In Laymon's Terms

It was winter, land of snowballs and plows. Cold like an ice cube against a bad tooth. It was white, pristine snow, the LSD colors of gaudy Christmas decorations painting the sidewalk in an on-off spill of snow paint.

All the other children had sugarplums in their dreams. For Charlie, there were only the books, the store, and an old wooden stool. He breezed through the door like he owned the place, removing his hat and stuffing it in his back pocket so as not to lose it.

“Good afternoon, young Charles,” Mr. Standish said with a smile. He tilted back his head, peering through those half-glasses and chuckling. “And what have you for me today?”

Charlie fished through his pockets, his mouth curling and puckering, betraying the sorry state of his financial affairs. “Two pennies and an old fuzzy gumdrop.” He held forth one open hand, proffering his treasures to the bookseller.

“The pennies I’ll take. But I think I’ll pass on the gumdrop, if it’s all the same to you.”

Charlie dropped the pennies into the man’s pudgy hand, checked his blue eyes for a hint of surprise, then pocketed his hands once more. “Anything new?”

“Nothing new here, Charlie. Only old books.”

With a sage nod, Charlie turned and rushed toward the back of the store.

He doubted that Mr. Standish cared much for his book rental fees. In Charlie’s mind, the old man probably just wanted to gauge how important the reading of such books was to Charlie. Either way, it worked out just fine for Charlie. He got to read his pick of the books and all it ever cost him was the price of whatever happened to be in his pockets at the time.

To Charlie, those books were his life.

The bookstore was lined with heavy shelves. They climbed the walls to twice Charlie’s height, so loaded with books that it made the walls appear to tilt inward. They were neatly arranged according to author and subject, just like the library in Charlie’s school. But this was more than a library, more than a bookstore. For Charlie, the store had life in it, the same as the characters in those musty old books.

He shored up his stool with one sneaker and scanned the rows of books. In the back, away from everything else, were the adventure books. Those were what young Charlie favored. While other boys toyed with piano lessons or tossing balls about, Charlie fought pirates and slayed dragons. Occasionally, he rescued a maiden, though he wasn’t exactly sure just what that entailed.

Charlie stood on tiptoe, reaching for that tattered old copy of Robin Hood until his fingertips finally brushed the spine. It was no use. He was too short.

Thunk!

On the same row, some three shelves down, a book fell to the floor, landed face-up, and pointed toward him. Charlie froze. He listened for the sounds of Mr. Standish’s approach, feared that he would be kicked out for being rough with the books.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Standish. It just slipped.” A pathetic pre-emptive strike to be sure. But it was the best he could do.

Charlie walked over to retrieve the book and put it in its rightful place. As he bent, another book fell from grace and landed flat on the floor.

Shit! Charlie thought, as he hurried to retrieve that book also.

“Is everything all right back there, Charlie?”

His heart pounded now, fearing the worst. “I’m sorry, Mr. Standish. I don’t know what’s wrong. They just keep...falling.”

He held his breath after that, awaiting the inevitable. As quickly as he could, he gathered the books in his arms. But as he gathered, more books fell.

He stood straight up, skinny-kid arms laden with books. And there was Mr. Standish, his fat arms folded over his chest, lips pressed into service as a scowl.

Bambi caught in headlights, Charlie froze.

“So, she talks to you, too, hm?”

Charlie blinked. “Who does?” He moistened his lips and began to count slowly to ten, trying to calm himself and bleed the crimson from his face.

“Why, the store, of course.” Mr. Standish approached, placing one beefy hand on Charlie’s shoulder. The weight of it was enough to throw him off kilter, nearly making him drop the books. “She talks to me, too, my boy. But I’ve never known her to talk to anyone else.”

Charlie swallowed hard, wanting more than anything to sit down before his legs gave out. “How can a store talk, Mr. Standish?”

“Oh, I know! You think I’m off my medication or something. I assure you, this store does talk...to those who will listen.” He smiled then, the first truly warm, friendly gesture Charlie had ever seen from the man. “Here. I’ll show you.”

Mr. Standish took the books from Charlie and sat down on the floor. The effort of it made him huff and grunt. Charlie slid down across from him, sitting cross-legged and leaning on his jean-clad knees.

“Now, do you remember which book fell first?” Charlie’s finger darted out to indicate the blue one. “Fine then. First book, first word of the title. Please.”

“Please, what?” Charlie flashed a look of wide-eyed innocence at Mr. Standish and blinked.

“Which was next? This one?”