It was Tuesday, and everyone knows that Tuesday is a great day to buy books. I am what some would call a bookworm, others would just say I have a rare form of LOCD, literary obsessive compulsive disorder. By my own account, I am a collector. My house is my evidence; it is full of books. I own fifteen four-shelf bookcases. My coffee table is made of books and an old door; in fact, the majority of my furniture is made of books. My bathtub... is not made of books, but is surrounded by them. My house smells like a library, you know the smell, that deep musk that resounds through your olfactory. I think history must smell just like an old book.
There are fifteen bookstores that I frequent and the owner of each knows my name, and each understands my obsession. Maybe they take comfort in knowing someone else who has the physical toe tingling need to immerse themselves in books, or maybe they like knowing someone else who would rather live a lifetime of generic brand mac and cheese in order that they might someday own the entire Hardy Boy series. Once I had a dream that I had a swimming pool, and the pool was filled with books. I'm not sure what that means other than I really like books.
On this particular Tuesday I am wearing a pair of butch snake skin pants and a low cut white femmey t-shirt. I notice that I feel particularly college-like with my Starbucks filled mug and black stocking cap which I tuck in my backpack as I enter "Tequila Mockingbird," a bar slash book store. The two eternal college greats come together in an old, tined ceiling, ancient woodworked building. The smell in this store is unlike any other I know; its a mixture of stale beer and old paper.
"Joe," I say, acknowledging the burly man who acted as bouncer and identification checker. I couldn't come to this store legally until this last summer. I think I am the only person that has gotten a fake to buy a copy of Moby Dick.
"Honey," he says, tipping his imaginary hat over his bald head. He motions his large arms toward the glass door, I don't really have to show my ID here anymore. I push open the door.
A Jane Monheit song drifts through the store and I begin my search to the sway of the soft jazz. The bottom level of the store is deserted except for a girl with pink hair arranging a display of magazines. In my book travels, I always start in the back and work my way to the front, and just for the record, this also happens to be my technique for seducing women. I seduced my current girlfriend, who is nothing short of a walking miracle on two lesbian legs, with this very technique.
Mockingbird's building is located in an industrial area of Chicago and my mind drifts between the makeshift wooden and cinder block shelves inside to the faint sound of steel on steel outside. I run my fingers along the bindings, the rough skins leave dust tracks on my tips. There are picture frames and bumper stickers interspersed between the droves of Woolf, Kafka, and Wolfe. During the next hour, I browse my way shelf by shelf, aisle by aisle, through the fiction to the non to the poetry to the miscellaneous. I am careful, but not so careful that I won't be able to enjoy my next trip to this store.
I harvest four books from the field of golden shelves and then make my ceremonial walk up the dark stained wooden stairs to begin reading Venus Envy, a homoerotic gods and goddesses story set in the South.
As I ascend, I immediately see a man and a bin, the bin and the man's arms are both full of books, the bin is new, the man is not. I notice four important things. First, he looks about forty, and second, his socks do not match. Third, I see the beginning of a comb over start to happen, and most importantly, I am attracted to him. He is wearing a loose sweater over a white t-shirt, some kind of khaki pants that are just a smidgen too short, bottomed off with a horrible pair of brown shoes. And I'm just guessing here, but those shoes look older than I am.
By definition, I am a big dyke, even my grandmother knows. But by trade, I am a flaming bisexual. I am rarely attracted to the men folk, but when I am, I tend to make an attempt to pay attention to the attraction, ugly shoes and all.
I lay my books down on an emerald circa 1963 couch and go to him, to the bin. I smell his coffee and musk as the music turns to some indie rock sounding guitar riff.
"If you see a Catch-22, let me know," he says, not looking up.
I nod, fall in love, and begin to dig into the mounds of books, bending over so my cleavage is obviously visible, because I'm not above using this womanly power. I cough loudly when he still doesn't look up.
He laughs with me. "Did you want me to ask you something?"
I tell him my name as I fall farther in love.
"Molly dear, I'm Kirk," he says.
"What's your real name Kirk?" I joke.
