A. W. DeAnnuntis

At the Bookstore, For Example

I am a man to whom extraordinary things happen. Fabulous events transpire and I am at their center, the world revolves and I tremble in the slip-stream of the incredible. Remarkable moments flow through me as light passes through colored glass. I stand at the tremulous convergence of lines of force, tendrils of motion, wisps of cloudy and indistinct acts. If asked, I will tell you that the world exists because I exist. If it wasn’t for me, nothing very interesting would happen.

At this juncture you are ready to read the words for example. You are now prepared to consider an instance of the extraordinary events that shape, and are shaped by, my being. As you read this you say to yourself, "Okay, I have finished the prologue, now I will read about an example of the extraordinary things in this man’s life." You have reached the point in this story where anticipation of the phrase for example is all but a reflex. Undoubtedly this is the result of the accumulation of years of reading stories in which extraordinary events and remarkable scenes are presented with the inevitability of Christmas. Yours is, after all, a mind acutely trained to detect the subtlest clue, the most sophisticated hint, of exposition. You are standing in the aisle of this large and well-lighted bookstore and have taken this volume from the shelf on a whim, a gust of curiosity, perhaps merely attracted by its brightly avant-garde cover. You have opened it to this story just as whimsically, perhaps perplexed by the exotic economy of its title.

It is possible, however, that you have chosen this book and this story because you have noticed an attractive woman (or man) standing further along this aisle, and you are anxious that s/he notices your sophisticated and cultivated taste in contemporary literature. As you read these lines you glance up as furtively as a teenager in a locker room, hoping you have been noticed by this desirable person. And you are anxious to be noticed without being seen to be noticed. You are crafty.

And since you are crafty, accidentally you drop this book to the floor. Without looking around you quietly mutter a curse against yourself. Self-deprecating humor is a vital part of your arsenal of crafty devices to attract those whose attention you desire.

In this gesture you notice that s/he is also holding a book. You recognize the author’s name and remember that you have read reviews of his books with admiration. You remind yourself that because of the enthusiasm of the reviews you have intended to read this author’s works. But regrettably, for all the reasons preventing you from reading the works of other, equally admirable authors, the works of this author remain among the confetti of brightly colored spines surrounding you. Thus, even while you look forward to examples of the extraordinary events that transpire during my daily life, you have found yourself speculating about this person sharing your aisle in this bookstore.

Hurrah for you! You are displaying an ability only some humans possess; namely, the ability to carry on two distinctly different mental operations simultaneously. So intertwined are these two mental acts - anticipation of my examples of the extraordinary, and speculation concerning the intellectual tastes and artistic sensibilities of this person on your aisle - that to think one is already to be prepared to think the other. Though you may be unconvinced, you will have to trust me on this one.

But just then, s/he looks up. For an instant your eyes are caught, your furtive glance is found out. Panic clutches at your throat, you turn back to this page, desperately your eyes search for the phrase for example.

For example, the description of a train trip through a foreign country that resulted in an unanticipated encounter with a long-lost friend would strike you as extraordinary. Or the recounting of a misadventure involving illicit drugs and the police would also strike you as remarkable. A chance meeting in a remote and desolate countryside with a relatively well-known pop star, perhaps also in a foreign country, would also fit your qualifications for an extraordinary moment. Even the chance discovery of a large denomination bank note on an infrequently traveled thoroughfare, especially if it happened in a foreign country, would also be admitted into your realm of the extraordinary. In fact, while your eyes search this text for the phrase for example, a list grows in your mind of all the occurrences that would satisfy your expectations of an extraordinary event. The description of any of them would adequately follow the phrase for example. You are certain that if you glance far enough along in this text you will find the phrase for example. And oddly, you almost hope that you do not.

Because discovery of that phrase would commit you to continue to read. Whereas, your preference is to study further the person at the other end of this aisle in this lovely large bookstore with subtly intellectual music playing in the background. But finally you do look up. Discouraged, you look up again and hope that s/he is no longer studying you, appraising you, waiting to catch your eye.

