A man carrying a bookshelf almost knocks me over, then excuses himself vigorously. People wander, stop dead, examine a volume, resume meandering. They wear expressions ranging from mildly curious to intensely determined to frustrated to fearful to perplexed to sad. No employee helps anyone look for anything. All of them are either moving shelves or standing nonplussed by the register where the “All Sales Final” signs flank the 50-70% off signs.
Pedestrians are magnetized by the giant STORE CLOSING letters in the window, driven inside by a sense of obligation, purpose. I browse two long tables full of books on motorcycles, Helen Reddy, art of the Sixties and seventies, several adult book published by Blue Moon featuring corporal punishment. There is a book by someone who knew Elvis.
Even now, two weeks into this final sale, dozens of poetry and fiction books remain. The children’s section contains large, illustrated works, many colorful covers housing stories of myth and fantasy, all with a moral. The entire science section has been sold en masse to a library.
The travel section is virtually bare, except for a giant North American atlas. Over the years, I bought a number of beautifully photographed books on India and Africa right from these shelves. Everyone is extremely polite, moving to the side if they sense someone straining to peruse a section. Not much is said. A sense of mourning pervades alongside the hunger for sales. We don’t want to appear too eager. This is, after all, a death.
An old woman grumbles to herself as she pushes and lifts books on a table, becoming more agitated, unable to discover the treasure a lifetime of reading promised her. I buy two volumes of short stories by authors I never heard of. At the register I try not to look at the clerk who will be jobless this time tomorrow.
At the door of Coliseum Books, a New York City landmark, I take one last look around. Considering the obesity problem in this society, I decide there are far too many diet books left on the shelf. – Joe Del Priore
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