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.

Bookseller v. Botanist

Standing under the tree, having spent the last several hours planning for a major burial of the dead, the Bookseller turns to watch a small balding man runs from the forest, past the line where a eastern fence once stood but - do to all the post being torn out to feed the pyre - no longer stands, and up to the oak. He's sweating profusely. This is the Botanist.

The Botanist says a quick hello then takes the guns from the table and offers the Bookseller his choice.

What's the hurry?

Just choose.

The Bookseller asks why. The Botanist turns to face the forest, then turns back, then thrusts the guns forward, pressing into the Bookseller's gut. Let's go, he says. Hurry up!

The Bookseller, who'd expected time to discuss his overarching plan, is a bit put off. He decides not to chose.

Not until you tell me why you feel so rushed to duel.

Goddammit, says the Botanist. We're late! We're late for the duel!

The Bookseller looks down at his wrist. He taps the top of his digital watch. Sure enough, as the LCD display flickers grey on pale, he sees that time's nearly up. He hadn't noticed.

Where were you? asks the Bookseller.

I'm sorry - I just can't help field study when the opportunity for field study arises. Look, I picked some wild spearmint. The Botanist pulls one gun under his arm, and with his free hand pulls a mangled clump of spearmint from his jean pocket.

The Bookseller choses the gun under the Botanist's arm. The Botanist pockets the watercress. They quickly take to the field. Stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bookkeeper v. Bookseller

Anxious, sticking close to the oak, the Bookkeeper tugs at the corners of his patchy black mustache. He plucks a hair, takes it between his teeth and gently nibbles, bit by bit, until eaten.

It's a beautiful bright day. Cool but windless. Sparrows trill cheerfully on boughs above the Bookkeeper. The creek murmurs in the distance. At some point a deer steps carefully from the forest. She spots the Bookkeeper, pauses, then steps back behind the dark veil of brush.

Spring - in all its glorious promise!

The Bookkeeper plucks and eats another hair.

The Bookseller, flannel jacket draped over the crook of his arm, paperback in his back pocket, walks curtly from the road. He pauses on sight of the piled corpses - confronting the nauseating odor he smelled from far down road - then continues.

The Bookseller face is wan, oval, slightly creased. It wears (from habit) an expression of disinterest. His glasses aren't much more than functional, his watch is digital, his chin beveled.

Why aren't these people buried? he asks.

I didn't ask to come here at all so how should I know?

I'm not accusing you.

The Bookkeeper tugs at his mustache.

The Bookseller shakes his head. He turns his back to the Bookkeeper, looks out to the northeast. He speaks (less to the Bookkeeper than himself) guessing that it'd take a steam shovel hours just to dig a pit wide enough to fit everyone. He speaks more in the same vein for some time. The Bookkeeper is silent.

Then they're both silent.

Then the Bookkeeper speaks, words torrential:

If you ask me personally this entire ordeal is a joke the way whoever set it up set it up. I've never a mess like this in my life and I work in a store thats owner thinks its okay to just shove things everywhere so there's lamps and lights and things on the ground and on shelves and everywhere without rhyme or reason so that nobody would know where to look for what if their life depended on it, and how we stay in business is anyone's guess, but I think it has something to do with organized crime.

The Bookseller turns around and faces the Bookkeeper. The Bookkeeper looks away. The Bookseller turns back.

Another silence.

Then, again, the Bookkeeper:

On weekends I collect banners and promotional advertising from supermarkets. But just the ones for specials on pork and beef. Sometimes lamb, but definitely not chicken. They'll just throw that stuff out anyway and they'll let you have it. All you have to do is ask - but not many people know that. Do you have a hobby?

The Bookseller puts his hands to his hips. He turns. Should we...? he asks, motioning toward the pistols.

But you didn't answer the question, says the Bookkeeper accusingly.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

The Bookkeeper takes a gun and walks out to the field. The Bookseller inhales deeply, takes the other gun, and follows him. They both stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.