It was just another day at the store, you know, old ladies trading in their Danielle Steel books, me telling the bums they can’t use the restroom, the usual. In comes this guy with a book in his hand. He is well-dressed, too well dressed for this neighborhood anyway, so I say hello to this li’l Lord Fauntleroy, how’s can I be of service to you, I say.
“I have a book I want to sell.” His voice was a warble-y alto that belied his appearance. The entire time, he’s giving me the walleye; looking at me with his peripherals while he stares down the aisle, looking at something that must be located in the part of the store that is located a million miles away. He had set the book down and slid it towards me on the counter. His eyeball never budged a centimeter.
The book was “Sock,” by that magic guy with the mime partner, Penn Gillette. I flipped it open. It was a First Edition. It was signed by the author. Little things like that make a bookseller’s nipples stiffen up a bit.
I say to him, hey buddy, this book might be worth something here. You could get a lot of money selling it on E-bay or something.” Now, you would think as a mercenary bookseller I would not tell a customer to sell there goodies elsewhere, but instead dog the book out to underbid on it. But I like to see how desperate people are before I engage in negotiations with them.
“I just want to get rid of the book.” He turned and finally made eye contact with me. His eyes were as grey and blood-streaked as Dresden in ’45. “I have a bad connotation with this book.”
Connotation, I say to myself, who uses the word connotation in every day speech? Then I realize I can get the book real cheap now. I had already pulled up the ISBN on Amazon and a signed copy was going for thirty bucks. I picked up the book again and when I did I notice the top of the pages had a scarlet mark across them. “Ooh, an ex-library remainder mark. That’ll knock some of the value off,” I replied a little too smugly. I do that sometimes, bad habit. Anyway the fop says, “It’s blood.”
“Wha?”
“Don’t worry, it’s my blood,” he says.
Like that’s going to take all the ick out.
“Like that’s going to take all the ick out,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth like bouncing super balls, never to be caught. He ignored my comment and said, “I am a waiter at La Maison de Crêpes. One night about a week ago, just before closing, a group of well dressed men left there table and one of them said, “We left you something on the table. Usually this means coke, which I steadfastly don’t do, so I went to tell the sous chef to take it, but something told me to go back to there table and see if they had left cash. I am way behind on my student loans. I walked back there and saw a book on the table. It was this one.” He made a whisking motion with his hands in the direction of Sock. “It was signed by Penn, and there was also a card with a note that read “Call us. You will not believe your eyes!” There was a phone number below it.
“So you called the number?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll give you three bucks for the book,” I said, seizing the hand of gullibility he had laid out on the table, “Five if you don’t finish this story.”
Alas, he was a three dollar man. “They sent a car to pick me up and take me to a ghost town up in Nye County, about eighty miles north of town,” he continued, his voice gaining more confidence. “They blindfolded me, and I was told what to do by a woman with a soft, soothing voice. It was a long and bumpy ride, but she held me. Her hands were soothing yet firm, and did amazing things to make me relax. Finally we got there and she untied me. We got out of the car and I couldn’t see anything but there was warmth coming from a crackling fire. She pushed me on ahead, and I took off the blind fold and saw a group of people standing in a circle around the fire. They were all hooded, so I couldn’t see any faces. The firelight danced off a lone, ruby-red painted fingernail of the coven leader as he raised his hand in an invocation. “Azhrael,” he bellowed, “we call forth to thee!” And then there was a flash of smoke, and I saw…the Devil!”
I blinked my eyes twice. “Get the fuck out. You’re just shitting me now.”
“Oh no, sir,” he said. “I kid you not. I was tremulous, and my heart was bursting with a giddy joy so intense that I had to will every cell of my body to control the urge to....”
“Scream?”
“Yes!” he practically squealed.
Oh, for the love of Manilow, I could slap this fuck right now.
But he goes on, “Then Satan started yelling at the coven leader and the guy who led me to the fire pit. They pushed back their hoods, and it was Penn and Teller! They looked mortified. Then Satan points to me and says, “He is not worthy of a sacrifice. He is unpure.”
“Unpure? You mean you’re not a virgin?” Penn asked me, his voice going up a full octave.
“I just smiled back at him.”
“So then Penn was all like, “C’mon, there’s no way you’ve ever gotten laid!’ But Satan replied, “Oh, no. He’s not a virgin.” So Penn looks down at Teller. And then reached into his cloak and pulls out this ratty sock puppet, then through the sock puppet he starts yelling, “We chose him because he was a virgin! Now the big guy says he’s not a virgin! He sure was a virgin when you picked him up…” then he screamed, “You had butt sex with him, didn’t you?” It was then I realized that the warm, nurturing female driver was really not a woman,” he sighed.
“So you had sex with Teller…and liked it?”
“Well, nobody’s perfect.”
*
I handed him the three dollar bills, having gotten quite a laugh over the story. I couldn’t resist asking one question, though. “So, how did your blood get on the book anyway?”
“Oh, I got a papercut when I picked it up earlier. I didn’t even notice I was bleeding until I got to the car. Silly me” he chuckled softly. I laughed a bit too. Then I could have sworn I heard a muffled laugh, like a chattering monkey. Then the guy says ‘goodbye’ and turns away. I swear I see a sock monkey peeking out of his jacket pocket! I swear, officer, it was lookin’ right at me. And then it winked.
Scottdammit © 2011
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