Bookstore (revised)

I handed the girl my books and my discount card. She looked the titles over as she rang them up–a bit too much attention for my taste. Then, yes, a remark; I was tuned to its inevitability and tightened up a bit. I don’t remember it exactly: “I love this one. Jane Eee-ree. Have you read it?” My discomfort was then instantly doubled, and I choked out something like: “It’s on my daughter’s summer reading list.” She made another comment as she handed me my receipt, but I had withdrawn my attention at that point, and her curious speech patterns had garbled it anyway. I was dizzy with awkwardness. Was it a response? Something new? Taking it further? I smiled and offered a placating nod as I headed for the door.

O the thoughts I had. O the comments I formulated. O the irony I mustered. And of course it was a chain store, a floating ship of corporate mega-death. And so on.

It’s been three days and I can’t forget her smile. It was ceaseless, endless. It was present, fixed, from the moment I saw her see me approach the counter. It was, to use the formerly fashionable post-structuralist phrasing, “always already there.” And it was obscenely authentic. Not polite. Not professional. Joyous. She seemed happy to be there doing what she was doing. Happy helping me. Happy to talk with a stranger about books.

She loved Jane Eee-ree. I have no way of knowing what reading is for her. Because, for one thing, I didn’t ask her, even though I had the opportunity. She spoke of love. I offered distracting excuses for being there. Something about her radiated a truth about bookstores and why people read and why reading is a way to love. I’m the one who wanted the corporate exchange: just give me my empty abstract product and leave me alone.

I told myself she was in some way a “special needs” person, as if I needed to give myself a satisfying and condescending explanation of why I was so uncomfortable. But, really, after three days to think about it, I’ve stopped plugging up my feeling with that kind of explanation. She was memorable. Fiercly memorable. I can’t forget her smile. Her profession of love. Her Jane Eee-ree. And as my misery wells up I tell myself other things. I can’t leave it alone. I know she is too happy with what she does and with her Jane Eee-ree to ever start wars, cheat people out of their money, snub, back-bite, hold a grudge. A philosopher and sage had the good sense to hire her for that job. On and on I go with the things I tell myself. I know I’m still being condescending, but guilt does that. Not really fair to her. Truth be told, all I really know is what she told me: she loves Jane Eee-ree. That prompts me to offer one last truth: I have never actually read Jane Eee-ree.

Bookstore

I handed the girl my books and my discount card.  She looked the titles over as she rang them up–a bit too much attention for my taste.  Then, yes, a remark; I was tuned to its inevitability and tightened up a bit.  I don’t remember it exactly:  “I love this one.  Jane Aye–ree.  Have you read it?”  My discomfort was then instantly doubled, and I choked out something like:  “It’s on my daughter’s summer reading list.”  She made another  comment as she handed me my receipt, but I had withdrawn my attention at that point, and her curious speech patterns had garbled it anyway.  I was dizzy with awkwardness.  Was it a response?  Something new?  Taking it further?  I smiled and offered a placating nod as I headed for the door.

O the thoughts I had.  O the comments I formulated.  O the irony I mustered.  And of course it was a chain store, a floating ship of corporate mega-death.  And so on.

It’s been three days and I can’t forget her smile.  It was ceaseless, endless.  It was present, fixed, from the moment I saw her see me approach the counter.  It was, to use the formerly fashionable post-structuralist phrasing, “always already there.”  And it was obscenely authentic.  Not polite.  Not professional.  Joyous.  She seemed happy to be there doing what she was doing.  Happy helping me.  Happy to talk with a stranger about books.

She loved Jane Aye-ree.  I have no way of knowing what reading is for her.  Because, for one thing, I didn’t ask her, even though I had the opportunity.  She spoke of love.  I offered distracting excuses for being there.  Something about her radiated a truth about bookstores and why people read and why reading is a way to love. I’m the one who wanted the corporate exchange:  just give me my empty abstract product and leave me alone.

