As the passageway before me closed, preventing course, I pretended to take interest in the wall of titles that stood before me. Kant, Rousseau, Sartre; The names spark memories of my latter college years, the years preceding my nominal auspicious position as a loan adviser, but largely nothing sparked a reemergence in concern. They just sat their on the shelf, translated with timed styled spines.
And how translated they might be I thought, in an effort to fill the time. The words once German, once French, Greek. Thoughts converted through filters and medians and persons oh my. But all the same I suppose. The contents must still hold some value. Books stores are not supported by UNICEF or the American Historical Association. So I wait.
The post middle aged women and possible member of the nearby church, whom blocks my passage, leisurely thumbs through assorted photo books. It appears she is looking for a gift, but I soon realize the holiday season has taken influence on my assumptions. A book of the Carolina coastline comes out. Her reaction to photos of beaches and beach towns let on to the idea she is remembering a past vacation. The likely hood of this dismissed my doubt. It was December now. We all dream away from this dreary weather and Virginia is a typical getaway around here. The Jersey shore is far too close and typical and dirty, yet Carolina could be traveled to in reasonable time and it hosted people of practically the same mindset.
So there I was, feigning interest in the surround books order to be polite while she picked up the first thing she saw familiar. Both of us trying to come across as the intellectual, the ones that frequent book stores or who we thought that was. The book clerk at the front counter was always a good illustration. This particular one was describing locations to an incoming shipment while he was taking tags and marks off of books taken out a brown paper bag. The paper bag, being a product of the local organic grocery chain was overused. His glasses had frames thicker than mine, but mine were certainly newer.
I sensed the women had caught on to my presence and desire to pass. She turned the page and continued browsing. Perhaps it was my fear of being caught watching her that initiated my hope for acknowledgement.
I looked away. A curly haired young woman looked away from me. I wonder if I have been convincing enough to deceive her of my interest and graceful position. Her position seamed to satisfy but it was forced. She was stuck in psychology. What a pretentious field. I would let the girl through, but if I were to move now I would give up my own dishonesty, revealing my disinterest in these books and perhaps even hers as well.
We all stood there, with our arms crossed. Proud. None of us bought a thing.