Bookseller v. Broker

There's a section of every used bookstore where books on death are kept. There, there's always at least one copy of Denial of Death. Some people (not many, but some) claim the ability to determine the quality of a bookstore based on the quality of that copy.

First they find the book. Then they remove the book. Then they touch the cover carefully, with the tips of their fingers. They turn the book in their hands, inspecting the spine, checking for dog-earred pages, water marks left by coffee cups. In this way they learn things about the store's proprietor.

They open the book. They smell the pages. They smell for age. Some copies are opened and the fresh cool smell of the press still lingers. Others are dank. Others still carry the unmistakable scent—the saccharine, musty scent—of stale cigarettes. In this way they learn things about the store's patrons.

Less often they throw the book. In this way they learn things about the store's security.

They say that from the careful study of a store's copy of Denial of Death comes a picture of the store that somehow transcends the store's immediate state; that it opens an understanding encompassing both its past and future, its coarsest limitations and most glorious possibilities; that it mirrors the store in the way the cosmos mirrors our world. If you know what you're looking for.

These connoisseurs exist outside the understanding of most booksellers.

Present company included.

The Bookseller carries a copy of Denial of Death that's old and torn and slightly water damaged and, in parts, highlighted. And underlined. It's a paperback. In its seventh printing. Dog-eared. And inscribed by (to?) an H. Paul Gatomachia, in childlike cursive. It smells sharp, marine, with a subtle hint of cellar mildew.

It's the book that was in the Bookseller's back pocket. It's the book that's presently being read.

Until the Broker comes and interrupts.

But the Bookseller's relieved. He's relieved because he'd discovered why the book's been sitting unread in his store, in the section on death, for the past seven years, untouched. The Bookseller, in all his limited wisdom (booksellers' wisdom), considers it a hideous, horrible, unreadable book. (But feels he'd recommend it, if asked.)

The Bookseller explains his idea to the Broker. An idea that he's formed over the past few days. He speaks softly but enthusiastically. The Broker listens. But the Broker isn't really listening. But he is, in a way. But not. But he seems like he is. In a way.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.