Bookshop Man, Part 2

It was a gutwrenching struggle, every day, to open the store. On some days he couldn't do it at all, couldn't bring himself to let customers, strangers, come in and wander among his treasures. On those days he would sit in the back, in the way back, with the most valuable books. He would flip carefully through them, reading not the words of the stories but rather the notes people had jotted on yellowed pages over the years.

Today the sign went over, Closed to Open. A book would have to be sold; rent would have to be made. There was no place for his books in his small apartment, where he spent increasingly little time.

He saw passersby outside, any of whom could come in at any moment and take a book from him. He felt his heart pounding and tried to calm himself with a deep breath. He went behind the counter and stood, his eyes closed.

Once, it had been a business -- a bittersweet one, but a business nonetheless. He made a good profit at first, but money began to interest him less and less. The wares of a rare book dealer cannot simply be ordered through a catalogue; they must be tracked down painstakingly one by one, negotiated, bargained for, won. Each of the books in his shop told not one story but two: the story on the pages, no different from the stories sold at Borders or Barnes & Noble. But then there was the second story, the story of the book itself. Where it had been, who it had belonged to, how it had come to be here. These were the stories he loved most. To sell a book was to part with its story forever.

He felt relieved that for the first two hours no one came into the store, but then at 11 a.m. his heart sank. A man wearing a suit and a long trenchcoat bounded into the store. The owner opened his eyes. The man nodded at him and disappeared into the stacks.

The owner stood nervously behind the counter, fidgeting with his computer, checking on eBay auctions. Finally the man came back.

"You don't have an oldish copy of Catcher in the Rye, do you? I looked under Hemingway but I didn't see it."

The owner lowered his eyelids. "Salinger," he said, "Salinger is the author of The Catcher in the Rye."

"My bad," said the man. He turned around to go look under S.

"It's not on the shelves," said the owner. "All I have is an old first edition. It's in the back." He spoke with a pronounced quiet that was meant to dissuade the customer from asking any further questions.

"Could you grab that for me?" said the customer, undeterred. "My step-kid just got published. I wanted to get him a present. I'm kind of in a hurry."

The owner felt like screaming. He came out from around the counter and with a key from his pocket, unlocked the back room. He turned the dial of a large black safe that stood as tall as he did. The first edition Catcher in the Rye lay inside in a mylar bag. He turned it over in his hands. It was beautiful, was in near-mint condition. How could he sell it, after all it had taken to obtain it? He would say it wasn't here. That's what he'd do.

Suddenly the customer poked his head into the back room. The owner, startled, hugged the book to his chest.

"Perfect," the customer said. "Looks great." He held out his hand.

The owner looked at the man's fingers with distaste but gave him the book. He closed the safe and the back-room door and followed the customer to the front, telling him the story of this particular copy even though he was sure the customer wouldn't care; it was enough for the owner to hear it himself, one last time. The customer was digging out his wallet when his cellphone began jingling. He put up his finger to cut off the owner's narration.

"I have to take this," he said, and dropped his American Express card on the glass counter.

"Oh--" whispered the owner. He stepped behind the counter. "Before you do-- What did you say was the name of your son's book?" He opened his Amazon browser to get an idea of who the book's next owner would be. He had hopes of someone respectful and worthy.

The customer flipped open his little silver phone. "Oh--school paper. Bridges Middle School." He put his phone to his ear. The owner scowled and looked from the book to the credit card.

While the man talked on the phone he made himself at home by leaning against a bookshelf. The owner picked up the credit card and watched the man. As he chatted he pulled the book from the bag. The owner felt his blood grow hot and he clenched the credit card. And then -- goddammit! -- the customer, preoccupied and laughing into his phone, licked his thumb and began flipping through the book as though it were a TVGuide!

The owner slammed his fist down on the counter. "No!" he said. He bounded away from the counter and charged like a wildebeast at the man, snatching the book away from him. "I can't sell this to you! I promised it to someone else!" He deftly slipped the book into the bag.

"I don't know--I'm being accosted," said the customer into his phone. "He's pu--"

"Get out!" said the owner, snarling. He stuffed the credit card in the pocket of the customer's trench coat, grabbed him by the arm and guided him to and through the front door. "I'm sorry," he said, closing the door behind the man. "We're closed!"

He flipped over the sign, wiped sweat from his brow with the edge of his cardigan, and spent the rest of the day in the back, with the books.