S/he is turned away, back to you and so blocking your view of the cover of the book s/he is reading, but leaning one shoulder against the book shelves and so giving you ample opportunity to study his/her back.

And you do. You close this volume for a moment, your right index finger beside these words, and study unobserved the shape of shoulders, the curve of neck, the thickness of arm and waist, and - depending on thickness of garment - the style and panache of underwear encasing the curvature of hips and buttocks. You appraise the shape and thickness of thigh, the turn of calf, and even speculate on economic status based on style and brand of shoe. All of this you carry out quickly, indifferent to the possibility that just beyond the periphery of your eyesight, someone may be watching you.

Just then s/he shifts and straightens, and then begins to turn in your direction. Quickly you reopen this volume to the page still held by your finger, your eyes follow your finger, and at its end you read these words:

For example, several years ago I was alone on an extended vacation. An old friend had just married and was living with her new husband in Vienna. When she heard I was traveling she invited me to meet her new husband and stay for a few days, promising they would show me the sights. I had never been to Vienna and was glad of the opportunity to visit. But I was even more curious to observe the newly married couple. I had never met him, but she was a woman of some years acquaintance. And over those years had smoldered within my heart an unrequited desire. Profoundly voluptuous with abundant dark hair and a coquettish smile, she had featured in fantasies too prurient to describe, so that the joyful news of her marriage had left a sting of regret. So the visit offered the opportunity to revisit these fantasies and perhaps finally put them to rest.

Because you are an acute reader of contemporary fiction you already suspect a tale of adultery cast against the backdrop of an exotic city, perhaps a series of night scenes in dingy rooms under unnatural light. You foresee all of this and pause. And then you look up.

S/he is gone.

You return your finger to a place beside these words, you close the volume against your finger, and you sigh. You realize, of course, that this was the risk you took when you finally read the words for example. Yet you are annoyed with yourself. You believe yourself sophisticated enough to carry out a bit of surreptitious surveillance within the civilized confines of a bookstore. This, at least, you can do. After all, you have had years to practice.

A wave of despair passes over you. Attention diverted, you remind yourself that once again you have let slip an opportunity. An opportunity for what, you question yourself. An opportunity to be swept up by the accidental, the impromptu, the extraordinary.

Cautiously you step to the end of the aisle, and as if you are not, you look along in both directions. But s/he is utterly gone.

After a moment’s regretful reflection you make a mental note of this page number and tuck this book under your arm. With one eye on the bookshelves and the other on the aisles, you begin a slow browse. Up one aisle and down another, noting all the books by all of the authors whose names you recognize and whose works you’ve always meant to read. In this fashion you reconnoiter the entire floor. But s/he is not to be found. Now you are ready to accept the fact that s/he has probably - purchase or no - left the store. Enchanted within a cloud of despondency you wander over to the coffee bar.

When asked by the wait-person, you request a café-au-lait. Cheerfully the wait-person tells you the espresso machine is broken, so that S/he can only offer tea and American-style coffee. You ask for hot chocolate. S/he glances at you once as if wondering who would order hot chocolate on a day like today and then begins to prepare it. The eyes of the wait-person are telling you things you never even wondered about. But happily your despondency insulates you from concern. The wait-person at the coffee bar of a large bookstore is not a source of the extraordinary. So instead of engaging this person in a conversation, you glance around at the tables. A person reading a book is more interesting than a person serving coffee. Or in your case, hot chocolate.

Ceramic mug of hot chocolate in hand and this volume still under your arm, you go to a small two-seat table that has not yet been cleared from its previous occupant. You would not have chosen this table so far from the sunny and popular windows but the place is crowded and it’s the only table unoccupied.

