The Booksale

A bitter 20 mph wind blew driving the temperature with wind-chill down to an uncomfortable 10 degrees.  It didn’t thwart the intentions of the 15 or so diehard bibliophiles standing in line for the University Women’s Annual used book sale.  All the regulars were there, “Pushy Capri,” “Fast Eddie,” the “Foreign Text Book Buyer,” and the older dealer we simply called “That Obnoxious Fellow.”  We’d been attending sales with these same dealers for years, yet never had bothered to learn their real names.  Bob and I often speculated on what name we were referred to in the privacy of their own shops.  “The Gruesome Twosome” perhaps.1

I pulled my hands into the sleeves of my down coat.  “Are you sure it’s worth it to come to the sale an hour early, Bob?” I asked.  My zealous husband was obsessive about book sales.  A long-suffering line stander, the thought of a recently library discarded Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy or similar gem, gave him endless stamina for enduring rain, frigid temperatures and heat.  Personally, I was in it for the money; hoping to add a couple hundred titles to the inventory of our internet used book store.  We’d been running our home business together for years, and the book sales were the most exhausting and fun part of our enterprise.  But standing in line was never fun.  I found an old peppermint stuck in the lining of my coat and fished it out while I watched Bob fumble with his portable weather radio.2

“We might have record low temperatures tonight.” He reported.3

Near the front of the line, “That Obnoxious Fellow” was warming up.  He’d collared “Pushy Capri” and was regaling her with an anecdote from his last Book Fair.  4

“I’d just made my best sale of the day when the electricity went off, and I couldn’t run her credit card through.” He rambled.5

“Pushy” looked bored, but then she usually did.  A thin woman in her early thirties, she sported a chic blonde hairstyle and her trade mark white capris.  She was serious and aggressive in her pursuit of children’s books for her small shop in the downtown. I had about thirty pounds on her and was just as aggressive.  Since we sold the same sort of books, we’d had our run ins over the years.  She escaped from obnoxious and walked over to the window to scope out the floor plan. “Looks like recycled junk from last year’s sale.” She murmured.  6

Her comment didn’t faze me.  I was way past falling for such blatant psychological warfare.7

“What section are you going to first?” Bob asked.  Oh, he was so predictable.  He’d asked the same question at every sale for the last four years.  The same habitual way he slowly ate a 6 ounce package of Planter’s Honey Roasted Peanuts while he stood in line.  “For energy,” he said.8

“Children’s I suppose, how about you.” I answered, just as I had done for the last three.9

“Philosophy, then History” he said with a telling glance toward “Fast Eddie” who always made a bee-line for Philosophy, cleaning out whole shelves with one swipe of the arm.  “Why don’t you go there first and give me a hand.”10

“I’ve got my own competition to deal with.  You’re on your own.” I said with a laugh.  There was a certain comfort in our pre-sale dance, kind of like macaroni and cheese out of the box.  The actual sale was a different matter.  Even when the time, place and sponsors were the same, each sale was like a surprise gourmet meal.11

The sale finally started and we rushed in like a bunch of early bird shoppers at Walmart the day after Thanksgiving.   The cement block warehouse was filled with library shelving containing every sort of book imaginable.  The aisles quickly filled up with home schooling moms pushing strollers, senior citizens with collapsible carts, teachers with stapled copy paper lists, and of course book dealers.  Volunteers mingled among the crowds trying to maintain order and selling flimsy plastic bags for a quarter a piece.  The volunteers had to handled carefully.  Some were resentful of the dealers who snarfed up large amounts of the most valuable books before the regular folks had a chance.  Often they would see my large stacks of books and ask if I was a teacher.  “No, I answer, but I have four young children who just love to read.”  My conscience barely pricks when I fail to mention that 99% of the books will be sold for a nifty profit allowing me to pay the kid’s expensive private school tuition.12

I’d already filled two boxes when I heard a commotion from the other end of the warehouse.13

