Book Store Ruminations

Say something profound, I tell him.

We laugh every time a copy of Oliver Twist is picked up off the shelf, our heads resting back against spines waiting for that first crack.

Fact or fiction? he asks, thumbing through some well read Corso.

He doesn't wait for an answer, Something About Mary was the fall of American culture.

Fabio's chest is dangling from a girl's hand in front of me and I don't have the stomach to look up at her face.

Some things should be kept behind a black curtain, I say.

He nods, agreeing without having to know what he is agreeing with.

Hunter S.'s hard spine is digging into my shoulder blade. He's just that type.

Tony, my favorite employee, looking like Trevor the Skinhead now that his Halloween mullet has been shaved off, steers a handle bar mustache in the direction of Horror.

My friend's yellow jelly sandals attract attention, the type that are only worn by people who burn what they write, Can we put Wuthering Heights behind the curtain?

All Bronte's go behind the curtain, I'm disgusted he even asked.

Two Mohawks argue over who has better taste in music and I fight the urge to join in.

Rob Shneider is the saving grace of America, he says, returning Tom Robbins to the shelf.

There's a ball of lead in my stomach and I feel sick. I'm reminded of the week before, when I had this same feeling. It was 2am and I was alone. Sitting on a tread mill, with numb fingers, I watched Mr. Bean try to sneak a candy in church.