Something is molding in this bookstore. Maybe everything is. I pull a book from the wall and flip to the middle. I smell the book, a deep huff.
Mildew.
No book is safe.
And nothing is in order.
There are people who like this sort of place. This is the sort of store we imagine when somebody tells us they once stumbled upon a first edition copy of their favorite book, tucked between two dictionaries under a stack of magazines. It’s the sort of store where you imagine two people falling in love- a cute book-nerd strikes up a cautious conversation with the wry, hipster cashier. Actually, when I imagine it, I’m the cashier. A life of retail work will do that to you.
Now, is there a travel section?
‘‘Book Ends’ is literature’s graveyard, a cemetery for words. Just as you do not seek your warm, living relatives among the headstones, you should not waste time trying to find a specific book here. It cannot be found. Ask, and you will invariably learn that the last copy has been sold, that the back-order is processing, that there is a copy, yes, but where… hmm. Must be a mistake in the inventory.
‘The inventory’ the man claims, while clearly pulling up an empty computer file. ‘Hmm…’ he says again, as though giving special care to your piece. He will shuffle books around behind the desk and you will notice these books have shifted many times, as though this is a daily charade. He will, eventually, offer a small, exasperated shrug and a small, meaningless apology. This man owns the store and his name is Alfred and he is the source of this business’ shitholery.’
In matching black sweats and thin, crooked glasses, the man behind the counter is no hipster. He looks at me with watery eyes and scratches his dark, ill-shaven goatee.
“No proper travel section, I’m afraid,” he says, after a moment, “Where’ya headed? Maybe I can find you something here.”
He boots up the computer, which whirs and wheezes with the sudden exertion, and he taps idly on the mouse as if to communicate a mild impatience with the machine.
“I’m actually looking for a specific book,” I tell him, “Autumn by the Wayside: A Guide to…”
“Oh,” he says, “Got a rack of’em over there.”
The man seems bored, suddenly. He holds the power button down with the soft determination reserved for one lover strangling another. The PC’s chittering work ends abruptly.
I turn and see he’s right- there, on a spinning wire shelf near the entrance to the store, is a literal rack of Shitholes. I remember that the cover was once glossy and colored, smooth as a placid lake. My heart, which, until now, had been quietly mumbling to itself in my chest, pushes out one, giddy pump, pauses, and then pushes out another.
I nod, calmly, to Alfred.
The copies on the rack look thin, their pages compact and un-creased, my name clear. I pull the book from my back pocket and wave it at Alfred.
“I brought this in,” I tell him and his eyebrows raise. He wonders why I would think he might mistake the garbage in my hand for something he would try to sell.
“That,” he says with his eyes, “Is below even me.”
I wonder if he’s realized these books immortalize him?
I pull a copy from the rack and feel its weight, the stiffness of the spine. I set my book on a shelf and Alfred coughs politely as it flares out the crinkled pages. Is he afraid of some contagion?
I hold my breath and open the back cover to the author’s bio. The picture has been vandalized with a markered moustache and glasses. Somebody has scribbled something underneath, something unreadable. I pull another from the shelf and find the same thing- this one has buck teeth and a top hat. I squint past the additions and try to see my face there. It does look similar.
Doesn’t it?
“Somebody wrote in all these books,” I call over my shoulder to Alfred.
“The author wrote in all those books,” he says back, “That’s why they’re marked up.”
“The author…?”
“Real asshole,” Alfred says, “Came through a month ago and asked if I wanted to host a signing. Showed up late, drank all my coffee, and didn’t sell a single book. You should see what he wrote about me in there. If I had realized…”
By now I’m several books deep and there’s not a single picture of the author that hasn’t been modified beyond sure recognition. My hands shake nervously.
“This is my name,” I tell Alfred, my voice shaking too, “I was trying to find a clear picture… did he… did the author look like me?”
Alfred glances up from the book he’s been reading. He looks me over.
“Passing resemblance,” he sniffs, “I think he was taller.”
“Look,” I tell him, jotting down my name in one of the copies, “It’s the same signature.”
He looks between them for a few seconds.
“It’s basically the same, I mean,” I tell him, “He, I… He was using a marker and this is just a pen.”
“You’re going to buy that, I suppose.”
“Yeah, sure. Look, do you have any unsigned copies? Anything that hasn’t been drawn over?”
Alfred presses the button on his computer and I go back to the rack to look myself. Several of the books have been altered the same way, the more I go through the more prevalent the pattern: nested circles, white and black, over the author’s face.
The all-seeing eye.
“What’s this?” I ask Alfred, “The guy did this a lot.”
“Looks like googly eyes.”
“But they’re both looking ahead.”
Alfred sighs and I see I’m walking the precarious line between zealous customer and dangerous weirdo.
“I’ll buy the copy I wrote in,” I tell him, “And if you can find an unsigned copy I’ll buy that. Can I take a picture of the googly eyes?”
He looks at me suspiciously.
“The author’s a recluse,” I tell him, “But I’ve been trying to follow his work and…”
“Got one,” Alfred says, shuffling a few books around behind the counter.
Eventually he pulls another copy up and, maddeningly, flips to the back page himself. He looks between the book and myself and I try to remember the picture. I try to remember how the author looked.
“Smile,” Alfred says, “Big smile.”
I smile.
“Nope,” he says, handing me the book, “You’ve still got all your teeth.”
My smile fades.
-traveler
