It was Wednesday – and one of the most beastly Wednesday’s that I had ever experienced in my near half a century. If it had not been such a horrible day, I would never have bothered to ask for help with my shopping. But it was a horrible day and I refused to spend more than fifteen minutes searching for the novel my 14-year-old niece would absolutely die without (her words, not mine) that, and the fact that I could not think of anything else she might like for a Christmas gift urged me into the hip, yet tragically lacking in any book written since 1998, bookstore.
I instinctively grimaced at the interior of the shop which was even more discouraging than the outside – it seemed to me that they were more interested in selling $7 cups of coffee then literature, sorry, light fiction. I quickly squelched this line of thinking however by reminding myself sternly that if I didn’t wait till the day before christmas eve I wouldn’t have to depend on the not-so-subtle hints given by my niece for present ideas.
I scanned the bookstore for a salesperson whom I could ask about said novel but all I saw was a greasy-haired, sullen looking teenager leaning against the checkout counter. He was glowering into a book apparently in an attempt to discourage costumers from asking for help. I marched up pointedly re-settleing the purse strap on my shoulder. “Young man,” I said briskly (I can’t stand laziness in young people) “do you work here?”
His eyes reluctantly dragged from the page he was reading.”Uh yeah,” He said in that maddening, inarticulate way 15 to 19 year-old boys have.
“Good, maybe you can help me. I am looking for a book for my niece, it’s called Midnight, or Evening, or something like that.”
He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling for a minute and then said in a strained voice “Might it be called Twilight, Ma’am?”
“Ahh, yes, that’s the one.” I tapped my foot once and pulled on my purse strap, finally realizing that he was not getting the point I barked, “Could you get it for me?”
He slouched away and returned a moment later holding the book out to me. “Here.” He said, thrusting it at me. I felt a shadow of a smile flit over my face, he was rude but perhaps I had provoked this behavior.
“Thank you very much. Can I pay for it right here – I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He grunted what I presumed was a positive awnser and went around to the other side of the counter. “Is this book any good?” I asked trying to redeem myself from the foottapping as I handed him a twenty.
“No. Would you like that gift wrapped?”
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow and counted my change to make sure he had given me the proper amount; he had. “Thank you, but I prefer to wrap them myself – it makes it seem as though the gifts are really from me even though I just get her what she asks for.”
I saw his lips twitch. He handed me my receipt. “What do you like to read then? I thought this book was very popular with young people?” I asked gesturing towards my shopping bag.(I can’t remember when I started referring to people under thirty as ‘young people’; it made me feel suddenly gray) “What were you reading before?”
“Oh, just a Charles Dickens novel.” He muttered showing me a copy of Oliver Twist. “It’s pretty cool.”
“Well then. Thanks for all your help.” He nodded and I headed for the exit. I got to my car and hopped in. It was starting to snow in big chunky flakes and I had to get my windshield wipers going full speed to clear the build-up off my car. Well, Oliver Twist, I thought, I guess you really can’t judge a book by its cover.
Brenna
Grace
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Ray Stevens
Writable Life 