The Book Sale

So, you can understand what I'm feeling, I'm giving you an essay I wrote about the book sale a few years ago. Enjoy.


The Book Sale:

I look at the other people in line. All are holding bags, including me. We warily eye one another. If there’s a fight—I want them to know I’ll win.

There’s some sort of system in place, but it’s badly done. A man, obviously in some authoritative position, is walking around asking who was here first. Why is he asking? Doesn’t he know people lie? After they answer (to my relief—the lies are minimal), he hands them a piece of paper with a number. He checks their name on the list to make sure their dues are paid, and moves on. He reaches me. I speak honestly (even though it was hard). He hands me my number, 17, and checks my name off (my dues are always paid).

It’s almost time. I check my clock again. The old ladies are positioned carefully at their table. They pull out the cash drawer, and then look at the man. The man, almost finished with the line, doesn’t realize the ladies are waiting for his approval. But I realize it. Finally he turns and sees the ladies watching him. He asks, “Are you waiting for me?” “Idiot,” I think. The ladies smile and tell him to take his time. He redeems himself by saying, “No. Let them go in.” One lady moves from behind the table and opens the door. I think the first person gives her time to move out of the way before he rushes in. I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t care.

I check the corners for boxes—that’s where they hide the series. Series are always my best buys. I don’t see any this year. I have no time for regret—I must move on.

I move to the fiction room. At first glance, all I see is books. No time for happiness, I store the image, and move on. My goal is to look at all the books in this room. I start systematically, looking at the books on the table and then moving to the ones under the table. I look this time for titles I recognize. There is no time for books I might like to read. I grab some hardcover Christie, Orwell, Fitzgerald, Wharton, Hemingway, and others—so far, so good.

After the fiction room, I head to the old book table. It’s shoved against the wall. I take more time with the old books. I look at the inscriptions, the publishing dates, enjoy the smell—and then move on. I take with me beautiful copies of Dante’s Inferno, Plato’s Republic, and Eliot’s Silas Marner.

The nonfiction, cooking, textbooks, religious, humor, biographies, computers, and travel tables all receive quick perusals. The books presented on these tables are overwhelming, but I follow the same system. I’m ready to move on. I’ve got C.S. Lewis, Mailer, and Betty Crocker.

Next, it’s the romance room. Mystery, western, science fiction, and the books on the strange middle table join Harlequin and Silhouette—it’s not a comfortable relationship.

The mystery table is a strange conglomeration. Agatha Christie and John Grisham are lying next to each other. V.C. Andrews threatens to overpower the table, and is that Nora Roberts? I pick through these carefully. I look at every Agatha Christie and if I know I own it or it’s in worse condition than the copy I already own—then I leave it alone. The overpowering V.C. Andrews constituency and I have an understanding—they leave me alone and I return the favor. I leave with Christie, Chekhov, Du Maurier, and King.

I look quickly at science fiction. Last time, I found Alistair MacLean there, and the time before that, Oscar Wilde. I give the westerns a passing glance. I once found Tarzan comic books there. Today, I find Thornton Wilder.

Then, I move to the strange middle table. The table bridges the gap between romance and all the other tables. Because of its unique positioning, it includes romance, mystery, self-help, and for some reason multiple copies of James Herriot. I grab How to Marry the Rich, a book of Tennessee Williams’s plays, Are You a Conservative or a Liberal, and Graham Greene.

Next, I go to the children’s room. I look carefully in here. All the books look worn, but in the past, I have found treasures. I take my time. I leave with three hardcover Dr. Seuss’s and a hardcover Stuart Little.

Then, it’s the last round. I walk through everything again. I add more books. On my way to the old ladies with the cash register, I cast a look at the two remaining tables. These two tables sit outside the entrance, and their piles are too confusing for any name. Their unknown lineage, however, doesn’t stop them from being incredible. I grab The Book of Virtues, Ordinary People, All the King’s Men, Danny Dunn on a Desert Island, and Their Eyes Were Watching God.

The ladies can barely count and they forget what the stated prices are for the books—I helpfully remind them. They make an obligatory comment on the number of my books—I make an obligatory smile. They want to know if I have room for all of the books—I assure them I do.

I don’t.