SCENE C
David is pacing slowly, deliberately around his apartment. Every once in a while he stoops down to examine a book. So far, today he has found three books stacked in the wrong piles. He moves them back to where they belong every time, and wonders each time how he could have made that mistake.
When David was younger, he used to go to libraries and bookstores and put the books just slightly out of order. He would switch Camus with Cather, Kant with King. David made mental notes of which authors and books they carried. He would submit anonymous requests for certain books each week in different handwritings. David checked up on the libraries and bookstores as often as he could, to see how long it would take them to fix their shelves or get new books. He went to four different bookstores and two libraries.
The libraries were both the same, the only people that seemed to work at them were older ladies whose children had finally gone off to college (or Los Angeles) and high school students. The selection of reading material was fine until David started looking for obscure novels, essays and authors. When he became frustrated at the lack of what he was looking for, he began his game.
Three of the stores were huge, corporate book-pounds. David always thought of really great books going there to die, be looked at, but ultimately, only the younger, trendier books would get homes at the end of the day. The store that he loved was a tiny store run by a peculiar old man that had messy grey hair. David would go there once a week and rearrange some of the books. Eventually the old man caught on to David. The man would follow him around the shop and put the books back immediately. After about a month or so of following David around, the old man offered him a job at his store. David accepted, and that was the end of his game.
David stops his pacing and decides that it’s time to go to bed. He thinks about how icy the sheets can get this time of year without someone else to help warm them. He moves his folded laundry off of his bed and puts it on top of his dresser. He takes off his shirt and belt and crawls under the covers. He shivers out of loneliness, fatigue, and cold. He closes his eyes and hopes to dream of nothing.
When David was younger, he used to go to libraries and bookstores and put the books just slightly out of order. He would switch Camus with Cather, Kant with King. David made mental notes of which authors and books they carried. He would submit anonymous requests for certain books each week in different handwritings. David checked up on the libraries and bookstores as often as he could, to see how long it would take them to fix their shelves or get new books. He went to four different bookstores and two libraries.
The libraries were both the same, the only people that seemed to work at them were older ladies whose children had finally gone off to college (or Los Angeles) and high school students. The selection of reading material was fine until David started looking for obscure novels, essays and authors. When he became frustrated at the lack of what he was looking for, he began his game.
Three of the stores were huge, corporate book-pounds. David always thought of really great books going there to die, be looked at, but ultimately, only the younger, trendier books would get homes at the end of the day. The store that he loved was a tiny store run by a peculiar old man that had messy grey hair. David would go there once a week and rearrange some of the books. Eventually the old man caught on to David. The man would follow him around the shop and put the books back immediately. After about a month or so of following David around, the old man offered him a job at his store. David accepted, and that was the end of his game.
David stops his pacing and decides that it’s time to go to bed. He thinks about how icy the sheets can get this time of year without someone else to help warm them. He moves his folded laundry off of his bed and puts it on top of his dresser. He takes off his shirt and belt and crawls under the covers. He shivers out of loneliness, fatigue, and cold. He closes his eyes and hopes to dream of nothing.
posted by L at 11:56 PM
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