Entitled

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The fluorescent lights sputter on, the coffee machine hisses and the calendars remind us that it’s Saturday.

The low hum of the escalators vibrates along the floor and seeps through the wooden shelves that we call home. The non-literary items in the ever-expanding gift section resume their excessively perky presence. Cards straighten themselves, pillows fluff up, and throws look less thrown. We all have a finite amount of energy and even the candles don’t waste their scent on a Human-free space.

“Look sharp, everyone,” barks General Patton’s Biography. “Let’s give it an all-out assault. See how many of us can find a home this weekend.” It’s the same pep talk he gives every Saturday morning. I can’t see myself assaulting any customers in the line of duty, but somehow his ‘Bookstore is a battlefield’ metaphor makes other titles sit up straighter. “We have a job to do. Stay focused. There’s a war on Books and we need to fight back. Show those Humans what they’re missing.”

The General’s speech doesn’t inspire courage in every Book. “What if no one takes me this weekend?” Diane’s Dream asks. “I may get returned to my publisher.”

“You’re not getting sent back,” I say. “This weekend is probably the one you’ve been waiting for. You just don’t know it yet.” I try to sound confident when in reality any hope that I’ll be chosen is tested each day.

As we anticipate this weekend’s sales, the astrology Books reassure us of success. The Ephemeris makes it sound scientific and reliable. “The moon just moved into Leo,” he says, “and stays there until Monday evening. This means that our inner selves are craving attention, so it should be a good weekend for many of us to draw the interest of a Reader and find a home.” Given that he hasn’t foreseen his own sale, I question his ability to forecast our success.

The staffroom door opens and the voices of Keisha and Shannon emerge, along with the smell of over-roasted coffee. The Books in the food section groan, especially the Italian ones who don’t tolerate the aroma of the mediocre. It’s a sentiment I don’t understand, but one thing we’re never short of here is opinion.

The two workers visit every row, replacing returns and reorganizing Books who have been misfiled. “Look at the dust,” Shannon says. “Myles and Jerome should have cleaned last night. Typical, leaving it for us.”

Then my shelf gets tighter. “Hey, shove over,” says a familiar voice.

“Joe? Is that you?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“But I thought . . . ”

“Returned,” Joe says. “And I was all ready for the great adventure.”

A sale isn’t always a successful match. Too many Books find themselves back on the shelf after everyone cheered them on in their new life. “They bought me along with some candles and pillows,” Joe says. “I knew I was in trouble when I had a gift receipt taped to my cover.”

Our entire aisle groans. We hate the relentless gift creep. Non-Book things like bags and baskets keep seeping towards us, like the molten lava that Hawaii Bound describes. The color-coordinated housewares only distract Humans from their reason for being in a Bookstore, namely purchasing one of us. If you’re called a Bookstore, you should be required to sell Books and nothing but Books. There ought to be a law.

“If they brought you home with candles, then they simply didn’t understand you,” I say. “You’re not a candle kind of Book.”

DD chimes in. “You’re better off waiting for the right Reader to come along. If it can happen once, it can happen again.”

“But they left a stain on my back,” Joe says.

“You can get away with it,” I say. “You’re Joe’s Discovery. You’re meant to be rough and tumble. If you didn’t have a few marks on you, you wouldn’t be you.”

We’re not in the Self-Help section, but you’d never know it from the constant stream of affirmations we exchange. One day, one of us may be right.

Shannon and Keisha continue down our aisle, adjusting, tidying, primping. “Who decided to schedule an author signing at the start of our shift?” Keisha asks.

At the phrase “author signing,” whole shelves of Books vibrate with excitement. Covers flap with curiosity as questions bounce between titles: “Who is it? Can anyone read the announcement?” But no Book has an answer, just a hope that they’re the ones who finally get to meet their Creator.

Even I am excited, although I know it won’t be my Author. First-time novelists usually don’t get a signing until their second book. Yet authors draw in Humans, and Humans and their homes are our ultimate goal, so a rising title lifts all Books.

“I’ve never read her stuff, have you?” Shannon asks.

“Yeah, it’s okay. Romantic, you know, but good. I finished it, which says something,” Keisha replies. Hope seeps through the fiber of every Novel they pass.

“They’re in our aisle!” shouts DD. I wish I were facing out. I would love to be a witness to this literary lottery winning.

“Tell me who gets chosen,” I say.

“They’re looking at their list,” DD shouts. Then she squeals.

“DD! Is that you?” I ask.

“Yes! I’ve been chosen!” she says, then chokes back her words. “Last night I thought I was going to be pulped. Now today I get to meet my Author.”

“So, be happy. Look your best. You’re going to find a home,” I say.

Titles on the aisle cheer as DD and her literary relatives are taken away to be displayed and perhaps purchased and signed. Maya Fredricks, DD’s Author, is coming to our store. It’s the stuff of Book dreams.

We hear stories of that moment, when your Author opens your cover, turns past your endpaper to your title page, and looks at you . . . really at you. And you look back into the face of your Creator and for a moment, have that connection between their thoughts and your existence. It probably won’t happen for me, but it might happen for DD. She’s Maya Fredricks’ fourth Book, and the fifth is still in hardcover, so with the Book signing, DD has a real chance of making it to her forever shelf this weekend.

I hear chattering between the other titles. Maya Fredricks has arrived.

Chairs scrape across the tile floor. The volume of voices increases. Then a hush. One woman welcomes the audience and says how pleased she is at the turnout. Humans clap, the audience mutes itself and the Author speaks. “Thank you, all of you, for being here today. It’s nice to see that while the season is changing, our appetite for love isn’t.” The Humans laugh politely. “My newest novel is the fifth in the series. It’s called Emma’s Exception. And if you permit me, I would like to read from chapter four.”

The Book, Emma’s Exception, coughs as its pages are opened for the first time. The story is about Emma’s attempt to define the right man before she starts dating again. It sounds similar to DD’s story, in which Diane’s Dream is to, well, find the right man. And the storyline echoes Courtney’s Complaint, Belinda’s Belief and Arielle’s Anticipation. Perhaps by the time Maya Fredricks writes about Zoe and her Zeal, she will have discovered a plot twist.

Maya Fredricks answers a few questions, mostly about men. It sounds like one of those group therapy sessions that Books in the Self-Help section describe. Every woman seems to have an unhappy story about relationships, or lack of them. I’ve never been in love. But I guess it’s important to Humans, as half of our titles wouldn’t exist without it.

The post-reading discussion devolves into laughter when one woman recounts a story about a man who, it turns out, is the ex-boyfriend of another in the audience. The volume of voices surges until a clap of hands and a raised voice suggest that it’s time for Book signings. Humans respond with the sound of feet shuffling on the floor. I envy their mobility.

Then I hear her. “I’m being signed!” DD screams.

She’s done it! “Congratulations!” I shout. “I’ll miss you, DD.” My fibers swell with happiness for her. “See Joe? If she can find a home, we can too.”

“Hope so, for both our sakes,” he says. “Otherwise, you and I are on a path to be pulped.”

Reality can be brutal when you’re left on the shelf.