the menu. They’ve got all the classics, plus a list of extras that changes weekly. “My favorite’s the ‘Kiss me Kate’,” I say. It has fried avocado, black beans, veggie chorizo, and a pico de gallo that will melt your brain. I make sure the passenger door is closed this time.

The crowd inside isn’t as bad as I feared. Chelle really needs to find more room for parking. We’re fourth and fifth in line at the register.

“Any idea what you want?” I ask him.

“I want one of everything,” he says, “But I’ll start with taco you recommended.”

“You sure? Can you handle the spicy?”

“I can think of one way to find out.”

It’s our turn at the register. “I’ll have a bean and cheese, and a Kiss Me Kate.”

“Make that two Kiss Me Kates,” my dinner companion breaks in.

“And a couple of cups for water, please,” I add.

The cashier gives me a total. I take enough to cover my part out of my wallet and look expectantly at my new friend. He makes a show of patting his pockets. Great. “Oh, well, I can always eat three tacos,” I say, and hand over another five and collect my change.

At the table I glare at him. He has the decency to look embarrassed. I wait for him to speak first, but he apparently has more willpower than I do.

“Did you know you didn’t have any money with you when you invited me to join you for dinner?”

“Technically,” he says, “I do have money.” He holds out his hand and opens it palm up to reveal a penny. “But I can’t spend it,” he continues, “or, more accurately, must not spend it.”

“I’ll take it for a down payment, on what you’ll owe me, then.”

He snatches his hand away. “Sorry, no,” he says.

Our food arrives. He doesn’t make a move to take one of the tacos. I sigh and push the basket to him. “Enjoy.”

We eat our tacos in silence. I’m done with both of mine before he finishes his one. It’s not that I’m a fast eater. It’s that he is eating so slowly, savoring each bite. His eyes stay closed except when he needs to reach for his water cup.

I take the opportunity to look him over further. He doesn’t look familiar, but he still feels familiar somehow. Despite being still ticked at him over the taco thing, I feel comfortable sitting here. And that makes me a little uncomfortable. 

He takes longer savoring the last bite than he took with any of the others, then sighs and opens his eyes. “Thank you.”

“So you liked it?”

“I can say, without fear of contradiction, that that was the best taco I have ever eaten.”

He seems sincere. But then he didn’t seem like he was going to stiff me for dinner. I’ll reserve judgment.

“So why don’t you have any money with you?”

He starts to object.

“Except for the penny,” I continue. And then. Before I can be distracted again, “And what’s your name?”

“Do you have any suggestions?” he asks, “‘Daniel’ seems to be taken and the last time I mentioned the name ‘Maggie’ you seemed distressed.”

So he’d noticed that. “I don’t feel like guessing your name. I bought your dinner. The least you can do is tell me who you are.”

He thinks it over. I swear if he gives me a riddle or something like that, I’m walking out and he can find his own way home.

“You’re sure you want to know?”

I don’t say a word.

“Well, then. I’m the God of Paperclips,” he says, “and Other Small Office Supplies.”

📎 📎 📎

Maybe I shouldn’t have walked out on him. Maybe I should have called someone to come get him. The police, the funny farm. I don’t know. He seemed completely sincere when he said that, but he was probably just messing with me. 

I retrieve my journal from my bottom drawer, and clear some space for it among the little paperclip sculptures arranged on my desk. I was wrong earlier, I only have ten pages left. And I have a lot more to write tonight than I usually do. I’d write it in my online journal, except for the whole Maggie thing. All Maggie-related thoughts go only on paper. Never online. My parents have reserved the right to search my computer any time (although they’ve only ever done it once), but they agreed not to read my journal. They may not be perfect, but I trust them on that.

I begin to write up today’s little adventure. Then I stop when I get to where the weirdness began. I’m not going to just keep writing “he” or “the guy”. So I pick a name. 

“I opened my eyes and saw a boy there,” I write, “henceforth known as Alex.”

I leave out a lot of details. The journal is mainly to help me process my feelings, especially my feelings about myself. And Maggie. So I stick mainly to that. I fill up two of my last ten pages. 

On the shopping list I keep posted above my desk I write “New Journal, not like I’ll be able to afford a decent one soon.” Sometimes it helps to vent a little. Even if it is to a piece of paper.

Then I get ready for bed. Tomorrow’s a big day. The first day of my last year of high school.