To browse again

To Browse Again (C)
By J R Kane

How long had it been since I'd been in a second-hand book shop? I
used to love them, spending hours just browsing, lost in a world
of
other people's ideas and thoughts. I just remember each book
being
so individual, so distinct, unike the fresh-born books you'd find
in
the big bookstores, with not a crease or tear.

When I was still a young man I had a girlfriend, and she would
often
get carried away not with the story in the book, but the story
that
the book held - where it had been, who had read it, how it got
there. She made wonderful, fantastic and unbelievable stories
about
them. She pretended that she could 'sense their history'. I say
pretended, but she actually believed it. That's why we broke up I
think, because I wouldn't believe her, even though I enjoyed the
tales she told. The more I think about it, yes, it was not soon
after then that I stopped visiting second hand bookshops. Life
took
hold of me, I started work, could never find the time to read.

Twenty years ago. Such a different person now. There's still that
young man in me. There's still that young man who wants to go
into
this little book shop in front of me now and bump into his
girlfriend, hear those tales once more, browsing happily hand in
hand. Such a time existed! You have no idea how hard that is to
conceive of for me now.

Here I go. The kids are way, my son now a young man like I was
then. Perhaps he's doing the same thing as me right now. I enter
the shop, opening the door slowly into the hushed, dusty
atmosphere.
A bell I can't see tinkles to announce my entrance into a world
of
that wonderful smell of books sleeping, waiting to be awoken and
tell
their tale. Listen to me! I'm sound like such a sentimental fool.
I take a few steps in, hoping to bump into Gale after all this
time.
It's a different town, it's a different bookshop, but I hope. I
see
it happen in the movies, on TV, why not in real life?

She's not here. All that is here is bookcases and bookcases of
every
book possible, from The complete works of William Shakespeare
(Leather-bound 1943 edition) to 'Tog the Happy Frog' which I can
vaguely remember reading as a child myself. Every section is here
-
romance, thriller, mystery, horror, classic, contemporary,
biographies, historical and so many more. My face delivers a true
smile. My afternoon is clear. My wife is away. The next few hours
are going to be not so much a stroll down memory lane, but a
browse
around memory bookshop.

The Age of Reason. That is why I came here in the first place.
I'd
never finished it and could find it nowhere in this town. Now it
sits there, right in front of me, all propped up on a special
display
stand, determined to ruin my browsing. I know that if I recognise
that I saw it, I'll have to buy it straight away, the fun of
hunting
and perhaps accidentally flirting with other books taken away. All
I
wanted to do is browse.

No good. It's seen me. It knows I've seen it see me. Okay book,
you wily, crafty thing - you win, I'll buy you now, but here's
the
deal - I'm still going to browse after I've bought you, and maybe
I'll see another book and I won't read you straight away. How
does
that sound? Does that sound like a good deal to you? It had
better
do, because it is the only deal you're getting.

Angry with the book, I pick it up and walk over to the heap of
hair
at the wooden kitchen table that is supposed to be pass as the
payment desk. Why am I sounding sour? I like that kind of thing.
The book-person is somewhat in his twenties I guess. It is
difficult
to tell but his hair is a big brown curly mess that I wouldn't be
surprised to learn is the nesting place for the local bird
population. Despite sitting next to an electric heater on full in
the midst of summer, he insists on wearing a jumper that you'd
expect
Arctic explorers to wear. He puts down his copy of Tog the Lucky
Frog and looks at me with an inane grin, blinking incessantly at
me
through his round silver glasses. Of all the thoughts going
through
my head, most of all I'm wondering he can't shave and stop
looking
like such a scruff. Sweet mary, he probably wears bell-bottomed
trousers. I'm resisting the temptation to look. For now.

I just wanted to browse.

