Spells at the Bookstore

          It’s become obvious that I’m attracted to old things. Not old people or objects that were made to look vintage, but actual old things, things from a time before my own.  There is a bookstore down the street, too far to walk but close enough to ride to, although I haven’t rode a bike in ten years.   The bookstore’s name is “BOOKMAN” and it sells used books, much of which are older than me. Used books are always better than new ones, they offer just a little more history than the book itself, and even though I will never know what the history is, it comforts me somehow. The same way walking down the hallway of countless words comforts me, knowing I am inches away from a different world.  It’s as if every book has been tucked in to bed, covered with a blanket of dust. I sometimes imagine myself sleeping with the books, just another author waiting to be woken up by delicate fingers. I imagine a strange girl gently pulling me from bed and stroking my back, waiting to hear the right words for her to give me a chance. I have never slept on a shelf.  But I do sit on the cheap carpet and let my eyes wander side to side, up and down, tilting my head so I can read titles. 

Carmen never seems to mind me sitting.  Carmen is the witch that works there. I’m not sure if she knows who I am, but I know her probably too well considering the short amount of words we have exchanged.  She used to date another witch that I know in town, Ac. He works at the little corner store and gives me hugs that are a little too tight for our age difference.  He always kept my dad in the store too long while I waited in the car, he rubbed oils on my dad’s hands and promised changes in his financial situation.  The hugs started when my dad left.  Anyway, Ac had a website with Carmen when they were together that sold witchcraft supplies and other little trinkets. He let me post my hemp jewelry on the site. Nothing ever sold.  My grandma got mad at me for associating with witches, but it’s hard not to living in this town. As much of a recluse as I am, I still talk to people here, only older ones though, the young kids all think they are the next messiah and shoot up heroin behind the stage in the park.  I try to scan the ground that’s ahead of my dog when I walk him at night.

          The bookstore has a cat that is there when Carmen is.  The cat is normally very shy, but one day while I was sitting it pranced up to me and flopped over on its back for a good ten minutes while I stroked it. It didn’t mind when I got too focused on mouthing titles that my hand stopped. It just laid there.  It’s a grey cat, not black, just to help deter that old stereotype. But this was a strange thing considering how shy the cat is. I secretly wondered if Carmen had transformed, or had some sort of spell to cast on the cat.  Some people say that cats can tell the nature of one’s soul, I think most people can too, and the ones who can’t are the ones who own cats. Grey cat or not, the bookstore is full of magic.

          As I walk in I feel transformed, like I’m on some sort of laughing gas high. I move slowly and peacefully, taking my time when I was rushing outside only minutes ago. The books send out little messages to my subconscious; “Read me because I am dull in color and therefore older” “Read me because your classmates used to argue over the true meaning of my last pages” I pick up every one that speaks to me. But the ones that speak to me most are old.  That is why I am so drawn to used bookstores, there are old books there, and old books have the old book smell. A smell I grew up on and quickly learned to respect.  I remember the first time I smelled it.  I walked into a room to see my dad with his nose in a book and his eyes shut. I must have been about four years old and said “What are you doing?” He just told me to come over and gave me the book and said “Smell it.” He said it with this wonder in his eyes as if he was giving me a gift to unwrap.  So I tried to do it like he did, with my eyes shut I held the book to my face and focused only on the pages in between the cover. I inhaled, and have been hooked ever since.

          I have asked for a job at the BOOKMAN a number of times throughout the years, but they are never doing well enough to hire. So once I asked if I could work for a discount on books, and even that was shut down just as fast as the idea came to my mind. Even though I don’t get paid, sometimes I just organize the books as I search. They have shelves that lay bin-like on tables that are filled with books for a dollar. They are always in messy, over stacked piles, so I just tidy them up as much as I can before I get antsy and go over to my spot, LITERATURE. That’s where all the oldest, best books are. And POETRY is right next to it, sometimes my eyes wander over just enough to see a copy of something in poetry, and my hands follow. This is dangerous because once my hands follow, my debit card is not far behind. And that gets swiped without me realizing the total, and ends with me not asking for a bag and balancing, sometimes seven, books out to my car. My keys jingle as I walk up my red cement steps to my front door and when inside my dog quickly knocks them over in his excitement, and cowers when they hit the floor like mad ghosts. The books lay on my shelf or cradled in hands until I am once again back in the BOOKMAN trying to remember authors that old professors spoke of.