In January there was another reason for my scaling that modest snowy hillock, laying tennis racket tear-drop tracks behind me. The day before I had received a letter—paper stained with ink, canceled stamp, the whole lot—from a person living their days somewhere in one of those hills rolling east. Not far. I looked up the address on the map—but six or seven miles distant. His name was Gronigen and he said he remembered meeting me at the booksale in November, and inquired about a few volumes in my store. Included was a signed blank check, a map to his house, and a hope that I could deliver the books by foot or sled or bicycle and so “not pander to petroleum.”
It got me thinking.
I thought of the last library booksale I attended. It was in November and the weather had not yet been challenged by hoarfrost. This particular sale was held in a fire station. It was a sunny day, the air—in the sun, out of the wind—was mild, and the fire trucks were parked in front, glistening red, as though at the ready for any sudden conflagration from the paperbacks inside. The firemen were suited up like yellow astronauts—maybe to stay warm, I don’t know. Inside its cavernous walls were rows of tables on which spread lines of books, spines up. Echoes abounded.
Now I always feel slightly unclean at these sales, I am sheepish about accepting my trade as a book “dealer,” setting myself up in life as a middleman muddleman. And anyway I have so many colleagues who give the trade a bad name. Scanners, anyone? At this sale, as always, I endeavored to make myself inconspicuous, poking around and humming with the glow of a genuine book lover. Because I am. Technology has devolved our trade into pure widgetry, but I still relish the feel of a good book. Well made, beautiful binding, perhaps charming illustrations, or simply a writing that boasts of actually contributing something to the world.
But thanks to bar codes and satellites and scanners, the dim-witted mercenaries—usually overweight, usually nearsighted—who aim only to make a dollar—and a tattered dirty one at that—can sweep through a sale, shooting their red lasers against the zebra stripes, and part the valuable from the dross in no time.
Scan me a river—I’d rather be a bipedalling poverty-picketed bookseller. And I am.
At this sale the scanning booksellers were doing their disco thing, blinding us all with their laser show, but I kept my head down and found some interesting older volumes, mostly in the world history section. After an hour I was fatigued of book titles and so, content with my bounty of two tote bags, I paid my fare and lumbered out to my bicycle to make the six-mile journey home.
As I was about to straddle my bike, I heard a voice behind me.
“Ever race the Amish on that thing?”
Standing with his own totebag of books was a kindly faced gentleman, a slender fellow fortyish with unruly graying hair. Confident and intense was his posture, and overall I would say he had about him the look of a recovering hippie.
“I am the Amish,” I replied with a smile.
He tossed his head back, unbewildered. “Ah, yes. I bet you are. That helmet of yours gives you away. You know, I once raced the Amish down an empty lane…” He gazed into the distance, trying to see to the end of that very lane, perhaps to recall who won. Giving up, he declared, “They are not to be fooled with.”
“I believe you.”
By this time he was heading for his own bicycle, and I was mortally afraid he would be going my direction. Riding two abreast with a stranger down a state highway was not a prospect I relished.
Surveying my bags, he asked of the books: “Do you read them or sell them?”
Weighing the karma of my response, I decided against lying. “Both,” I said.
“Ah! I’m glad. So many here, you tell they only do the latter. Seems a sorry way to earn beer money.”
“And you…?” I asked, hoping he might have an equal confession.
“Oh, no, these are just for the library—our library—that’s all. Heading south?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my journey home takes me to the Swamp Oaks. Farewell!”
And that is how it started. Happenstance, and then a sudden letter. Soon I found myself—midwinter—lumbering along a salt-stained country road in search of a man who sent me a signed blank check. It was a sunny cold January day, clouds parting everywhere, and the last mile was all uphill. I had no idea what would follow.