' I would like to buy this book', I say to him, holding the 1981
paperback with ripped cover out.
Nothing. Not a word, a sign or movement, except that inane grin
and
that blasted blinking.
I hate having to repeat myself. ' I would like to buy this book.'
Still nothing. I'm thinking that maybe he is mute, or deaf or
even
worse, foreign. Still, I persist.
' Excuse me. I said I would like to buy this book.'
' Yes,' with a voice that can only be described as lazy, stoned,
or
both. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks at the
book,
and then gradually returns his gaze to me, as if he lives in slow
motion.
' This book. I'd like to buy it.' My voice is sharper now, much
less patient. I'm no longer the happy browser. I just want to buy
this book and go.
' I'm sure you would.'
' I do.'
' I wouldn't if I was you.'
' Why?' Why am I getting into conversation with this fool is what
I
am asking myself.
' I've already got it.' He says it with such flippance.
' I'm not buying it for you.' Exasperated. I am exasperated.
' That's good then. I've already got it.' Did I mention I am
feeling exasperated?
' Listen, I don't want a conversation, I just want to buy the
book.' I try appealing to logic.
' What book?'
' The book in my hand.'
' You haven't got a book in your hand.'
' What's this then?' I almost shriek, holding it up to his face.
' Oh, in your LEFT hand. Sorry, you didn't specify.'
' I thought it was pretty obvious.'
' Sorry. I have a condition that means I can only see people's
right hands at first. I find your comments quite hurtful.'
' Don't be ridiculous.'
' I suppose you're the kind of person who goes shouting in the
ears
of deaf people "Can you hear me" and complain when they don't
respond, aren't you?'
' I most certainly am not.'
' You are.'
' I am not.'
' You are.'
' I am not. Listen, I didn't come here to argue, I came here to
buy
a book - this book. How much is it?'
' Is what?'
' This book. The one I am holding now in my right hand.'
He takes it from my hand, examines it closely, and as he ponders
for
a minute, I wonder if this is really worth it.
' The Age of Season? Never knew it was here.'
' It's the Age of Reason you buffoon.' Did that come out? I
didn't
mean to say that out loud.
He acts as though I never said it. Or he didn't hear it. ' Oh
yes,
the Age of Reason. Good book that. "Please sir, can I have some
more" and all that.'
' That was Oliver Twist.'
' Was it? Are you sure?'
' Yes.'
' You learn something new everyday, eh?'
' Apparently you don't' I say under my breath.
' What was that?'
' I said Charles Dickens wrote it.'
' No, it was Jean Paul-Satre. Says so here.' He points to the
cover. Is this some TV wind-up?
' I meant Oliver Twist.'
' Oliver Twist didn't write it. It was Jean Paul-Satre. Are you
deaf or something?' I'm flabbergasted, but I'm not going to let
this
moron get the best of me. He is not going to wind me up,
intentionally or otherwise.
' Let me make this clear. A bit of education for you. Charles
Dickens wrote Oliver Twist, and Jean Paul Satre wrote the Age of
Reason. That's the book I want to buy. Now.'
' So who wrote the Age of Season then?'
' I don't know. It's probably not even a book.' I'm getting a
headache.
' It might be. Might be a cookery book. You're not a very good
book-shop assistant.'
' I'm not the assistant - you are.'
' You may not be one, but If you were, you wouldn't be very
good.'
' I'd be better than you, you mop-haired freak,' I once again
whisper.
' Yeah, I think mopeds are chic too.' I'm shaking my head. This
is getting too strange.
' I'll give you five pounds. Take it for the book.' I reach into
my wallet, but before I get a chance to look more closely, he
speaks,
oh sweet mary grant me patience he speaks.
' What book?'
' THIS ****ING BOOK' My temper snaps, and suddenly I am feeling
rather ashamed. There is an embarrassed silence.
The silence continues. I feel the need to apologise.
' Listen, I'm sorry. I just want to buy this book and go.'
Silence again.
' Are you listening to me?' I ask.
' Yes. I was just contemplating the effects it may have on future
generations.'
' What?'
' You buying that book.'
' I seriously don't think it's going to cause any harm.'
' Isn't it? Isn't it sir? You don't think that maybe reading this
won't encourage you to delve more into the realms of
existentialism.
A big believer of it you could become, and before anyone knows
it,
you're the President of the USA&;#8230;'
' But I'm British.'
'&;#8230; and there you are spouting forth the ideas that man is
alone
in
this universe, with no creator, with no afterlife, and that we
must
find our own meaning to life. Have you contemplated the damage
that
could cause.'
' I seriously doubt that will happen.'
' Ah, but it might, but it might. Are you fore-sighted enough to
