new story
I have been sitting on about 3-4 stories for awhile now. Here's a new one. Thanks.
The Book Sale
Every year, the University of Illinois library holds a public book sale. The purpose of the book sale is to trim the fat from the library’s collection and to generate money to purchase new/more books. I am not entirely sure about this, but I also suspect they use money from the book sale to cover the salaries of the library’s employees.
The book sale is held on two consecutive days, usually in the first semester. This year, it took place on October 30 and 31- a Thursday and a Friday. That the book sale anticipates the weekend is no coincidence. The belief is that prospective buyers will spend more money and take bigger chances on their purchases. Is it true that people spend more money at the end of the week? I would wager that they do. All considered, I went into the book sale with modest expectations and little spending money. After all, I prefer to borrow books from the library, and I suspect I’m not alone.
The book sale was set up on the first floor of the main library. I walked in and detected a buzz that filled the room. People swirled among the bookshelves and crates and pulled hard-covers and soft-covers from the shelves. Of course, most people weren’t there to spend a ton of money, and so they would read the brief description on the back, decide it wasn’t for them, and discreetly return the book to its proper spot. Some people didn’t even go that far. They glanced at the cover, grimaced, and returned the book quickly. Of course, since it was a book sale, people bought some of the books. I can tell when people are on the verge of buying because they get this twinkle in their eye. It’s like they know what they are holding could be good. It could be the one. They touch the cover. Flip through the pages. Might even smell the paper. Head tilted, contemplate the pros and cons, but since it’s a book sale, and the books are discounted, the cons don’t really matter. After all, this book could be the one. They make up their minds and walk over to the cashier to pay. Everyone is happy.
I started to browse for something to buy. I ran my hand across the spines of some famous titles. A Christmas Carol. 1984. Voyage in the Dark. The potential of finding something special is overwhelming, but then I remember there is a reason these books are here in the first place. They are no longer needed or wanted. Why? First, sometimes the library buys too many copies of a book. There is not enough space on the shelf to accommodate all the copies, and the less relevant editions must be sold to make room for new material. Secondly, there are a ton of books that are so unpopular and basically useless that the library gets rid of them for practically the same reason I just talked about. Let’s face it- a book that hasn’t been checked out in fifty-seven years is probably not going to be missed. I suppose it’s a gamble when deciding the books that go in the sale. Who knows when/ if a book will become relevant? It’s a gamble, sure, but dated medical books usually find their way to the book sale. When I had a garage sale two years ago, I kept asking myself if a portable tape deck or my second crock pot were worth keeping around, and I decided that they weren’t. Sometimes, the money is more important.
The customers at the book sale were considerably older than yours truly. Upon my second loop of the fair, I spotted a boy no older than thirteen checking out a book with ferocious interest. Deciding that he was out of place, I carefully approached him. I looked over his shoulder and saw the two-page spread in front of him. It was an enormous diagram of a vagina in what looked like a very dated textbook. I was shocked for a moment, and then I remembered another boy that used to do similar things. It was me. I would sneak into the eighth grade classrooms during recess to flip through back copies of National Geographic. Upon finding an article about tribes living in Africa or Asia or somewhere else mysterious, I would tuck the magazine into my pants and escape to the bushes by the jungle gym where my friends would be waiting. Making sure that teachers didn’t catch us, we would gape at the photos of naked black women and fantasize about the girls we knew.
One afternoon, I got caught with the magazine while I was supposed to be at recess. Mrs. Roberts, my least favorite teacher, marched me down to the principal’s office.
“Wait until Principal Conley hears about this. You’re in trouble,” she said. As we walked down the hall, she held onto me with her right hand and the magazine with her left. It was still open to the page I was looking at. I could see the page and all the naked flesh bobbing as she took each step. The other students were filing back into the school at this point. I tried to block my face from them, but they knew it was me.
I had to wait at the principal’s office for him to return from lunch. I sat outside in a chair for twenty minutes while other kids walked past. It was humiliating. When he finally got back, he took me into his office.
“What are you here for Mr. Klacza?”
“I got caught…” I tried not to cry. “…looking at that magazine.” He was holding it and looking at the pictures.
“Mmm.”
“Listen. I’m really sorry. Please don’t tell my mom. Don’t suspend me…”
“Mr. Klacza, you’re too young to be interested in this stuff. You’ll learn all about it soon, maybe even next year. For now, just forget what you saw, don’t do it again, and go back to class.”
Was he serious? I wasn’t in any trouble at all? My heart lifted, and with a skip I went back to class. Unfortunately, Mrs. Roberts was my sixth period teacher. I dreaded seeing her, but I didn’t have a choice. I walked in the room while she was giving a lecture.
