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Books, a Love Story By Frater M.O. | |
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.  The little alley-way magazine stand was hard to see if you weren't looking for it. Inside it was dark, dank and smoky. Plaster bits littered the floor, the paint was peeling and the guy at the counter had the same disorganized feel and color as much of the pulp in his shop. My father would give me fifty cents to spend on old newspapers, magazines or comic books. I usually picked the comic books. Over time I eventually broadened my horizons: from Mad magazine to Agatha Christie mystery pocket books to philosophy and religion and the classics. I loved them all and soon found myself collecting sets of books. Numbered books. Those could verify I had found them all or let me know which ones might still be missing. I had fallen in love with the stories, the way the pages felt between my fingers and the musty smell of that old bookstore. More so, books held all the information, information I was positive I need to have with me at all times. This was where my love affair with books began.Today is no exception. Recently, I had been searching with obsession for a book entitled, "What life was like in Europe's Romantic Era 1789-1848". This elusive tome was to complete my set of "What life was like..." books. This volume is the most difficult to obtain in the set and had yet to be seen by anyone to my knowledge, period. Although, this challenge didn't scare me, the four hundred web sites I combed daily in my quest proved fruitless. Unfortunately this book left no hints in it's wake, subtle or otherwise. A few weeks ago, I put on my nylon workout shorts after picking them out of the debris on the floor of my bedroom. Although a little gamy, I pretended not to notice. I figured my ignoring the obvious might stretch out into society. I grabbed three DVD's that sat on my nightstand and prepared to start my day. The cat howled as I placed my keys in one of the many pockets of my shorts and closed the door behind me. I arrived at the library, a branch at which there is always a book sale. The three crusty bluehairs positioned behind the press-board folding tables greet me with vacant stares. (The "crusty" comment refers to their disposition and not their age.) I slide the returning DVD's across to a different but nicer old lady behind the official library counter. Her wobbling slowness bothers my sense of forward motion a bit but I digress. Before leaving I pass the book sale tables and quickly scan through the many dilapidated copies of National Geographic and "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus". Most titles must be from a vanity press as the names are unfamiliar but still so attractive. I don't know, maybe it's the comforting smell of books. The old binding glue, the musk of thousands of unwashed hands still lingers on the pages of stories and characters that somehow bring them all to life. I do eventually find a book but I will probably not read it due to its severely dog-eared pages and stained front cover. Somehow its too-well used condition tells me that it has been all used up. Its magical appeal gone. The worst part is it has a large orange circle on it as recommended reading from Oprah's book club. A chick book. Her tattered cover has won my sympathy and I buy her anyway. Maybe I'll keep her for bathroom reading. I loiter for several more minutes scanning for the gem that never appears when one of the old gals tells me how much she loved the Oprah book in my hands. She seems to be the broad who is running the show. Her name tag says, "Flo" but that feels all wrong and occurs to me she should have been a man named Mort. Probably better suited as a prison warden. Her icy stare combated my carefree smile only for the briefest exchange until I realize there is a bigger battle here. I raced over to the library computer. The on-line data base is far less friendly and soothing than the thick paper inserts found in the card catalogue drawers (from when I was a kid) but the computer is a whole lot quicker. I typed in "What life was like". The main title of the series of books I have been drooling over every morning in their quest. I knew in my heart I would eventually be validated by securing a volume of "In Europe's Romantic Era 1789-1819 but only in sand castle foundation faith. I still had never heard or seen of any available copies in the several months of obsessive searching in putting this set together. The search results came up slowly... damn City of Los Angeles budgeting department. Seven available library copies appeared. I could smell ozone burning within the old computer in front of me. I felt a little nauseated and warm as my hopeful eyes scanned the page. My cynical mind was much less hopeful. But sure enough there it was. In stock and theoretically within ten feet from where I stood. I gasped in surprise and raced down the nearest aisle. Damn Dewey Decimal system, where or what the hell is 920.15? The Hawaiian printed moo-moo posing as librarian would undoubtedly question why I needing this extra help in such a tiny library. I found her twenty-five minutes later, patiently waiting on the bottom of a dusty shelf leaning against an unauthorized biography of Napoleon. I quickly snatched her up, gazing deeply into her shiny cover. She was beautiful. Her spine was trim and tight. Her dust jackets only evil flaw was a huge white sticker proclaiming ownership of the Los Angeles Public Library. Heavy with anticipation I rushed her to the library's checkout counter. Back at home I opened her slowly. Shamefully, The binding creaked from lack of love. My further inspection unearthed the card containing return dates of previous readers. Sadly there were none. Her pages supple and unmarked, no bends or crinkles of any kind anywhere. I realized without her telling me... I held a virgin. I whispered softly that I would be gentle and handle her with care. I read her cover to cover. The facts, the photos, the information she so willingly gave me. She asked for nothing in return but a patient audience. I enjoyed every moment, so did she. I felt so special having been the first. Later, I placed my new friend on the couch. I smiled brightly at her as she sat there shining. Then a thought had begun to creep across my mind. This dangerous thought was quickly gaining strength. My thought had likely crossed the mind of every honest library card owner in these fifty states. A diabolical plan had begun to unfold in my head like the unraveling of a beautiful origami butterfly. Yes, I had three weeks left in which to absorb the bountiful knowledge