KNOW it isn't going to happen.'
' Well, no, but&;#8230;'
' Well no but nothing sir. I should proceed with caution before
selling you this book, and you should proceed with caution before
buying it.'
For a moment he has me disorientated, if only by the craziness of
his
argument. I take a deep breath, count to 10. ' I'm sure
everything
will be fine.'
' If you're sure, then who am I to argue but a small bruise on
the
belly of fate.'
' What?'
' I mean, don't blame me if the world is in ruins because of
you.'
' Do you have some sort of mental problem?'
' No. Why, were you looking for something in common?'
His pure cheek. I can't believe it. ' How dare you? In all my
years
I've never met such a terrible book-shop assistant.'
' I'm not the book-shop assistant.'
' What?'
' I'm not the book-shop assistant. Whatever made you think I
was?'
Embarressed? You bet I'm feeling embarressed. ' I&;#8230; I am
terribly
sorry. It's just that there was no-one else here&;#8230;'
' And so by default I'm the assistant am I? Talk about jumping to
conclusions.'
' I'm sorry if I've been a bit rude. Could you tell me where the
owner or assistant is if you know?'
' As a matter of fact, he's just here.' The nest-haired man
reaches into a bag by his side and pulls out a thick green sock.
The situation gets crazy.
' Hello there,' the man at the table says, using the sock as an
unconvincing puppet, 'I'm the book-shop assistant.'
' You've got to be kidding.' I'm actually laughing at the
ridiculousness of it. It's gone beyond annoying now.
' Haven't you ever seen a book-sock assistant before?' the
sock 'says'. Most worryingly, the man is not laughing. Is this a
joke to him or not. Is he serious? I can't tell. I'll play along.
' I want to buy this book in my hand, The Age of Reason, by Jean
Paul-Satre.
' That will be five pounds please,' the sock 'says' again. It's
the
most unconvincingly puppet since by brother tied a piece of string
to
an action man doll to make a string puppet, succeeding only in
appearing to hang the toy.
I reach for my wallet. I've left my cash at home. Thankfully, I
have my cards. ' Do you take Visa?'
The sock looks at the man, the man looks at the sock. The sock
looks back at me, looking me up and down. I say looks, but since
it
lacks eyes or any feature other than the appearance of a hand
covered
by a sock. It turns back to the man, who is still making little
attempt to disguise the fact that it is him talking.
' Oooooooh, Visa,' the sock says in a mocking tone. ' Visa. Is
sir a member of the bourgeoisie then? Is sir 'slumming it with
the
proles' is sir? Hmmm? You toffee nosed poncey git.'
' What did you say?' Why I am saying this to the sock I have no
idea.
' I said you toffee nosed poncey git. That's what you are, coming
in here with your big fancy ideas of cars and houses with toilets
and
those pictures that have moving images and speak to you. Yes,
well,
we don't need your type here. We may struggle by on potatoes and
more potatoes, but we're still human beings.' Give the sock
credit,
it appears angry.
' No you're not. You're not a human being. You're a sock.' I'm
not falling for this. I'm not falling for this. I'm not falling
for
this.
' Oh, you have something against socks do you sir? Want to have
us
all exterminated in some giant gas chamber do you? An
anti-sockist
are you? I know your name, I know where you live.'
' No you don't.'
' Socks are everywhere.'
' For Pete's sake.' I turn around, calmly place the book back on
it's stand and walk out, making a note to never return to that
bookshop again.
' You can't oppress us socks forever,' I hear the man scream in a
manic tone far removed from his initial lazy expression as I pace
away. ' We have rights you know. The socks shall revolt.'

What can I say? I wanted it to be a great trip down memory lane,
a
return to youth. It would have been wonderful, and I must say I
still hope of bumping into Gale again. I don't know what she's
doing
now. I hope she's still telling those stories and perhaps with
someone who actually believes them. It would be nice to know
she's
happy. As for me, I think I'll stick to those big new bookstores,
or shopping on the net. Not that I get the time to read anyway,
but
I buy them for people who do have the time.

The worst thing though is not that I won't be returning to a
second
hand book shop soon, or that I feel I've lost my youth and my
grasp
of things that are really important in life, or that I am more
uptight that I ever realised. Nor is the problem that I wasted
valuable minutes of my life talking to that weirdo in the book
shop.
No the worst thing is that I actually believe that man, and call
it
rational or not, I can't help but feel that one day, the socks
shall
revolt.