The Story of a Boy: Part 4

With no other words between the two of them the old clerk began to walk towards the back of the store, the young boy followed close behind through the make shift paths of books to the rows upon rows of shadowed shelves. The old man continued to speak as he walked.

“Curiosity. That is the first time anyone has put it so elegantly. You have the makings of a good writer, my boy. I can sense these things. Being around books all my life allowed some hints of the craft of storytelling to rub off on me. I’m not an expert by any means, but I know talent when I see it. Most people think the key to good writing is to throw a bunch of words on the page and see what mess they can make when, in actuality, it’s about limiting your words to tell the most effective story. But, like I said, I’m not an expert on the matter, but I have picked up a few pointers on good literature over the years.”

The old clerk continued to speak as he searched the shelves. The boy studied the titles as he walked past, recognizing authors from all ages he had already grown to know very well, but would love to understand better. The pages seemed to call to him to be picked up, held, but he resisted the temptation and listened to the hypnotizing words and attitude of the ancient sales clerk.

“Let me guess. You were curious about what/who occupied this lonely space.”

The boy said nothing. The old clerk did not take his eyes off the un-alphabetized shelves.

“I’ve seen you looking in through the window from across the street.” The boy looked up startled. “It’s okay. Many people are, I should say, were curious, as you so eloquently put it. Not too many people pass through my door these days, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

“How long have you been here?” the boy asked.

“For quite some time,” the old clerk said softly as a pulled a small, black, book from the shelf. It looked beaten, used, and old. The young boy stared at it as he spoke.

“Every time I looked through the window the books were always arranged differently, but I never see any customers. It’s almost like they don’t even know the store is here. They walk by without giving it the slightest attention. Everyone I mention it to seems to have noticed it at one time, but have forgotten about it. It’s like they wanted to come in, but never did.”

“So why did you?” the old clerk asked. The boy paused again. Feeling as though he were being tested he thought of the best answer he could.

“Because…because there was something about this place I couldn’t walk away from. I didn’t want to be like them and forget. It was almost like I was…”

“Looking for something?” The old clerk said, finishing the young boy’s sentence. He didn’t answer, but he could feel the clerk was right.
“Why won’t people come in? Why do they seem to have forgotten this place exists?”

The old clerk paused to consider this question. As he continued to dwell on the best answer to give, his demeanor took a slight turn from joyous to nostalgic. He stared into the boy’s eyes and spoke slowly about the changing world in which they lived.

“Because the need for books is becoming extinct. People in your generation want information, fast. Always fast. Whoever can supply the quickest knowledge is deemed the winner by an audience that has grown ignorant over the years. They know nothing of the dedication it takes to obtain the wisdom they think they have and so know nothing of the work it takes to live a good life. Not a rich life, or a mistake free life, or pain free life, because there will always be mistakes and there will always be pain, but a life filled with purpose cannot be obtained through the click of a mouse.”

As if waking from a dream the old clerk blinked a few times, paused, and focused on the book in his hands. He laughed to himself.

“Perhaps it’s just my old age talking. When you get older you see the problems of the world and think of a mythical golden age that never existed.”

“That sounds like something my dad would say.”

“Mine too,” the old clerk said too softly for the boy to hear. He turned to look at the boy and their eyes met. One was filled with the passing of time looking into those that still had an entire lifetime to look and learn. The old man smiled as he handed the book to the boy. Breaking eye contact the young boy took the book in his hands while studying the cover. It was black, and worn away, almost as if the pages on the inside had been ripped out and replaced with those of another. Although it looked old it was sturdy.