The Tale of a Bookcase, Cont'd
Ed note: The first part is here. I modified the last paragraph of the previous draft, and the modification is below.
Eventually the woman left, and the bookcase got into his listening pose. To everyone else the pose was identical to his other poses, but the bookcase knew better. Each morning, a car quite near the window started up, blaring music with a heavy bass. The bookcase didn't understand the words, but found the music quite loud, and often wondered why the car played the music so loud. Didn't the car know that the windows were rattling? The bookcase would often lecture the books on the dangers of loud music, but they tuned him out. After hearing the same lecture day after day, they could recite it back to him. The car would drive off into the distance, and the morning traffic would start to pick up. Car horns, brakes squeaking, buses coming to a halt. All these sounds made their way up the apartment wall, through the windows, and into the bookcase.
Being a bookcase comes with some advantages. The books could tell him stories to help further his imagination and understanding. The bookcase traveled to the world of Narnia, to the plantation of Tara to visit Scarlett O’Hara, and to the floor of a meat packing house in Chicago. He befriends Jane Austen, Dorothy, and O-Lan of the House of Hwang. But the bookcase always nagged the journal about the woman. What did she write all day? Why was she crying? Does she write about us? Well, who then? But the journal never told. It became an annoying ritual between the bookcase and the journal. On the surface it seemed friendly, almost like a game, but deep down, the game had reached it’s limit.
One day the woman came home very agitated. She opened a beer in the kitchen, walked straight to the bedroom, grabbed the journal, and began writing. She did not stop for a long period of time. While writing, she let out long sighs and groans, and at one point yelled “Grrr!” so loudly that the bookcase jumped. But the woman didn’t notice. She kept writing. Then she stopped. She put the journal away and calmly left the room. Her keys jingled, and the back door closed. She was gone.
“What was that all about?” the bookcase demanded.
“I can’t tell you. You know I can’t tell you. But it’s bad. Very bad,” replied the journal.
It went on for this like several minutes until the Bible said, “Enough! We all know the journal can’t say anything about it. Stop pestering him.” And that ended the discussion.
Eventually the woman left, and the bookcase got into his listening pose. To everyone else the pose was identical to his other poses, but the bookcase knew better. Each morning, a car quite near the window started up, blaring music with a heavy bass. The bookcase didn't understand the words, but found the music quite loud, and often wondered why the car played the music so loud. Didn't the car know that the windows were rattling? The bookcase would often lecture the books on the dangers of loud music, but they tuned him out. After hearing the same lecture day after day, they could recite it back to him. The car would drive off into the distance, and the morning traffic would start to pick up. Car horns, brakes squeaking, buses coming to a halt. All these sounds made their way up the apartment wall, through the windows, and into the bookcase.
Being a bookcase comes with some advantages. The books could tell him stories to help further his imagination and understanding. The bookcase traveled to the world of Narnia, to the plantation of Tara to visit Scarlett O’Hara, and to the floor of a meat packing house in Chicago. He befriends Jane Austen, Dorothy, and O-Lan of the House of Hwang. But the bookcase always nagged the journal about the woman. What did she write all day? Why was she crying? Does she write about us? Well, who then? But the journal never told. It became an annoying ritual between the bookcase and the journal. On the surface it seemed friendly, almost like a game, but deep down, the game had reached it’s limit.
One day the woman came home very agitated. She opened a beer in the kitchen, walked straight to the bedroom, grabbed the journal, and began writing. She did not stop for a long period of time. While writing, she let out long sighs and groans, and at one point yelled “Grrr!” so loudly that the bookcase jumped. But the woman didn’t notice. She kept writing. Then she stopped. She put the journal away and calmly left the room. Her keys jingled, and the back door closed. She was gone.
“What was that all about?” the bookcase demanded.
“I can’t tell you. You know I can’t tell you. But it’s bad. Very bad,” replied the journal.
It went on for this like several minutes until the Bible said, “Enough! We all know the journal can’t say anything about it. Stop pestering him.” And that ended the discussion.