The aisles could have chosen to be more depressing but they decided to show me an amount of mercy. They stood familiar, consistent; however a change could be felt. It was there in the carpet, slowing me. It could have been that my feet were savoring each step, knowing that they would not have this opportunity very long. It could have also been that the very fibers of the fabric where reaching out, begging for me to stay, begging for me to do something. Even if I wanted to move faster, even to escape, it would not have been possible with the melancholy that beset me. This grave feeling was also resting heavily on the shelves. They bowed despite being lighter than before. They were diminished, their burden lightened, and it was the sadness of this sight that cut me to the core. The cancer that had been eating away at this mall had befallen my bookstore. Its end was near and feeling of death was profound.
I trudged through the aisles as stoically as possible but there clung to the air a darkness that ravaged me. I could feel it in my brow, furrowed as I looked up at the neon pink and green signs that read “Store Closing-25-50% Off” and “All Sales Final.” My hands were jammed into my pockets as I looked at the titles still available. I knew them all, there was nothing new. I had been here many times before. The search for specifics was long past now. At those times I was looking for something particular I did come here. If they didn’t have it, well, they didn’t have it and you moved on. I know you could always special order books if you wanted them enough, though the internet has ruined that for us long ago.
I couldn’t help but blame myself, but to what accusation must I be held accountable for? I was far from the most loyal patron, purchasing few books throughout the years. I’m a poor stiff, working at slightly above the minimum wage. New books aren’t the cheapest form of entertainment offered. When written out this excuse sounds hollow, distant maybe. Maybe I don’t believe in it enough. But this is what happens when you grieve; you find ways to relieve the pain by any means necessary.
The guilt came from feeling like such a vulture. As I filled my arms with cheap books, an institution was dying around us. The rot was visible but we were too selfish to even see it. Was it that we were making the best out of a bad situation or had we been already circling the air, waiting to pick the bones clean. There’s nothing like a liquidation sale to bring out the inner savage in us all.
One hears of these kinds of things all the time; store closings, job loss, the falling value of our money and we’re somehow naïve enough to think it will never happen to us. When it does, we want to feel special, we want people to notice; more importantly we want pity from others. If you pay close attention to the news nowadays you’d probably conclude the world had burnt in hell long ago. We’re just waiting for the ash to blow away to see the sun long enough to light the way.
It is inevitable, I guess, to see the world shut down around you, especially when you live in a town as small as mine. We live by the ideal here and as great as that sounds it doesn’t make for a pleasant reality. No one really cares for other’s ideals or dreams. We only care to get what’s ours, or what we think is ours, and leave the scraps for the other guy. We want so desperately to be good and to make other’s lives good but we fail to realize how little good there is in the world to build from.
Instead of looking for titles that I wanted to own I looked for old favorites. I checked to see if there was any Rand. I tried to think how many copies of her books I’ve bought for people. I was hurt by the fact that there were still several McCarthy books available. An author like him should be the first to go, or so I thought. I glanced cautiously toward Sci-Fi/Fantasy and wondered why this store never carried any Phillip K. Dick. I even paused at the Japanese Manga realizing there would be none to judge in the first place.
I walked around, absorbing it all. Here was a place filled with memories but even now I have a hard time drawing anything concrete from them. They are mostly shards that connect to a larger whole. As a kid running past here to the toy store, when there still was a toy store. As a teenager spending countless hours between here and the music store. And as an adult finding that the entire establishment became a place to kill time in between other engagements. It used to seem so much larger but now it is so very small.
I must be honest; I was pretty pleased with the collection I had scoured. I held them protectively, excited to have them, excited to add them to my stack when I get home. I was eager to find more pickings that others decided to overlook. It was no surprise that the Classics section was picked clean, more or less. I looked down and found a diminutive copy of Nine Stories by J.D. Salinger. I held it and noted how small it was, that you can say so much in such few words. I flipped it over to look at the price. With the discount it amounted to just a few dollars. I could have bought it and it wouldn’t have made the slightest dent in my wallet. Then I heard the voice of Holden Caulfield as if he stood right behind me. He hurled his insults, calling me a phony. And this was the truth; I was a phony, the biggest one in the building. The only reason I was here was to suck the last life out of something that once brought me pleasure. I was a scavenger, I was cheap, I was a phony and I couldn’t bring myself to add this book to the others. I slowly put it back on the shelf, continuing to look at it, trying to stare it down but I had no resolve.
I took my shame to the counter and made my final purchase. I told the cashier that I didn’t need a bag, I thought they could use it for someone else. I gathered my things and she handed me my receipt, reminding me again that all sales were final. Then she looked straight into my eyes and said, “Thank you.” The way she had said it was different than the way you usually hear it from most cashiers. It seemed gracious, as if I was doing something worthy of thanks; that I helped to salvage an industry from utter ruin. The ship was going down, of that there was no doubt, just that now it would go down slow and without remorse; like dying in your sleep or drowning. Her words became a ghost that haunted me as I went to go. They gave me a feeling of redemption that filled me as I left. I was lighter now though I can’t remember if I smiled. I can’t even remember if I looked back.
*****
A week or so later I was in the mall again and passed by the bookstore. I noticed that the gate shut and the curtain was drawn. I stood close, hoping I could glance inside but this was futile. It all seemed so very far away, like I was looking directly into the past. Like the way you can see a memory in your head but to touch it would be impossible. It’s startling how fast things fade, how quickly we stop talking about them. This store, its day was dead. I hoped that this wouldn’t have to happen anymore here. I decided to move on, both literally and figuratively. I walked away for a second time.
Thank you Stacey, for the editing
