An Honest to God Bookshopping Excursion

I just parked my car and am sallying forth towards my looming destination with excitement that I can barely contain. The neon sign above the automatic door advertises "BOO MANS." The "K" is flickering on and off. God bless used bookstores. God bless this used bookstore, which is like my heaven, but surrounded by used car lots, a QuickTrip, and numerous homeless people idling near the entrance.

Saint Peter, with filthy clothes and hair that resembles the electricity in a plasma ball, approaches me.

He mumbles something.

"What's that?" I ask, "Oh no, I can't spare any change, sorry. Only carry plastic."

I just lied to Saint Peter in front of the gates of heaven. He mumbles incoherently and all I can understand are the words "jack" and "car". I smile. What a silly man, he must have my mixed up me with someone else—my name isn't even Jack. But it's too late to correct him as he meanders slowly in the general direction of my car.

No time for wasting time though. I continue walking and thank god, the pearly white gates open for me and I enter heaven. It smells a little funny—an odd mix of really old books, people who don't shower regularly, and mold. Can't say that it's entirely unpleasant though.

In my hands is a stack of my mom's books that I'm going to trade in. They are mostly trashy romance novels and atrociously written novellas that she probably purchased for .99 cents while waiting in the supermarket line. There's also a Sandra Day O'Connor memoir. Normally I'd be embarrassed to be hauling these around, but eh, I'm at a used bookstore that often caters to Dungeon and Dragons tournaments (obligatory: not that there's anything wrong with that).

Earlier that day, thanks to many montages of me intensely reading, I had finally caught up with all the books I had. The feeling that I experience when finishing all the books in my possession is similar to a runner finishing a 26 mile marathon, except I'm not all sweaty and close to death. At the end the runners get to relax, drink water, and call their wife/husband/loved one to exclaim, "I did it honey!" Instead of that, I go shopping for more books.

And shopping for books is something I have gotten better and better at. I immediately go to the hot spots in Bookman's that I have memorized to see if they have anything from authors I consistently check for. Matt Ruff? No. Orwell? No. Klosterman? No. Austen? No—thank god. At this point I am fearing that my great Sunday night solo bookstore trip might be futile. But no—Yes! Something useful: The Time Traveler's Wife. Wait, no, I already have that book. I just finished reading it. There's no reason to buy another copy of a book I already have. Not falling for that trick again.

I am disappointed and my eyes are locked onto the credit receipt I got for the trashy books. "$23" it tells me. But what value are you really when all I can use you for is the purchase of Tom Clancy and Michael Crichton novels? Worthless!

Regaining my composure, I continue my treasure hunt through the nauseatingly colorful bookshelves. Around me are mostly 30-something mothers who look depressed and have to come to Bookman's of all places to escape whatever meager existence they usually occupy. But no time to reflect on the misery of life, I've got literature to find god dammit.

It takes time, but eventually I do find gold. It comes in the form of Nabokov, Kafka, and Virgil. Nabokov's Pale Fire is only eight dollars, and in excellent condition so my obsessiveness about the condition of books need not become inflamed. The Kafka book is a huge collection of his short stories and I figured that it's about time to finally read The Aeneid.

Eventually I find myself in the history section. It is devoid of people and I'm not too surprised. The few who do maneuver themselves into this area, unfortunately, are mostly lost but looking for Hubbard's Dianetics. It's in the religion section which is on the opposite side of the history bookcase. My eye comes across a history book that might be of some use to me. J.M. Roberts' large History of the World. I figure that I'm a history major so I should probably learn a bit of history. Unfortunately with this addition, I have overshot my $23 limit. Damn. Nabokov has to go. But don't worry you Russian bastard, I'll come back for you sometime.

The store will be closing soon and I checkout, completely content with myself. I have found glory and treasure at the bookstore tonight. Tonight was good. Perhaps I won't be so lucky on my next literature purchasing odyssey, but for now I cherish my luck. The guy wearing a skirt rings up my books. I exit through the pearly and automatic gates.

Hm. Where is my car? I could've sworn I parked it here.