I told myself she was in some way “special,”  as if I needed to give myself a satisfying and condescending explanation of why I was so uncomfortable.  But, really, with three days to think about it, I now tell myself she was not so much special as memorable.  I can’t forget her smile.  Her profession of love.  Her Jane Aye-ree.  And as my misery wells up I tell myself other things.  I can’t leave it alone.  I know she is too happy with what she does and with her Jane Aye-ree to ever start wars, cheat people out of their money, snub, back-bite, hold a grudge.  A philosopher and sage had the good sense to hire her for that job.  On and on I go with the things I tell myself.  I know I’m still being condescending,  but guilt does that.  Not really fair to her. Truth be told,  all I really know is what she told me:  she loves Jane Aye-ree.  That prompts me to offer one last truth:  I have never actually read Jane Aye-ree.

L.09.1: Coweta Cocktail Tales

Jason Jr. got real restless about 9:30 and told Pam to get her fat ass off the couch and put on some clothes and go to Palmetto and buy him a pint of Jack.  Pam wanted to know why he couldn”t drive his own damn self over to Palmetto and Jason Jr. said he was having the blurred vision and didn”t trust his driving.  Pam just sat there laughing and Jason Jr. said he bet Pam would be happy if he was out and hit a power pole like his cousin Paul.  Jason Jr. is supposed to take pills for the blurred vision and the shakes but he always forgets and says they don”t work anyway.  Pam says Paul would have been just fine if he had been wearing seat belts and had his damn sub-woofer turned down.  Jason Jr. tells Pam her family is pretty messed up and she doesn”t have the right to preach.  Pam says she can”t go out anyway because she has to feed Carl and Carl”s going to wake up in five minutes.  Jason Jr. says he”ll feed Carl and Pam can stop making dumb excuses because she”s too lazy to even put a robe on and get to Palmetto before ten.  She can buy herself some more cigarettes if she needs a more important reason to go.  Pam pulls on some shorts lying on the coffee table and nothing else.  The loose thing she”s wearing up top doesn”t look good but Jason Jr. looks at me like I”m supposed to like it and grins. Pam talks about how it”s important to heat up the jar for 15 seconds as she lights up a cigarette and steps out.  First thing Jason Jr. does when Pam”s gone is reach under the seat of his chair and pull out a half empty pint of Jack.  He gets a big grin and tells me to come with him outside.  We”re outside and right on cue we hear Carl waking up and starting to cry back inside the trailer.  Jason Jr. kneels down and crawls under and pulls some bits of tarp and cloth around and pulls out a plastic Kroger bag. He giggles and says he can”t do this kind of shit when Pam”s at home and I follow him with his bag back inside.  Inside the bag is a whole lot of money and a jar of something he calls his special solution.  He picks up Carl who hasn”t stopped squalling since he woke up and sets him down in his feeding chair and buckles him in.  Kid”s still squalling.  Jason Jr. rubs casino online his hands together like he does when he”s working out in the shed and opens a jar of baby food and his pint of Jack and the jar of special solution.  I ask Jason Jr. why he keeps the jar hid just like all the stuff he uses when he”s working out in the shed.  He says he mixed it up in the shed using his supplies so it”s not something he”d be happy if it got found.  He puts the baby food in the microwave. With this stuff he”s going to mix up with the food he says he can get Carl to shut up and sleep for twelve hours straight.   Just then a thought occurs to me but before I can speak it there”s a loud roaring noise and the whole trailer shakes.  Jason Jr. gets real agitated and runs outside and comes back in and before I ask anything he slaps me real hard and I fall backwards on top of Carl in his chair.  He calls me a stupid shit and the microwave rings.  Carl”s stuck in his chair lying on his side.  He arm is twisted in a funny way.  He”s screaming.  Jason Jr. calls me a big stupid baby and dumps the stuff in the baby food jar all over my face.  Then he throws his pint of Jack and it hits me over the left eye.  He”s yelling at me about finding a fire extinguisher.  Carl and I are both crying with peas and Jack and blood on our faces.  When Jason Jr. started heating the baby food I was going to tell him I still had stuff cooking in the shed and the generator might do funny things if he ran the microwave. I should have said something sooner.   There”s a funny taste in my mouth.

It”s called Exploding Meth Lab.  You have to use green peas.

QED

I have essentialized the terms for our most recent field of discussion.  Should we resume it, this should help tremendously.  I’ll spare you the pages of laborious proofs and transformations–silly technical stuff, really–and simply render the result:

&?