The Book

It was a weird 21st birthday. Thoughts about things I don’t usually have thoughts about were running through my mind, like… actually I don’t know what they were like. After coffee and a bagel, I decided Read It Again was going to be my first stop, I’d need a book for the next five days while Debbie was gone.

Why she thinks she’s obligated to go to reunions for a company she left over ten years ago was one of those thoughts. Thinking about her seeing old friends evolved into her seeing old girlfriends and then into her seeing an old boyfriend and I immediately stopped thinking about things along that path. The drive took long enough to come up with several bad jokes about guys that go to used bookstores on their 21st birthday.

Long enough for me to wonder if I was weird. I am, but Debbie likes it and I get a lot of attention because I only wear kilts. I don’t even own a pair of what the Scott’s call Long-Sleeve Diapers. I refer to them as that too and get a lot of laughter and a few shocked expressions. And kilts are the most comfortable thing I’ve ever worn.

I liked Read It Again, it was big with many rooms I could get lost in and spend hours sitting in the sun on the floor next a window reading, and I got to soak up massive amounts of that old book smell I love. And Mr. Lathrop was fun to talk too. I think he managed the library on Noah’s Ark.

“Hey, Mr. Lathrop, how’s it hanging today?”

“Same’s it was yesterday, and the day ‘fore that, and the day ‘fore that, it’ll never be differ’nt. When my wife passed, I was 90 and it hadn’t seen nothin’ differ’nt past 72, so the only differnce there’s been ever since is which trouser leg ta use.”

“Which trouser leg…? Oh, I get it. 90, you could have fooled me. You don’t act like what I’d expect from a 90-year-old.”

“Know a lot of ‘em, do you? And why should I feel it. 90 was a few years past anyway. So, ‘sup with you?”

“I’m looking for something I can get into for 5 days; Debbie will be gone, and I’ll be all alone. I think I’ll start my look on the third floor.”

“Good start. Put-um back where you found-um.”

“Will do Mr. Lathrop.”

“See to it, I don’t like having to put back what others leave lying around.”

“I always put them back where I found them.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m not sure how many more times my ancient knees will carry me up those back stairs.”

“I promise, Mr. Lathrop.”

“Uumpf.”

I let him have the last word or we’d be talking until Debbie got back. Once I got to the third floor it didn’t take me long to peruse the new books. I don’t know why the new ones are all the way up there, but they eventually migrate down to the first floor. Periodically he gathers a bunch with the most dust and sells them to other dealers.

In a couple hours I had worked my way down to the 2nd where I spent some time looking at some leather-bound volumes. The expensive ones with raised end bands. One said Annie Slater, who I recognized as the author of several books I’d read so I picked it up and heard the book say, ”Hi.”

I let go of that book like it was pure fire and jumped a foot straight up, the book landed flat and the crack it made hitting the floor was thunderous in the quiet of the shelves. It increased the fear surging through me and set my head to jerking around trying to find a source for the voice, but I was alone with only a few dust motes that the book had stirred up for company.

Looking down at the front of the book I read, My Life by Annie Slater in embossed gold. After a minute of staring at it and deciding that I wasn’t crazy, I’d eaten something wrong that gave me indigestion. It didn’t make sense that the bagel and coffee could do this so after a short time I reached down and started to pick it up when it said, "It's me, the book. Actually, it's Annie, the book is where I live now." that time I nearly threw it out the window, but it would have been through the window because it wasn’t open.

Then I started a serious look, moving and looking around corners and down isles saying, "You're jerking me around. Where are you? Who are you? Is that you Joyce? Stop messing with me." It didn't occur to me how much younger Joyce was than the voice I’d heard. And still, I only shared the space with a few dust motes stirring in the air currents roused by my movements.

I was still alone, except for the books. Well, book really. It had to be the source of the voice and I knew I had to deal with it so, with great trepidation I picked it up again.

"Please, don't drop me again. It is me. Because I was a sensitive when I died, I was given the choice of leaving or staying, I chose to stay but I had to choose where to stay; I chose here. Many have handled me, but only a few were able to hear me."

"Why? Why me? Why a book? I'm talking to a book? God, I'm nuts."

"No, you're not. I wrote it and this is where I wanted to be. You must be a sensitive. Do you see things that later come true?"

"Yes."

"Thought so. Me too. Buy me and I'll tell you about other spirits in other books. I wrote twenty books from the tales they told me. Made lots of money too. I describe that in here. I'll tell you many stories you can tell too, things I've never told anyone."

Once I owned the book, I didn't need to touch it to hear her. She talked incessantly. She wouldn't shut up.
On the second day I moved her to another room, but she just talked louder so three days later, exhausted from lack of sleep, I returned her to Read It Again.

“Bringin’ ‘er back, are you? You remember where she goes? Put ‘er back on the shelf and pick another.”

“Will do, Mr. Lathrop.”