unmended or were replaced by plywood sheets. Trash piled up in alleys and even on the sidewalks in front of some stores. Cars were abandoned at the curb, to be slowly picked to pieces by scavengers, and the brick buildings themselves seemed to sag with age, as though, like old people or old rats, they had lost the will to hold themselves erect. Rats moved into the cars, building cozy burrows in the seats.
Now and then I bumped into one of the old bunch out there. They too had changed a lot since setting out on their own. Hollow-cheeked and furtive, long bodies and hanging bellies, they were unpleasant-looking characters - to the point where I almost didn’t recognize them. They usually liked pretending they didn’t know me either. They were always frantic to get someplace or other - chasing rumors of easy grub or running from the Man - but occasionally one of them would stop to bat the breeze, give me the news and maybe a tip about where I could scarf up some supper. The tips were usually false, designed to send me off in the wrong direction. Deep down they had not changed much - in their eyes I was still a prize chump. It was through one of those chance encounters that I found out Peewee had been killed, run over by a taxi the night before. I stood with Shunt on the sidewalk while he pointed out a patch of fur in the middle of Cambridge Street, like a little rug. Though Peewee had never shown me the slightest consideration, it was unnerving to see him like that. In my mind, I posted next to his name the words RIDICULOUS and LIFE.
And what did I post next to my own name? When I was in the dumps, I posted GROTESQUE CLOWN and even RAT, but when I was up - which was often the case back then - I posted BUSINESSMAN. My business was books - consumption and exchange. I hung out in the Balloon and the Balcony and studied the trade. I leaned over the edge of the Balloon, in constant peril of falling, and read the morning paper over Norman’s shoulder. At times, when he placed his coffee cup just so, I could see my own reflection in the dark water - not an appetizing sight at breakfast time. Norman was a real reader too. He would feel about on the desk for his cup like a blind man, find it, grasp it, and raise it to his lips without ever taking his eyes off the newspaper. The aroma of coffee floated up and hung around the ceiling. I loved that smell, though it would be a long time before I actually tasted coffee.
A man in a bar once asked me what books taste like ‘in an average sort of way.’ I had a ready answer, but in order not to make him feel completely stupid, I pretended to ponder the question for a while before saying, ‘My friend, given the chasm that separates all your experiences from all of mine, I can bring you no closer to that singular savor than by saying that books, in an average sort of way, taste the way coffee smells.’ This was a mouthful, and I could tell by the way he returned to his drink that I had given him plenty to think about. Now that I am alone again, I don’t ever smell coffee anymore, which is one more nice thing gone from my life.
After the morning paper, I would eavesdrop on Norman’s dealings with his customers. Many - perhaps most - were true readers hoping to buy a few good books cheap. If they had not come in with a title on their lips or if their browsing seemed unfocused and vague, Norman was sure to notice, and he always knew how to steer them in the right direction. He was a real Sherlock Holmes when it came to the divination of character from outward appearances. He could tell at a glance - from their dress, their accents, their haircuts, even their gaits - the kind of books they liked, and he never made a mistake, never handed Peyton Place to someone who would have been happier with Doctor Zhivago . Nor vice versa - Norman Shine was not a snob. He was short and big-bottomed. He had a broad face - it seemed to be wider than it was long - and a very small mouth,
Now and then I bumped into one of the old bunch out there. They too had changed a lot since setting out on their own. Hollow-cheeked and furtive, long bodies and hanging bellies, they were unpleasant-looking characters - to the point where I almost didn’t recognize them. They usually liked pretending they didn’t know me either. They were always frantic to get someplace or other - chasing rumors of easy grub or running from the Man - but occasionally one of them would stop to bat the breeze, give me the news and maybe a tip about where I could scarf up some supper. The tips were usually false, designed to send me off in the wrong direction. Deep down they had not changed much - in their eyes I was still a prize chump. It was through one of those chance encounters that I found out Peewee had been killed, run over by a taxi the night before. I stood with Shunt on the sidewalk while he pointed out a patch of fur in the middle of Cambridge Street, like a little rug. Though Peewee had never shown me the slightest consideration, it was unnerving to see him like that. In my mind, I posted next to his name the words RIDICULOUS and LIFE.
And what did I post next to my own name? When I was in the dumps, I posted GROTESQUE CLOWN and even RAT, but when I was up - which was often the case back then - I posted BUSINESSMAN. My business was books - consumption and exchange. I hung out in the Balloon and the Balcony and studied the trade. I leaned over the edge of the Balloon, in constant peril of falling, and read the morning paper over Norman’s shoulder. At times, when he placed his coffee cup just so, I could see my own reflection in the dark water - not an appetizing sight at breakfast time. Norman was a real reader too. He would feel about on the desk for his cup like a blind man, find it, grasp it, and raise it to his lips without ever taking his eyes off the newspaper. The aroma of coffee floated up and hung around the ceiling. I loved that smell, though it would be a long time before I actually tasted coffee.
A man in a bar once asked me what books taste like ‘in an average sort of way.’ I had a ready answer, but in order not to make him feel completely stupid, I pretended to ponder the question for a while before saying, ‘My friend, given the chasm that separates all your experiences from all of mine, I can bring you no closer to that singular savor than by saying that books, in an average sort of way, taste the way coffee smells.’ This was a mouthful, and I could tell by the way he returned to his drink that I had given him plenty to think about. Now that I am alone again, I don’t ever smell coffee anymore, which is one more nice thing gone from my life.
After the morning paper, I would eavesdrop on Norman’s dealings with his customers. Many - perhaps most - were true readers hoping to buy a few good books cheap. If they had not come in with a title on their lips or if their browsing seemed unfocused and vague, Norman was sure to notice, and he always knew how to steer them in the right direction. He was a real Sherlock Holmes when it came to the divination of character from outward appearances. He could tell at a glance - from their dress, their accents, their haircuts, even their gaits - the kind of books they liked, and he never made a mistake, never handed Peyton Place to someone who would have been happier with Doctor Zhivago . Nor vice versa - Norman Shine was not a snob. He was short and big-bottomed. He had a broad face - it seemed to be wider than it was long - and a very small mouth,
Similar Books
