Browsing a used bookstore downtown, a personal favorite, I stumbled across a woman and her child. A few years younger than me, 12 or 13, perhaps. She was out of place, misplaced of her own account, for she seemed so asunder among the rest of the admittedly few patrons - either old, wizened men or the occasional youth who sat at their feet and gazed in bewilderment at the way the shelves seemed to sway and oscillate in a subdued chittering.
I spend a great deal of time in these bookstores, for the air is silent and tastes of dusty, entombed knowledge. Mounds and mounds upon piles of lost volumes and classics and learning. Moreso, I love them for their calamity and agelessness. I wander the creaky, powdery shelves and feel as a child again, reminded of how large this universe is and how young and small and inexperienced I truly am. It reminds me of modesty and of lost humility - it reminds me that living life is not enough.
Yes, yes I know Sarah, I just went shopping with him the other day. He looked adorable - yes, yes, what's that? Of course, don't be silly. Mhmm..mhmm...yes, yes. Well he's a good boy, takes after his father - father's a lawyer didn't you know? You're so cute, Sarah, of course - what? Oh, yeah, yeah. Like I said, I met his father at my cousin's wedding...yes, Annabella you know her right? Of course, of course you do. And he was ever a darling, although dear Anna looked awfully horrid in that dress. Yes, don't you agree? Mhmm. Navy blue with those horrid frills, what was she thinking?
The boy's reply struck a resonating chord within my adolescent consciousness - off pitch, but nearly there, as I recalled escaping the schoolyard bullies many years ago with the same book clutched against my chest. Heaving, perspiring, sweat dripping onto its pages but leaving it nonetheless raw and dry with ancient reverence. It made me wonder if he had to run from the same bullies who chased me around and condemned me for my lack of conformity.
Sparing a quick glance towards his mother still heckling on her cell phone, he crept silently in my direction until his slight frame was within metres of the corner in which I was huddled. My friends actually found some parts of it to be really funny. Y'know...all the sex and bad words and things, he whispered. Yes, I grimaced, I can see why they would find it amusing. But you don't, do you?
The boy's shoulders visibly reclined upon my admission, and shook his head slowly, his eyes boring into mine searching for the same look of reproach and scorn with the same intensity I remembered bearing myself as I faced my schoolyard tormentors for the first time. It made my heart ache for the troubles our kind are mounted against, and wondered to myself how many more years he would be able to take until he broke. No, your friends think it's cool because they don't get the point. The narrator's trying to be cool, but he's actually hurting a lot.
I closed my eyes briefly at his words, and when I reopened them his gaze had softened, the same crooked smile now beaming again from his young face. Yes, I said. You're very right. The narrator is hurting a lot. The whole book seems to be weeping. Upon his nod again, I continued. I read that book when I was your age too, I was 12. I was so glad that I had read it, but after I put it down, I never wanted to read it again.
Without glancing back, he scrambled over mountains of hardcovers and resumed his position by his mother's left hand, bleached arm looped around a tacky, silver slingover. Sorry Sarah, what? Oh yes, yes, that was just my son. He's 13 this year, starting highschool...mhmm. Oh you're so hilarious, Sarah, of course he's having fun. He's such a handsome boy...fun, fun of course. Don't you remember highschool? Yes, yes, oh I can't believe Alex got married to that ugly bitch of a girl...Eliza, wasn't it? He's probably...yes. He's loving it...yes...aren't you Gregory?
The mother's faulty gaze traveled rapidly toward the boy's face, her eyes narrowed in impatience, voluptuous, vulturous hands resting on his shoulder. Isn't it, Gregory? She held the receiver an inch from his mouth and patted his head. It's not going so great, mom. At his response, she swept the receiver back up and let out a high-pitched giggle - oh no, Sarah, he's just being silly...of course he's having so much fun. Bit of a bookworm, but he'll grow out of it. He has such darling friends, he doesn't get along with some boys, but oh, yes? Oh, you're so right...we simply must get together some time.
At the mother's brief, invalidating response to such a raw, desperate statement of admission, I gripped the arms of my wooden chair with such rage, such unadulterated, ubiqtuitous, seething wrath that broiled the entrails and set the gut aflame; fiery sulphurous comeforths of hatred; fiendish, wicked, sudden, uncontrolled sensations of liquid heat, bursting sickeningly from the chest; simmering, sickling, slubbering thrusts of volcanic anger - oh, that I would feel such rage assault me so!
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