I have an extensive collection of books that I have never read. And honestly I will probably never get to them. I blame used bookstores. Tobias Wolf for 25 cents? Who is going to pass that up? Sure, I've never read more than an essay or two by Wolf in my life, but what a steal!
Ten years ago there were three used bookstores in town that I frequented. One run by a mayoral hopeful that stocked a healthy stack of campaign flyers -in bookmark form- next to the cash register. Another, run by the sweetest old man who kept 3x5 cards in a recipe box with the names, phone numbers and a list of books that certain patrons were looking for. So he could call if that special book ever arrived. And a third bookstore, dark and stacked to the ceiling, that always aggravated my asthma. But by gosh what a treasure trove!
In full disclosure I should mention that I also worked next door to a woman who ran an online used bookstore. She gave me full run of all her cast-offs. Which is how I came by an advanced reading copy of The Last Voyage of Columbus (I know, some people have all the luck) and a beautiful hardcover copy of Atlas Shrugged, that actually wasn't a cast-off but she thought it, "too pretty to sell but too big to keep." And many, many others.
I always say that if I win the lottery (after I start playing the lottery) the first order of business will be to replace our kitchen with a full time taco shop. But it is at a very close race with putting in a killer library, complete with one of those Beauty and the Beast style rolling ladders. It will be entirely stocked by my used bookstore sickness (let's call it obsession). 10 cent science fiction as far as the eye can see. and 6 copies of the Scarlet Letter, which I've never read but the covers are so pretty, and at 50 cents a piece, I mean, come on. And thus you see how I assuage my guilt over the slow (swift) and steady accumulation of books which I haven't actual time to read nor bookshelf space to house. Gotta stock that pipe dream library.
The used bookstore 6 miles from my house is newer to me, all the others have gone the way of the Blockbuster Video. It's run by the local library and manned wholly by sweet, old lady volunteers. The aisles are so slim that you have to find an empty one if you hope to make it all the way to the back, there's no hope of passing by another human. And there's an alcove of romance novels framed in white lattice, that fairly glows with flesh and rosy cheeks. No joke. I call it "the pink light district," but only to myself because I am a dork.
In this bookstore the shelving of books is, at all times, left to the creative license of the old ladies. Often it is so nonsensical that I am sure they do it on purpose to entice one to stay. (As if I needed a reason!) You want a Barbara Kingsolver? Ok, but you're going to have to search every shelf, including "Animals and Pets". Last time I was there I found Slouching Towards Bethlehem in the comedy section between a Bathroom Reader and 100 Best Golf Jokes. I grabbed it out and motioned to the octogenarian next to me. "I think this is in the wrong place."
"Oh my my...let's see," Peering through her quintessential librarian glasses (complete with gold chain) she was all puzzlement, then almost indignant, "you don't think Joan Didion is funny?"
"Well, ummm" I said, "I think we have to draw a line somewhere between bathroom humor and 1960's teenage runaway drug culture."
She blinked at me. "Yes dear, that happens sometimes." I couldn't tell if she meant to aim that at what I had said or the miss-shelving. She is, from what I can tell, Queen Bee of the old bookstore ladies. And she is always, always there. Once while sorting through donations she called out into the store, "I've got a rare Bradbury here if anyone is interested." I walked over to see. It was a regular paperback of The Illustrated Man.
I offered, "that's just a regular Bradbury, I think." (They must really hate me there.)
"Oh really?" she was shocked, "I've never seen this one...Illustrated Man...hmmmmm."
"Yeah...sorry."
She then went on to tell me, in great detail, the story of hearing Bradbury speak when she was in college. Including the history of how he'd written 451 (she called it "451". You know...me and Bradbury...we're tight like that.) on a hired typewriter in the basement of the university, how many cents he'd paid by the hour and how much it had cost overall.
I interjected, like an idiot, "oh yes, I've read that somewhere...in one of his books I think."
"Well I heard him tell it!"
And she was right. That's so much cooler. It was 100 degrees outside and she had on a long sleeved floral shirt overlaid with a pink cardigan, I've already mentioned the glasses, and she was one upping me with Bradbury stories (not a hard thing, but still!). This was such a bad ass place. These were my people! I imagined myself leaning in and colluding, "let's put up a sign over the romances that says 'Pink Light District'." But she had already walked off to shelve the ordinary Bradbury masterpiece. 50 cents. You just can't beat that.
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