After clearing a place for your hot chocolate and this volume, you sit down. You sip your hot chocolate; it is very hot and sweet, and you are pleased. Then you survey your immediate neighbors. The number of this page comes to mind; you open the volume and read these words:

Although it had been more than a year since I had last seen her, the sight of her from across the train station left me gasping. As if by some trick of the light, or perhaps our exotic setting, she seemed to have grown more alluring, more voluptuous and more desirable. When finally she recognized me, she waved and approached as if floating across the bright pale floor. She greeted me with a vigorous hug, and kissed me as if we were old lovers. It was early in the afternoon, and she apologized that her new husband was at his office in a small industrial development more than an hour from the city. But she assured me that he would join us for a late dinner. I believe I smiled with unnatural brightness, and I am certain that I babbled like a school boy as she led me through the station.

It had been a long train trip and she invited me to have a drink at the station bar. Perhaps it was the effect of no longer moving, no longer being bumped and shaken in the train. Or perhaps it was simply the lack of lunch and then the two stiff drinks at the bar, but now, as I sat across from her, my desire bloomed. While we reminisced about friends at home, and then while she described her new husband, her new city, and her new life, I felt myself tremble. The thrill of her presence was delicious.

When we finished our second drinks, she mentioned that their apartment was not very far away and that we could take a cab. We rode very close together, the way her thigh rubbed against mine as our cab turned tightly in the narrow streets excited me. Dazed and a bit light-headed, I knew that an extraordinary moment was approaching.

The apartment was large and well-decorated, almost luxurious, with overstuffed furniture, and broad high windows flooding the room with honey-colored light. I was hardly inside the door and had only just put down my bags when she suggested that perhaps after such a long trip I wanted to take a shower to freshen up and relax. In the meanwhile, she would prepare a light lunch. And afterward she would take me for a stroll around the neighborhood. The light in her eyes and the smile on her lips set the hairs on my head tingling.

Suddenly you feel a flush of relief. You now know where this description is going, and you believe you know how all of this will end. You congratulate yourself on your perceptive observations, you lean back in your chair, glance up from this page, take another sip of hot chocolate, and look around.

And there s/he is.

You are so startled you are frozen in place. S/he is sitting two tables away, and, judging by gestures, is preparing to leave. So a critical moment arrives. You have a decision to make. Will you, as usual, simply watch as s/he gathers things, abandons the refuse of a quick snack and beverage, stands, and walks away? Or will you finally abandon an old habit, born as much from timidity as by any respectful common courtesy, and put yourself forward. Perhaps follow as s/he walks back along the rows of bookshelves to the escalator, make a clever and amusing comment, strike up a conversation, and leave the confines of this bookstore in the company of this person? You have only seconds to decide.

But of course there is no decision-to make. You close this book without noting this page. Nonchalantly you set this book down without noticing the puddle of hot chocolate beneath. You sip quickly from your too-hot chocolate, take up your jacket and stand. From the periphery of your vision you notice when s/he stands and when s/he turns and when s/he leaves the coffee bar.

In a self-distracted manner you, too, move away from your table that now bears your half-empty mug of hot chocolate, this book, and the puddle of hot chocolate beneath. You drift in the direction s/he has already taken, sorting through the clever comments you have stored in your memory.

Meanwhile the wait-person who first questioned your choice of hot chocolate watches you leave, and notices the mess remaining behind. With a damp towel in hand s/he goes to your table. In an instant s/he realizes that amidst the mess, this book has absorbed the spilled hot chocolate. The brown stain has colored the ends of these pages, the stain and the dampness have ruined this book and rendered it unsalable. S/he picks this book up muttering about the thoughtlessness of some people, carries it back behind the counter, and tosses it onto a pile of books similarly damaged and similarly ruined.

So, without a thought or a glance back, you abandon me and my story of extraordinary events. No longer curious about me, you are content to never know what extraordinary events have transpired in my life, or how they have affected me, or how I have interpreted their occasions and significance. And because this book is now ruined, no one else will ever know either.

But if you are fortunate, this story and the extraordinary events of my life are now among the least of your concerns.

© 2001 French Bread Publications/A. W. DeAnnuntis

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