“Welcome back Patrick,” she said. My classmates giggled. “That’s enough class. Take your seat, Patrick. You’ve already missed half of today’s lesson.”
I sat down, and though I tried to work hard and pay attention, I kept thinking that Mrs. Roberts was looking at me. Inspecting me. Sizing me up. Making moral judgments. She was disgusted with what I had done.
I was still standing over the young man at the book sale, and not wanting to be like Mrs. Roberts, I ignored the picture he was looking at, which at this point was a diagram of the female breast. I walked away.
The rest of my year in Mrs. Roberts’s class was a misery. I remember hating her so much that I would get sick before class. She thought I was a pervert, and she let me know it. Once when I returned from the washroom, she asked me if I had remembered to wash my hands, and then claimed to not smell any soap. The class giggled. I sunk in my chair. Another time, she moved my desk because I was sitting by too many girls. I don’t know why she did it, but I was too scared to tell my mom or the principal. She blatantly disinfected the chalkboard eraser after I used it. She never did when other kids used it. I still hate her, wherever she is.
The book sale was winding down. The boy shut the book, and disappointed that he couldn’t work up the courage to buy it, tried to leave the book sale, his hands jammed in his pockets. An old lady at the register announced that in five minutes the sale would be ending, and then when another lady whispered to her, she walked over to the boy.
“Hello, son. Can I talk to you?” He looked scared.
“Um, okay.”
“Can you please open your jacket?”
“Why? What did I do?”
“Oh, nothing. Someone just told me that you’ve been here a long time, and we need to make sure you haven’t stolen anything.” Her teeth were yellow and decayed.
“I haven’t.”
“I know, I know. We just have to be sure.”
He opened his jacket. Nothing was there.
“Now your pocket,” she said.
He emptied his pockets. Nothing was there.
“Okay. Thank you. Next time, don’t spend so much time looking at those filthy books.” Nose in air, she walked away. The boy left as quickly as possible.
Witnessing this, I was reminded my own story. I saw Mrs. Roberts in the woman at the sale. I worried for the boy. I could guess where he was going: to his room to hide. He would be terrified of a phone call from the lady. He would probably skip dinner. Hide under his covers. He was young and curious, but he wasn’t a criminal. My heart went out to him.
And with that, I walked over to where he had stood before, found the book with the diagrams and photographs and drawings, and checking to make sure nobody was watching, I slipped the book under my jacket and into the belt of my pants and walked outside.
.
The Book Sale
Every year, the University of Illinois library holds a public book sale. The purpose of the book sale is to trim the fat from the library’s collection and to generate money to purchase new/more books. I am not entirely sure about this, but I also suspect they use money from the book sale to cover the salaries of the library’s employees.
The book sale is held on two consecutive days, usually in the first semester. This year, it took place on October 30 and 31- a Thursday and a Friday. That the book sale anticipates the weekend is no coincidence. The belief is that prospective buyers will spend more money and take bigger chances on their purchases. Is it true that people spend more money at the end of the week? I would wager that they do. All considered, I went into the book sale with modest expectations and little spending money. After all, I prefer to borrow books from the library, and I suspect I’m not alone.
The book sale was set up on the first floor of the main library. I walked in and detected a buzz that filled the room. People swirled among the bookshelves and crates and pulled hard-covers and soft-covers from the shelves. Of course, most people weren’t there to spend a ton of money, and so they would read the brief description on the back, decide it wasn’t for them, and discreetly return the book to its proper spot. Some people didn’t even go that far. They glanced at the cover, grimaced, and returned the book quickly. Of course, since it was a book sale, people bought some of the books. I can tell when people are on the verge of buying because they get this twinkle in their eye. It’s like they know what they are holding could be good. It could be the one. They touch the cover. Flip through the pages. Might even smell the paper. Head tilted, contemplate the pros and cons, but since it’s a book sale, and the books are discounted, the cons don’t really matter. After all, this book could be the one. They make up their minds and walk over to the cashier to pay. Everyone is happy.
I started to browse for something to buy. I ran my hand across the spines of some famous titles. A Christmas Carol. 1984. Voyage in the Dark. The potential of finding something special is overwhelming, but then I remember there is a reason these books are here in the first place. They are no longer needed or wanted. Why? First, sometimes the library buys too many copies of a book. There is not enough space on the shelf to accommodate all the copies, and the less relevant editions must be sold to make room for new material. Secondly, there are a ton of books that are so unpopular and basically useless that the library gets rid of them for practically the same reason I just talked about. Let’s face it- a book that hasn’t been checked out in fifty-seven years is probably not going to be missed. I suppose it’s a gamble when deciding the books that go in the sale. Who knows when/ if a book will become relevant? It’s a gamble, sure, but dated medical books usually find their way to the book sale. When I had a garage sale two years ago, I kept asking myself if a portable tape deck or my second crock pot were worth keeping around, and I decided that they weren’t. Sometimes, the money is more important.
