BOOKS and Olives

Got my license six days ago, so I’ve been taking every excuse to drive (naturally) and inventing excuses where there are none.

Anyway, today I remembered this tiny store I’ve seen downtown in passing. It’s just called “Books”. Now if you know me, you know that’s all I need to get me interested.

BINGO. Driving excuse for the day.

Also olives.

It all started when I found this paper towel near the stove with shiny black splotches on it. It looked like ten or twelve squished bugs till I picked it up. Looked closer. Olives. What’s worse, black olives. (Every olive aficionado knows black comes above green in the grand olive hierarchy. And we continue to search for the fabled WHITE olive, believed in many cultures to be the actual food of the gods. Search on, Olive-brethren.) I pull out my phone at once and text Tyler, who is my only roommate this week as Jake’s in Florida and Matt moved out over a month ago. My heart saddened, I toss the rejected olives into the trash.

I text him: “You picked out the olives? Weak sauce, dude.”

“Feel free to have them, lol.”

“Lol. Yeah, no. I think I’ll pass.”

“Your loss.”

“Truly. Weeping on the inside.”

I got to my computer. Tweeted, “Who picks out the olives? I mean, who does that? Seriously. *looks disgusted*”. I had to let my pain be known.

One of my good friends Bella replies sometime later, “*Raises hand.*” Kammy chimes in with a tweet to the same effect later. Which--aside from making me wonder where I found these people--gave me driving excuse number two. Olives.

Anyway, I left to go to the bookstore right after the France v Mexico game. Which I was glad to see France lose, by the way. Don’t get me wrong, got nothing against the French—I don’t hate them like Jake does, but they have played miserable football this tournament, and they deserve to be in the hole they are in right now, a hole of their own making. Both Mexican goals were superb.

Bunch of hand-written posters outside the shop as I get to it. It’s a used bookstore, apparently. I love used books. A cart with 25-cent paperbacks outside the store. That’s already a good sign, I think.

The store has a screen door and for some reason I think that’s awesome. Homey-like. A faint tinkling announces my presence inside. I remove my sunglasses. First thoughts—this place is rad. To the wall on the right are several cut-out quotes about books and how reading is the best thing in existence (which it is).

There’s a sturdy wooden bench against the wall, and carved into the backrest is “LIAR’S BENCH”. Again, I find that very cool. At one end of the bench sit a sheaf of papers, and a sign pasted above them reads, “Free Jokes” with an arrow pointing towards the stack. I shuffle through them. Assorted comic strips, clippings and printed-out one liners. Interesting, I think.

There’s another 25-cent rack indoors, and I browse through it, then start looking at the shelves. Sudden movement below me and I’m shocked to notice a cat stirring lazily against one of the shelves. I feel guilty, thinking I might have accidentally stepped on it while looking at the books on the rack, so I resist my initial urge to pet the cute thing.

(I did pet it later, though, twice. Verdict? Cat’s awesome.)

I move on to a hand-drawn map of the store. “Horror. Science Fiction. Fantasy. Romance. History. Sports. Thrillers. Oversized Books. Philosophy. Religion.” You name it, it was there. And for a place that sold second-hand books, it was remarkably-well maintained.

There’s another customer perusing the shelves, but he leaves pretty quick. That’s when I notice the first sign.

“NO CELL PHONES ALLOWED.” But I already saw that on the screen door coming into the place and remembered thinking I totally agreed with that.

“Whistlers WILL BE TAKEN OUT INTO THE STREET AND SHOT.” I have to read that twice, my eyes wide. As a proud whistler, I’m somewhat offended, but I’m terribly amused to see such a sign.

“NOISY CHILDREN WILL BE TAKEN FROM THEIR PARENTS AND GIVEN TO STRANGERS.” By now I’m grinning widely.

This is my kind of place.

I pass a chair on which is written “Please use ladder.” The top shelves are pretty high, and I guess the owner or whatever doesn’t want people standing on the chairs to reach up there. Fair enough--I see a ladder down the aisle. I look at the first section, Horror. (Naturally.) Once again a tiny sign catches my eye. It’s right at the top shelf, where one would need a ladder to get to.

It says, “Don’t fall. You’ll bleed to death before you get to the hospital.”

Someone here has a very interesting sense of humor. I love it.

I’m going back tomorrow.

Oh yeah, and I got olives. Pimiento Stuffed Spanish Manzanilla Olives. I’m having them right now. Deelish.