A Burden of Books

It was a time when no one read anymore. Well, maybe some old people and secret young people still enjoyed the scent of pages. No one talked about books, and the library hosted the homeless and checked out laptops. Tom wanted to be an author, after not being able to read till age 10. His first “chapter book” was All Quiet on the Western Front, which he read in a weekend. Later, Tom discovered the only book that matters, and now he lives it every day. Last night he dreamed he got rich and famous on social media.

Recently, he discussed the latest Netflix gander on the Western Front with his best man over the phone on the broad banks of the lake out back of his parents’ house, under a silent owl, where he was vacationing after vacating his flooded, asbestos-exposed apartment. The movie was not very good, though his sad friend thought otherwise. 

Even more recently, Tom sits on his couch weezing through an N-95 mask and tapping at his smart phone which is not quite intelligent enough to honestly explain the hazard of asbestos. He types a note with calloused, greasy fingers. The note turns into a short story about a guy who has to move all his books. Perhaps it will be called “fast times at procrastination station.”

Yesterday, still procrastinating, he laughed with a buddy about designing a protest of suburban architecture. By that classification, most of Tom’s hometown is “suburban,” besides oldtown square which is a relic of the American West.  Walt Disney designed part of Disneyland (or world?) based on this oldtown for the hometown vibe. Tom’s friend’s last name is also Disney. Perhaps that’s meaningful. Maybe it will even become part of this story, but probably not because Tom is too tired to bla bla bla.

“What do we want?!”

"Gargoyles!”

“When do we want them?!”

“Now!”

It still makes Tom chuckle.

Tom’s wife, Kelly, couldn’t sleep last night because Tom snored up the new apartment. Tom woke up at 4am with no blankets, and not enough pitbull snuggles to stay warm. So he drove the old Chevy over to the old apartment to stare at all the old books. Also the new books. Too many books. He never reads. He works and drinks and and smokes too many cigarettes and tries to find places to sing in private. Whatever it takes to maintain the burden of books.

And now the sun is up. The birds and the squirrels are romping. The Chevy awaits the burden, and Mr. Disney is texting fresh notions of Spaghetti Western.