“Excuse me; I’ve already picked this set.”  The sound of my husband’s voice shocked me.  A staid college professor, he wasn’t usually given to such a strident tone.  An angry fervent voice answered.  14

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.  And I have eight of the ten volumes, hand over the other two.”  The Obnoxious Fellow seemed ready for a fight.  Standing 6 foot 2 and weighing around 260 pounds, he needed a bath, a clean shirt, and a shave.  He stood in sharp contrast to Bob in his sharply creased khaki pants, collared shirt and well-groomed moustache.15

I rushed over, wondering what set of books would provoke my polite spouse to stand up to this belligerent beast.  By the time I got there a small crowd had gathered, including one very upset silver-haired volunteer.  Both men made their case.16

“I was here first and was putting the first two volumes in my box, when this guy came over and swept the other books off the shelf.  Look, they’re priced as a set and I have volume one.”  Bob said, his ears turning red.17

“I don’t think so. I had my eye on that set, and had already decided to buy it when you pushed in front of me.”  Even I had to laugh at that one.  “Obnoxious” was at least 75 pounds heavier than Bob.  But neither of us found it amusing  when he sauntered over and deliberately picked the missing two volumes out of Bob’s stash.  The volunteer, looking helpless, rushed off to another problem and Bob had no choice but to admit defeat.18

“What was it,“  I whispered.19

“The Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy.  I’ve been looking for that for years. I can’t believe that jerk.”  Bob said, practically crying.20

“I’m sorry honey, but what could you do?”  We both went back to searching, but I could tell by the slump of Bob’s shoulders that his heart wasn’t in it.21

When I returned to the children’s section, “Pushy Capri” caught my eye.  “Did Ron steal that set from your husband?” she asked, never even pausing in her quest for more books.22

So that was his real name, “Ron.” “Yes, what a jerk!  Bob’s obviously was there first.”  23

He’s done me dirty before too.  They even banned him from the big St. Louis sale for pilfering books off of other dealers’ piles.” And the dealer from Columbus said he caught Ron eying his pile last year at a sale and when he got back to his shop, he found a valuable first edition Faulkner that he had picked was not in any of the boxes.” She said.24

I shrugged my shoulders and comforted myself with a nice copy of “Apple Tree Christmas” that I carefully hid at the bottom of my box.25

Our books were piled in a corner and covered with a sheet.  The stack had grown enormous by the end of the sale.  All but the book dealers had paid for their bag of  books and gone home.  We flagged down a volunteer to count our books.  Bob had cheered up a little since he’d found a treasure trove of scholarly history titles, some of which would be sure to make it to his own shelves.  Still he continued to rant about the set.  26

As we counted and boxed our books,  I grabbed the last box from our corner.  I was shocked to see the very set Bob had been vying for.  27

“Bob, how did you get this?”  I asked in a hushed tone.28

“I didn’t, how did it get here.”  He through the sheet back over the set and looked around nervously, but Ron was still busy over in the Art area.29

He pushed the box toward the volunteer.  “Twenty five for this set.” And the retired gentleman added it to our tally.  30

I’d never seen Bob move so quickly.  We paid and packed the car without looking back.  As we pulled out, I saw “That Obnoxious Fellow” running toward the door, his mouth curled up in a frightening snarl.   I felt  my heart beating wildly as our tires squealed out of the parking lot.  We laughed all the way home.31

When we arrived home, Bob carefully unpacked the set.32

“Try not to drool on the stock,” I said.33

“This isn’t stock.  It is going right into its place of honor on my bookshelf.” He said.  34

“How did we get this,” I wondered.  “Was it the volunteer?”35

“Who cares, what’s important is, it’s mine.” Bob said.36

Like a Rabbi unrolling an ancient scroll he opened volume one.  A gas station receipt fluttered to the floor and Bob curiously picked it up.  There was a hastily written note scrawled on the back.  To our astonishment it read “With love, from “Pushy Capri.”37