Memoirs of the Mundane — Barns & No Bells

The best way to stave off the mundane banality of pandemic life is to teleport to better times. Select your adventure from the shelf, crack open the spine, and disappear into an alternate reality as the pages slowly turn. 

This unfortunate tale occurred only moments ago. As they say, sometimes the best way to process a tragedy is to write about it. And by 'they', I mean 'I.'  Just made that up.

I found myself in a predicament. I needed some Steinbeck, and I needed it now. After consulting with the world-wide web, I was informed that the nearest locally owned bookstore to be found was located East of Eden. And nobody has time for that road trip. I had to settle: Barnes and Nobles. So I made the much shorter trek out there and that is where this tale begins... and hopefully ends. 

I have an incredible knack for having no idea where I'm going, but arriving perfectly where I hoped to be. Sadly, this gift only pertains to physical location, not life events. You should see me roaming the streets of Paris, London, Berlin, Prague. I always accidentally walk directly to the museum, cathedral, palace, gardens that I'm thinking of visiting. Having not been able to exercise this mysterious power in far too long, I had apparently built up a great excess. I strolled through the doors (unable to see the signs of the section I wanted until 2ft away from it... forgot my glasses) and walked directly to the Steinbeck shelf in the classical literature section, darting through the maze of scifi, fantasy, western, self help, and other book aisles, as if I had worked in that store for five years. One minute and twenty-three seconds in, and I was thumbing through the books, trying to select the perfect gift for her. Nothing says I love you more than Steinbeck...right? [author's note: for those of you who have not read any Steinbeck, this is a joke... just like the fact that you haven't read any Steinbeck—what are you doing with your life?!]. I selected two Steinbeck novels that I have not yet read, that way I can be more interested when we spend late nights around the fireplace as she tells me all about them. Now, you're probably wondering who this mysterious woman is. "Has he finally done it? Is this the one? Must be pretty serious if he's bringing Steinbeck into the equation." Sorry to disappoint, Gabriel Marquez, but I will not be writing a follow up piece called "Love in the time of Corona." The books are for my sister. 

Having nowhere else to be in particular, I decided to give in to one of man kind's greatest temptations—having a look. "Just one look around the store, that's it," I told myself. I glanced quickly around the classical section, unconsciously clutching my wallet, trying to discern by its weight how much I could afford to lose from having a look, whilst consciously contemplating how much it would set me back to buy a new bookcase, which would surely be needed. After convincing myself that my stack at home is big enough as it is and realizing I had already read half of the books there, I slowly pried my fingers off a beautiful copy of Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray (I already own two copies of it as it is, but this one was beautiful) I took a deep breath, and turned towards the registers. 

But as I strode towards the registers, my feet stopped communicating. I stared down at them as they turned at a forty-five degree angle away from the registers. "Huh?" slowly I lifted my gaze. There, across the store, was a serpent dangling its metaphorical apple—a plump, juicy sign with the words written in striking Garamond font: BIOGRAPHY.  "Here we go," I barely had time to think, before my feet raced off in that direction. My wallet let out an audible groan, and I had to cover for it by saying, "Mexican food," while pointing to my belly, so as not to alarm the woman walking towards me. 

I made it safely to the BIOGRAPHY section without any further outbursts from my wallet. I was just beginning to size up the shelves, when I was rudely interrupted by a shadowy figure that appeared out of the corner of my eye, "What are you looking for?" I figured it was probably an overzealous employee, unaware of my aforementioned mysterious location powers. But before I could politely respond "my feet are possessed by a book worshipping demon," the stranger cut in again, "are you trying to learn a new language?" Taken aback, I took a step back. In a two second scan of the entire aisle, it was instantly apparent that there were no books even remotely related to languages or language learning. It was then that I knew I was in for some trouble. "Nope. Just browsing," I replied, still desperately hoping that it was an employee. "Perhaps a new employee?" No such luck. This guy definitely did not speak the language of bookstores, or he would have certainly picked up on the International Introvert's Law of Bookstore Code: Just browsing = leave me the hell alone.  Now, had this been in a long forgotten time-period called pre-Covid, I would not have given the intrusive fellow the time of day, but my diminished social skills from a newfound life of hermitry (not a word, but it should be. I quite like it.) had become too softened. 

