6:38 p.m. - February 23, 2002
'Timothy'
(names have been changed for anonymity; this story is otherwise completely true.)

On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, the shop is quiet and smells like sulfur, dust, and lacquer, with the occasional underlying scent of grapefruit. Timothy sits in his chair and works on violins and cellos all day, sometimes listening to quiet gospel music, sometimes listening to nothing but the sound of the brasswind repair guys fighting with each other. He won�t come up to the front unless he has to, either to get some food or to give us a little slip of paper with prices written on, in his neat curly handwriting, even though we�ve got them all in the system and don�t need him to write them down anymore.
Timothy looks like a little boy with his shaggy hair, peaked little face, denim dusty apron, and perpetually dirty hands. He�s twenty-seven, though; I hazarded a guess once and was eight years off. Timothy told me his real age with a self-conscious little nod and a little smile. �I don�t really age,� he said. �I�ve looked the same for a long time.� He pulled out his wallet with an old ID card in it, presumably from high school or college, as proof.
Nobody else likes to go back to his section of the store because they find Timothy overwhelming, annoying, or both. When he comes up front, rare as that is, they make fun of him. "Is God talking to you again, Tim?" they taunt. "What did he say? Will you ask him to send me a hot chick at the bar tonight?" Or else they start making God jokes very loudly, or bring up Satanist websites on the front computer until he leaves.
I don�t understand how anybody who knows this quiet, unassuming little man could ever want to hurt him. He incorporates Jesus into every conversation, yes. He talks about the oneness and love of all humans in Christ, yes. When one of our coworkers hit his station wagon and left a huge dent in it, Timothy smiled, put his hands up palms out, and said, �I forgive you,� even though everyone knew he had no money to fix it. Sometimes he doesn�t eat lunch for weeks at a time because he can�t find the couple of bucks it takes to buy a hot dog from the cheap little diners we order out from.
Everyone else is restless there. They surf porn on the net furtively, keeping an eye out for the boss. They mutter about the customers to each other, saying they�re going to snap one day.... and they probably will. Matt said once that he longed for Robert and Addison�s job... getting to pound saxophones and flutes with hammers all day. Now he�s a part-time repairman and just as pissed off as he was before. Larry lost his sense of humor two years ago. The turnover rate is high... I�ve worked there longer than most, and I�ve only been there for three years.... the average length of employment is just under a year.
Timothy has been there for three, same as me. I�ve never seen him raise his voice, or complain about his job. He sits in his chair day in and day out, repairing strings and painting wood and gluing bridges and thinking about Jesus and life and love and peace and heaven, as far as I can tell from any conversations I�ve happened to have had with him. He believes that he needs to just lean back and let God guide him. Surrender all to God. How peaceful it must be to not have to worry about guilt and choice and death. Not a way I would want to live, but such peace lives in Timothy.
On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he shares the office with another man whose name is Brian, a loud cynical Greek who drinks coffee constantly and yells at Timothy about his music. He doesn�t like Timothy. On the days when Brian is there, the office smells like coffee and sweat. If you walk in, the first thing you see is Brian, rushing around with his big hairy arms and sloshing cup of coffee and bottle of lacquer, running the tablesaw to drown out Timothy�s music, and swearing about the dust getting in his throat. Sometimes you don�t even notice Timothy, sitting in his chair in the corner, head down, tools in hand, trying to make himself even smaller.
�I think Brian wants me out of here,� Timothy said to me today. �But when he starts yelling, I just tell him, �Brian, I�m going to treat you the way I would treat Jesus. With respect and love.�� Brian, I assume, will have none of that. Timothy affirms this. �He laughs. It doesn�t surprise me. All we ever see is separation and violence and hate. But I love Brian. I love you. I love God first, and then through him... everyone else, the same amount.�
�I don�t think I was put here to force people into anything,� Timothy said today. �I was put here to talk, to listen, to shine. That�s what a true Christian is. I don�t bother anyone. I don�t hate anyone.�
It was funny, but what I was thinking is that it was so ironic how many opinions I share with Timothy, even though he is nearly inside himself with Christianity, soft-spoken, unobtrusive, and I am a cynical hyperactive agnostic. We both believe in peace and living the way we see fit as long as it causes nobody else harm. Neither of us thinks we�re going to get married, although I don�t really want to and he does. We both believe that you must work in order to achieve peace. Simple things, really, but I never expected to be able to sit still and listen to somebody that strongly Christian talk about their beliefs. I�ve always argued, walked out, or changed the subject. Timothy silences me. All I want to do is sit on the stool and listen to him and contemplate his ideas, even though I know I�ll never adopt the ones he wants me to adopt. In his words lie the undertones of �I feel so terrible that you and everyone I know is going to hell�, as in the words of every other strongly religious person I talk to, but in him it isn�t offensive. There is no hate in Timothy, none at all.
Andrew came back to the shop as Timothy was in the middle of explaining to me how he keeps going, every day, scraping away at violins. �Hannah, you need to get back up to the counter,� he said with a sideways glance at Timothy, who quickly bent over a cello. �It�s getting busy up there.� I went, walking around Timothy and stepping over a couple of violins on the floor. There was no one at the counter. No customers, no anyone.
A half hour later, the store closed. Andrew came over to me. �Aren�t you going to thank me for saving your ass from Timothy�s religious bullshit?� he asked, smiling.
�I guess,� I mumbled, shrugging self-consciously, and got my coat and left. I felt guilty. Timothy is overdramatic, sometimes preachy, and incredibly longwinded, and I know that he wishes he could convert everybody in the world. But I like him. The least everyone can do for a man like Timothy is treat him with as much kindness as he treats everyone else.

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