 | Two hundred yards from the action, I paused in the parking lot to size up my competition. Old people doing the snail's pace shuffle, dragging luggage carts behind them instead of pushing walkers ahead of them. The derelict and dirty dregs slamming doors shut on rust-bucket trucks, eyeing the prize and licking their eBay-hungry chops. Young hipsters and middle-aged professionals filling space, hoping to fill empty shelf space at home -- not a single warrior among them. I was ready.
If you haven't been before, you might not realize this but the Friends of the Library Annual Old Book Sale is a full-contact sport. We're Southern so the struggle is subtle: gentle pushes, a couple evil eyes, a few throat clearings and passive-aggressive apologies. But make no mistake, standing in a sea of several thousand discount books, the swarming mass is just one bad wind from an all-out riot. Oh yeah, we know it so we mind our manners.
Otherwise, the Ocmulgee would run red with the blood of book lovers, the air would be foul with buildings aflame and the streets would flood with looters who'd only be disappointed that someone beat them to destruction in Downtown Macon. I consider myself lucky to have escaped the potential disaster with nothing more than slight victimization at the vice-like fingers of a butt-grabbin' granny. Yeah, I noticed how you looked away everytime I turned around. Let me say this: "Damn, little mama!"
My box was 40 books full and in danger of more but time was precious. I'd been there two hours already and was supposed to be working. I needed to go ahead and get in line but it took twenty minutes just to find the end. Each time I thought I had it figured out, somebody would grunt and gesture over their shoulder with a thumb then I'd watch it literally grow by the dozens. Finally, I heard about some so-called "Express Lane" and got excited. The catch was that you could only take between 10 and 15 books.
Unless you've had to decide which 25 children of yours would die first, you'll never know the pain I experienced when I had to select which 15 would go home with me. Oh, empathy for Abraham! In that moment, the greater good required something better of me and so I made a sacrifice of something dear. Trying to ease my conscience, I snagged another box, flipped all the book on their spines and hid them beneath a table under other boxes whispering, "I'll be back for you."
In the Express Lane, I was a little anxious. Not because I had "work" to do and this lane was less than express, but because I was toting 16 books and didn't want to be reprimanded, sent to wait along the Trail of Tears. Sure enough, I noticed people ahead of me with twice as many books as the stated maximum and sure enough, I cursed them under my breath, praying silently for a book sale bouncer to kick them out the club. Hypocritical, yes. Who cares? Not me, the breaker of laws by only a single book.
To ease my fears about catching flak on the job, I gave a book to my boss and pretended to be thinking of him all along. Unfortunately, I'd given him the Billy Carter biography instead of one I intended: The Beret and Expresso Anthology of Self-Published Haiku. Why I ever chose that book, I'll never know.
Two days have past since I attended the book sale and I'm feeling a little guilty about the lie I told those books. I'm not coming back. I will not buy them. Chances are good, I won't be in that building again for a year and solely because I don't want to fight anymore. My soul, if not my book shelf, is full and my duty is complete. I don't need another round, I am not the fearless soldier I once, in my younger days, was when library liquidation sales were new to me. I'm at peace with the selections I made.
Aw fuck, no I'm not. Let's go again.
In other news, Don Knotts has died. Some of you won't care and if I find out who you are, I'll stop caring about you when you die. Aside from being what I imagine to be a wonderful man, Don Knotts was an actor of extraordinary range and versatility whose timely work mirrored the stages of my life.
As a young and awkward but eager child, his Barney Fife gave me the strength to forge ahead, all the while knowing that I'd get to make out with a fine brunette when the time was right and Aunt Bea wasn't looking. When I entered the terrible teens and wanted more than anything to be a swinger, I turned to Knotts' portrayal of Mr. Furley on Three's Company for guidance. Then there was that stretch when I unwittingly became the publisher of a pornographic magazine and was subsequently a nationally recognized sexpert -- Don Knotts was there for me, showing me how to handle myself thoughout that difficult situation. Needless to say, I only had to look towards Mr. Limpet for a sympathetic character that time I was turned into a fish. And so on and so forth. Suffice it to say, I'm gonna miss knowing he's in the world.
Rest in Peace, my brother, rest in peace. May we one day meet in that Mayberry in the sky. Until then, you'll always be in my Apple Dumpling Gang. |
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