this book but three weeks was not long enough. I stared at the empty slot in my incomplete set of Time/Life books. How could I return her to a home where she would just be ignored. The empty space in my collection consumed me. Taunting me. I recalled tales shared with my grade school teachers, fantastically crafted tales of lost or ruined homework. Of course I was a child. I am now an adult. I don't find lying or dishonesty as a quality I still consider but this moment was somehow different. This book needed saving. She needed saving. She deserves to have a home where she would be loved. My little internal voice meekly interrupted, "but you're an honest guy." My dilemma begins. I started by calling numerous friends with my moral conundrum, half-hoping the clear-cut advice of returning something that didn't belong to me would prevail. I was assuming "Thou shalt not steal" would be ingrained as an ideal in the people I care about. I was wrong. Friend after friend said the same things. "Dude I still have six books from the library I never returned... they don't miss 'em." They don't sue you or anything". "Go for it", said another. Secretly validated by less- than-noble advice. I slid the not quite stolen volume into its proper place among my collection just to see how they would look together. A perfect fit. I stood back and admired the sleek black matching binding. I felt complete and whole. A certain sense of false pride washed over me like a cozy blanket. I went about my day. Later that week I was chatting away with a young lady I dig, mostly because she lives three thousand miles away. The conversation lasted well over two hours but I can only recall one comment. She said, "but you're not a thief." With a heavy sigh I studied that bookcase. All those perfectly matched bindings. Well, maybe one stuck out a little. After all it still had that awful white "property of Los Angeles Public Library" sticker on it. Maybe it wasn't perfect but it was close and it did fit. I thought about karma. Oddly, not that I would have bad karma for stealing but the potentially good karma for returning her. I wasn't sold just yet. I walked away and ate a pint of Ben and Jerry's Karamel Sutra ice cream on the floor of my living room. Then it hit me. I thought about how good it felt when I returned the 1974 Topps Steve Garvey baseball card to its rightful owner. A card I stole from my best friend. I remember when I slipped the card from his stack to mine and it didn't bother me. When he caught me and called me a "thief" it didn't bother me. When I somehow had the embarrassing gall to demand a trade for the card it didn't bother me. But for over twenty years the flashing billboard space featuring my pathetic behavior over that event did bother me. At least until I gave that crumpled Steve Garvey card back. It's funny how years of memory can so easily be undone with the right apology. I also reflected upon the renewed friendship that the return helped cultivate. My mind was made up. I took a deep breath as I stood before the bookcase containing my perfect set. The set that took me so long to complete. I slowly ran my fingers across the shiny black spines stopping at the book that was to be thrown back into the sea for hopefully another to catch. I paused for a moment. I felt her fear as I began to pull her out of her comfortable new home. I felt her dread of her pending fate, sitting forever on a lonely library shelf. The drop-off station at the library was cold and gray. The actual return itself held no fanfare. The gentleman guarding the counter barely raised an eyebrow as I slid the gleaming white pages across the impersonal brown formica. I wondered if he knew of my plan. The sales table gals looked away as I slunk by. Their gentle aroma of formaldehyde wafted through me. I walked through that double-doored self-closing gate into an uncertain future. Would I ever have another chance this good at finding my trophy? Still I had never seen another copy throughout my extensive web surfing. Was it all just an illusion? I could only hang on to my waning belief that I had done the right thing... but what does that mean? Would there be more fish in the sea? I could only watch as the gentleman carelessly tossed her on pile of returned books. I pressed my hand to the glass, hoping our eyes would meet one last time but several over-sized children's books quickly buried her. That night I tossed and turned. Dreams swirled in my mind. Fears of never getting what I wanted triggered animation of elusive final editions being used to line bird cages, torn apart by packs of ravenous dogs. Some floated away just out of my reach while the maniacal laughing of possessed recycling bins taunted me. The bags under my eyes were full as I switched on my computer the following morning. My email was full, as it was most mornings. A quick scan revealed a collection of forwarded not-so-funny jokes, urgent petitions, virus warnings and hot, hot, hot new porn site notices. The final email was a curious note from Amazon.com. It was a receipt for a book I had just purchased... I didn't remembering purchasing anything. My heart pumped harder, my brow furrowed as I read its contents. Somehow my hard work paid off. There in high contrast black and white was the electrifying confirmation. "What life was like in the Romantic Era 1748-1819" was sold to me for the outrageously low price of $9.99 by some company I had never heard of in Florida. I felt like a thief. When she arrived I greeted her the same way I would any old and dear friend, with joy and an long hug. Her dust jacket was carefully removed. I pulled out a size fourteen clear plastic dust jacket protector, then with the same care reassembled her and returned her to her place of glory... the earmarked space on my shelf to share with her friends. I was finally experiencing true perfection as all the shiny black spines revealed the wonderfully absent white "property of Los Angeles Public Library" sticker. I can truly rejoice in the Universe and its many mysteries. I wonder how aware the world was with my dilemma. I choose to believe that the Universe still offers small miracles. I choose to believe in order and faith. I recently picked up seven volumes of the "Myth and Mankind" series. There are only thirteen left. I know I won't be able to find them soon enough for my liking. I just have faith I will find everything I need. Questions, comments and hate mail are strongly encouraged. By the way these thoughts do not necessarily reflect the ideals of Cor Lucis as a whole or its members... but they might. Love is the law, love under will.
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