Saturday, August 30, 2008
Then I spent the better part of an hour working with an obstinate photocopier at Kinkos, copying documents for the "discovery" phase of a lawsuit I'm party to. Documents I'd really rather not other people paw and sniff over. Yet there I was, making copies of them. Hurts to do, but it would hurt worse not to do. I picked to inflict the lesser pain so the harsher pain wouldn't be forced on me later. Ugh. I was in a bad way afterward, and I drove off to find a sanctuary.
The particular bookstore I sought apparently no longer exists.
I tried not to cry and drove to a thrift store I'd heard "had books" but I wasn't sure what that meant. What it meant was a basement full of used books, orgnized by subject and kinda-sorta by author's last name. Los of books. Five times more, at least, than I would have expected from a thrift store.
I probaby spent n hour there, with the books. Just a few days ago, gave away about 50 books from my library, so I felt okay about inviting some new ones in. I found a paprback on bipolar tat I'd been wanting to read, and Barry Glassner's The Culture of Fear, each 50 cents. I found (much to my amusement) the econometrics textbook that my uncles by marriage wrote. I bought it, to bring it home. Then I found a copy of James Clavell's Tai-Pan, which I loved in high school but hadn't read since. I think it's a first edition. And THEN I found a book y Joseph Heller that I hadn't read, and that I'm 99% sure he autographed. I bought it for $1.50. Even if the4 signature's a very clever forgery, I still feel more than satisfied.
So I sit, content and tired, cleaning and repairing the Pratt as best I can.