Reader's Corner

I did not go to my favorite used bookstore today, but if I had gone, this is how I imagine my day would have been:

As I approach the used bookstore, my eyes rest on many shelves outside its doors, full to bursting with books. It’s as if the store was so full inside that its doors swung open and the excess books flowed out like a flood. I push open the creaky wooden door and am at once transported from the bright, loud afternoon into a dimly lit, quiet, calm haven.

The store smells like history. I turn instinctively to my right and slowly move down a long aisle lined with horror novels. First the Stephen King books, H.P. Lovecraft, then Dean Koontz (or Arkoontz, or R. Koontz, I’m never quite certain). The aisle darkens as I reach the end. A sharp, tight turn to my left and a wider, brighter aisle opens up. This is one of the three main hallways of the store. It leads me to the art books. I perch in a dusty art-deco style egg chair, the only seat available. I’m sure it was purchased for $3 at a yard sale some twenty years ago. I crack open a heavy book that had been sitting on top of a stack on the floor.

The rest of my afternoon is spent with M.C. Escher, Georgia O’Keefe, and Vincent Van Gogh. I am absorbed by images of places I will never go and people I will never meet. Colors jump off the pages and subjects seem to speak directly to me.

Several hours later, I pull myself out of the egg chair and place the books back on the floor. I walk down the center aisle of the store, passing the checkout counter without buying anything, but feeling no guilt. Behind the counter sits a young man with blue hair and too many piercings. He gives me a smile and a nod as I pass bins of records. I open the wooden door and step out of my haven and into a world full of noise and devoid of art.