He took a step closer. "What do you want to do for a career?" he quizzed. "Who is this guy? some kind of army recruiter?" I thought. But then I turned to size him up. Dress shirt, tie, slacks, stereotypical BYU returned missionary haircut. This guy looked straight off the airplane. I legitimately expected to see a black name tag as my eyes darted around his figure. The lack of the name tag really threw me for a loop. "Uhhh, not sure," I replied, letting my hermetic social skills do the talking. Typically I insert something like: hunting human beings on my island  with my friend Rainsford or body snatching with Dr. Knox. But this guy took my response as an invitation to play 20 questions. Each question putting me more on edge. I realized I'd been had—I was trapped. "Jehovah's Witness maybe?" I thought. Worse. Slowly my hermitry began to fade, and I threw in a few curveballs (a born in Canada curveball to be exact). 

After three introvert lifetimes or probably about six minutes in extrovert time, he finally got to the point. "I dropped out of college after one semester to become an entrepreneur," he boasted. Now I don't know about you, but that is exactly not the kind of thing I want to hear whilst trapped in a book aisle with no language study books, trying not to spend money on biographies that I wish I was spending lots of money on.  "I help people start businesses. We should meet up and talk sometime." Again, I don't know about you, but if I were an entrepreneur, I would not be looking for clients in the 'language section' of a bookstore that is not even a language section. What is the thought process behind goons like this guy? "Oh hey, there's a completely random guy looking at books,  I'm sure he'll become an ultra successful business man and make me truckloads of money; I should go and talk to him, because he'll definitely need my help to make me truckloads of money." I mean, honestly, what?!

Then my stupid social skills got me in the hole again. "Can I get your number, let's meet next week," he spurted. Not even pausing long enough after his question for me to take a writer's liberty of placing a question mark after 'number'. Pre-Covid Era brain kicked in and realized I was saved by the classic few digits off so you sound confident of your own number, false number trick. But then he guessed my play. "Actually, I'll give you my number, and then you can text me right away so I have your number." "Damn." Straight off the plane is right. I checked again just to be positive that he didn't have a name tag hidden somewhere on his person—so fresh he'd forgotten to take it off. Nothing. I reluctantly sent the message, already skipping to plan B: block the number. "Oh, by the way, my name is Grant. I'll add you to my potential investigators list" (no joke he said that). Then his phone started ringing. "Oh, it's my wife, I'd better get this." And he stretched out his hand for a shake. That's when I knew 100% that he could not be trusted. Who tries to shake hands with a complete stranger during a pandemic? Only psychopaths and homicidal axe wielding maniacs. He picked up his phone "Hey bub." Bub? He calls his wife bub?? Definitely on the homicidal axe wielding maniac spectrum. But, he was finally out of my hair.

My fight or flight instincts had kicked in about one introvert lifetime ago, but since I definitely was not trying to fight a homicidal axe wielding maniac (though to my great luck, the only axe he had on him at the time appeared to be the body spray), I prayed for flight.  As he strode off, I seized my opportunity. Overcoming all literary temptations the store offered, I waited about ten seconds and made a beeline for the registers, pausing only to make sure there were no axes in the vicinity. 

The lady at the register, unaware of the danger we both faced from that maniac, took her sweet sweet time. "Look lady, do you want my money or not?" Had I been purchasing Melville,  Lawrence, or even Hemingway, I would have ditched the books and run for my life. But Steinbeck and my sister's birthday were worth the risk. 

Finally free of the building, I checked over my shoulder to be sure of my safety, and went directly to my car at a breakneck pace. Locked safely inside, I thought to myself, I shouldn't have detoured to the biography section. He surely wouldn't have caught me if I'd only grabbed my books and gone straight to the registers. As I pondered on the absurdity of the situation I'd just encountered, I came to the formation of plan C. 

Plan C: I would use his naive post-mission, BYU bro vibes against him. Yes! Yes! "I'll wait a few days, then send him a text message with a video clip of Diamanda Galas, telling him that she is performing at the Satanic Temple and asking him if he's going to be there for the ritual. If he responds, I'll apologize for messaging the wrong Grant," I mischieved. (Also not a word, but should be). Yes. That is the only logical way out of this thing. I just have to hope that he'll take the bait, and hope that he isn't already a member of the satanic religion, though the fact that he is an entrepreneur and homicidal axe wielding maniac both highly increase the likelihood of him being a satanist. For a fleeting second, a deeper wave of mischief washed over me, "what if I did go to his meeting after all? Then I could really mess with him. Or, or at least I'd probably end up with something else to write about." But then I came to my senses. Don't feed the beast. Plan C is the only way. 

As they say, sometimes the best way to process a tragedy is to write about it. 

So what have I processed through this particular writing process? It could be that a life of entrepreneurship is not for me. It could be that I shouldn't trust my feet. It could be that I need to avoid the biography and even language sections just to be cautious. Or it could be that I desperately need to work on my social skills. But, the true moral of this story is: stick to the classics.