"Wild Strawberries" and "Dreaming of Joseph Lees"
The books were just sitting there - a huge pile at the end of someone’s walkway. We were walking along, talking and just taking in the warm August night, and there they were. Come to think of it, we probably wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been dark, but in the orangey, humming glow of the arc sodiums, it was irresistible. We must’ve spent a full five minutes, hunkered down and picking through that pile of books on the sidewalk of Front Street.
“I think someone just flunked out of college,” he muttered, grinning. I laughed and flipped over another of the old paperbacks.
“The Silence of the Lambs,” I said.
“Grab it.”
When we finally made it back to his tiny studio apartment, we surveyed our take. Two through six of the original Green Mile novellas, a book on the history of magic, two movie critique books - one from 2003 and one from ’99, and Silence of the Lambs. He was thumbing though one of the battered critique books when a small, torn slip of notebook paper fell out. I caught it as it floated to the floor.
One side was covered in neat, penciled algebraic equations - someone’s math homework. Scrawled on the other side, in dark blue ink, were the words “Wild Strawberries”, and the line below that read “Dreaming of Joseph Lees”. I read it out loud and laughed at the randomness of it. He just smiled at me.
“You know that would make a great book title,” I said.
“What would?” He’d gone back to looking at the critique book.
“‘Wild Strawberries and Dreaming of Joseph Lees’.”
He looked up at me over the rims of his glasses. “They’re probably books that already exist,” he said. I shrugged.
“So?”
He shrugged back at me and continued reading.
We sat in silence for a while longer - him reading intently and me just kind of skimming the paperbacks that seemed interesting. Suddenly, he broke the silence.
“I wonder why they were on the side of the road,” he muttered.
“Someone probably found out they couldn’t sell them back to the UC bookstore.”
“I’m thinking break-up gone horribly wrong.” He was looking at me again, leaning back in his big, blue recliner. “You know - ‘Here’s all the shit you left at my place’.”
I grinned. “Whatever. Our gain, right? Plus, my dad says you never steal anything from the side of the road-”
“ -You just borrow it,” he finished for me. I nodded.
“At any rate, it’ll make a great story, right?”
“Right.”
A year later, I was going though our books - we’d amassed quite a collection by then - sorting out which were his and which were mine. He’d left me a few weeks before for a woman he’d met at work. I hadn’t met her, and didn’t want to.
When I came across the books we’d “stolen” from the walkway on Front Street that night, I smiled slightly and allowed myself a moment to bask in the happy memory. When I shook out of my reverie, I saw a torn piece of notebook paper was sticking out of the top of the magic history book - a bookmark that he wouldn’t need anymore. I pulled it out and glanced at it before starting to throw it away. A hastily scrawled “Wild Strawberries” and “Dreaming of Joseph Lees” looked back at me. Blinking back sudden tears, I set the worn paperbacks aside.
When I finished sorting all of the stuff in what was now my tiny studio apartment - the new girlfriend had a one-bedroom somewhere uptown - I took the box of things he’d left behind and put it in my car. The small pile of paperbacks, I set on the sidewalk in front of my building.
“You never steal it,” I muttered to myself. “You just borrow it.” Giving the books one last look, I tucked a small, torn slip of notebook paper into my pocket and walked away.
“I think someone just flunked out of college,” he muttered, grinning. I laughed and flipped over another of the old paperbacks.
“The Silence of the Lambs,” I said.
“Grab it.”
When we finally made it back to his tiny studio apartment, we surveyed our take. Two through six of the original Green Mile novellas, a book on the history of magic, two movie critique books - one from 2003 and one from ’99, and Silence of the Lambs. He was thumbing though one of the battered critique books when a small, torn slip of notebook paper fell out. I caught it as it floated to the floor.
One side was covered in neat, penciled algebraic equations - someone’s math homework. Scrawled on the other side, in dark blue ink, were the words “Wild Strawberries”, and the line below that read “Dreaming of Joseph Lees”. I read it out loud and laughed at the randomness of it. He just smiled at me.
“You know that would make a great book title,” I said.
“What would?” He’d gone back to looking at the critique book.
“‘Wild Strawberries and Dreaming of Joseph Lees’.”
He looked up at me over the rims of his glasses. “They’re probably books that already exist,” he said. I shrugged.
“So?”
He shrugged back at me and continued reading.
We sat in silence for a while longer - him reading intently and me just kind of skimming the paperbacks that seemed interesting. Suddenly, he broke the silence.
“I wonder why they were on the side of the road,” he muttered.
“Someone probably found out they couldn’t sell them back to the UC bookstore.”
“I’m thinking break-up gone horribly wrong.” He was looking at me again, leaning back in his big, blue recliner. “You know - ‘Here’s all the shit you left at my place’.”
I grinned. “Whatever. Our gain, right? Plus, my dad says you never steal anything from the side of the road-”
“ -You just borrow it,” he finished for me. I nodded.
“At any rate, it’ll make a great story, right?”
“Right.”
A year later, I was going though our books - we’d amassed quite a collection by then - sorting out which were his and which were mine. He’d left me a few weeks before for a woman he’d met at work. I hadn’t met her, and didn’t want to.
When I came across the books we’d “stolen” from the walkway on Front Street that night, I smiled slightly and allowed myself a moment to bask in the happy memory. When I shook out of my reverie, I saw a torn piece of notebook paper was sticking out of the top of the magic history book - a bookmark that he wouldn’t need anymore. I pulled it out and glanced at it before starting to throw it away. A hastily scrawled “Wild Strawberries” and “Dreaming of Joseph Lees” looked back at me. Blinking back sudden tears, I set the worn paperbacks aside.
When I finished sorting all of the stuff in what was now my tiny studio apartment - the new girlfriend had a one-bedroom somewhere uptown - I took the box of things he’d left behind and put it in my car. The small pile of paperbacks, I set on the sidewalk in front of my building.
“You never steal it,” I muttered to myself. “You just borrow it.” Giving the books one last look, I tucked a small, torn slip of notebook paper into my pocket and walked away.