The customers at the book sale were considerably older than yours truly. Upon my second loop of the fair, I spotted a boy no older than thirteen checking out a book with ferocious interest. Deciding that he was out of place, I carefully approached him. I looked over his shoulder and saw the two-page spread in front of him. It was an enormous diagram of a vagina in what looked like a very dated textbook. I was shocked for a moment, and then I remembered another boy that used to do similar things. It was me. I would sneak into the eighth grade classrooms during recess to flip through back copies of National Geographic. Upon finding an article about tribes living in Africa or Asia or somewhere else mysterious, I would tuck the magazine into my pants and escape to the bushes by the jungle gym where my friends would be waiting. Making sure that teachers didn’t catch us, we would gape at the photos of naked black women and fantasize about the girls we knew.
One afternoon, I got caught with the magazine while I was supposed to be at recess. Mrs. Roberts, my least favorite teacher, marched me down to the principal’s office.
“Wait until Principal Conley hears about this. You’re in trouble,” she said. As we walked down the hall, she held onto me with her right hand and the magazine with her left. It was still open to the page I was looking at. I could see the page and all the naked flesh bobbing as she took each step. The other students were filing back into the school at this point. I tried to block my face from them, but they knew it was me.
I had to wait at the principal’s office for him to return from lunch. I sat outside in a chair for twenty minutes while other kids walked past. It was humiliating. When he finally got back, he took me into his office.
“What are you here for Mr. Klacza?”
“I got caught…” I tried not to cry. “…looking at that magazine.” He was holding it and looking at the pictures.
“Mmm.”
“Listen. I’m really sorry. Please don’t tell my mom. Don’t suspend me…”
“Mr. Klacza, you’re too young to be interested in this stuff. You’ll learn all about it soon, maybe even next year. For now, just forget what you saw, don’t do it again, and go back to class.”
Was he serious? I wasn’t in any trouble at all? My heart lifted, and with a skip I went back to class. Unfortunately, Mrs. Roberts was my sixth period teacher. I dreaded seeing her, but I didn’t have a choice. I walked in the room while she was giving a lecture.
“Welcome back Patrick,” she said. My classmates giggled. “That’s enough class. Take your seat, Patrick. You’ve already missed half of today’s lesson.”
I sat down, and though I tried to work hard and pay attention, I kept thinking that Mrs. Roberts was looking at me. Inspecting me. Sizing me up. Making moral judgments. She was disgusted with what I had done.
I was still standing over the young man at the book sale, and not wanting to be like Mrs. Roberts, I ignored the picture he was looking at, which at this point was a diagram of the female breast. I walked away.
The rest of my year in Mrs. Roberts’s class was a misery. I remember hating her so much that I would get sick before class. She thought I was a pervert, and she let me know it. Once when I returned from the washroom, she asked me if I had remembered to wash my hands, and then claimed to not smell any soap. The class giggled. I sunk in my chair. Another time, she moved my desk because I was sitting by too many girls. I don’t know why she did it, but I was too scared to tell my mom or the principal. She blatantly disinfected the chalkboard eraser after I used it. She never did when other kids used it. I still hate her, wherever she is.
The book sale was winding down. The boy shut the book, and disappointed that he couldn’t work up the courage to buy it, tried to leave the book sale, his hands jammed in his pockets. An old lady at the register announced that in five minutes the sale would be ending, and then when another lady whispered to her, she walked over to the boy.
“Hello, son. Can I talk to you?” He looked scared.
“Um, okay.”
“Can you please open your jacket?”
“Why? What did I do?”
“Oh, nothing. Someone just told me that you’ve been here a long time, and we need to make sure you haven’t stolen anything.” Her teeth were yellow and decayed.
“I haven’t.”
“I know, I know. We just have to be sure.”
He opened his jacket. Nothing was there.
“Now your pocket,” she said.
He emptied his pockets. Nothing was there.
“Okay. Thank you. Next time, don’t spend so much time looking at those filthy books.” Nose in air, she walked away. The boy left as quickly as possible.
Witnessing this, I was reminded my own story. I saw Mrs. Roberts in the woman at the sale. I worried for the boy. I could guess where he was going: to his room to hide. He would be terrified of a phone call from the lady. He would probably skip dinner. Hide under his covers. He was young and curious, but he wasn’t a criminal. My heart went out to him.
And with that, I walked over to where he had stood before, found the book with the diagrams and photographs and drawings, and checking to make sure nobody was watching, I slipped the book under my jacket and into the belt of my pants and walked outside.
.