Last Standard Day

We slept in just a tad this morning, and then got ready for our annual ritual of joy: the book sale at the public library in a nearby town.

When we arrived, the crowd was still pretty sparse, so I anticipated some good free-range browsing. This was before he sidled up to me.

I was among the history/biography tables when I detected the presence of someone standing close behind me. I glanced back and saw that he was about my age and size, with a neatly-trimmed Vandyke and steel-rimmed glasses. The expression on his face was smug; I clocked him as some sort of academic. His clothes weren’t top quality, so I figured high school teacher or community college prof.

Every time I would move down the table, Dr. Smugbritches would move with me. But he got a bit closer each time. After four or five sideways moves to fresh books, I realized that he was standing so close to me, I could have touched him if I had merely moved my arm an inch.

My wife told me later that she was watching this little scene unfold, and that her initial thought, knowing me as she does, was, “Oh, this is not good…”

I moved one more time and Dr. Smugbritches was right there with me, and this time, he did touch my arm with his as he examined a book. I started to turn to him and ask him a direct and coarse question about his creepy intrusiveness, but then I decided to use a favorite tactic from my greener days.

I started talking to myself. I said, very clearly and very rapidly, but in a soft voice, “Do you think they’re watching us? We got away with it last time. We might get caught. He’s a good choice. Why are you worried? I don’t want to. Yes, you do –”

Dr. Smugbritches stepped away and proceeded with dispatch to the opposite side of the large room. I lost sight of him as the crowd grew, and I didn’t see him again. Someone with even greater masculine beauty than mine must have caught his eye.

***

We scored 30 books, filling two large tote bags, and I was pleased that once again, I had found some real gems, including a hardback copy of Richard Adams’ Shardik and a volume of Fulton J. Sheen’s essays (both in almost immaculate condition, one dollar and .25 cents, respectively). After we paid for our treasures, we headed over to a local restaurant to eat what I suppose would technically be called a brunch.

While we ate, I watched a couple over my wife’s shoulder. The man was about my age, the woman in her late twenties/early thirties. At first, I thought they might be a father & daughter, but then I saw the woman pantomime a sexual act with her finger and mouth, and I realized that they were An Item. The man looked like a hungry little puppy, all big eyes and eager to please and animated and panting. The young woman’s distinguishing feature was her bored, dead stare. She was texting during the entire span of their meal, and I couldn’t help speculating that the recipient of her texts was not her aging grandmother or her priest. When they got up to leave, the man had the desperate hover-hand near her shoulders. A sad story on four legs.

***

Our next stop was an old-fashioned department store out in the boondocks, where my wife pointed out a display for a product called “Poo-Pourri” (don’t ask). Tired from the extended period of standing and walking during our book sale adventure, I opted to sit up front in the dozen chairs I’ve dubbed Geezer Acres and wait for my wife. Geezer Acres always has a clutch of elderly men waiting on their wives, with the occasional, rare female waiting on someone. Eavesdropping on the conversations is always great fun. Today, I heard one aged gent tell another, “This gal keeps a-callin’ my cell phone, tryin’ to get me to go on one of them cruises. I keep tellin’ her that I ain’t got the money, and that I ain’t about to git on wunna them big boats and get some sickness while I’m trapped on there.”

The other man replied, “She sellin’ one of them cruises, or is she askin’ you to go with her?”

The first man snapped, “That’s a foolish question. Here comes Barbara Jean. Y’all come see us.” He stood up and joined a woman who was loaded with bags like a pack mule.

***

We stopped at the grocery store enroute to home and picked up a few essentials. By the time we arrived home, the day was finally warming a bit (it’s supposed to make it up to 60F tomorrow). We unloaded and settled in to gloat over the books. Shortly, we were both reared back (rared back, where I’m from) and sleeping the particularly satisfying sleep of the mid-afternoon. Dixee roused us when she sensed suppertime nearing by flapping her ears vigorously and yawning and dry-swimming across the rug. So we arose and fed her and decided to go ahead and set the clocks forward, just to mentally prepare for The Lost Hour.

So now we wait for Sunday. And it never leaves our minds, the dark knowledge that the book sale is still ongoing tomorrow. We have issues. We need an intervention.

We need more bookshelves.

~ S.K. Orr