Read Online Dover Beach by Richard Bowker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Bowker
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and Art peered out into the darkness. "Who is it?" he demanded.
I took out the badge that Mickey had given me and held it up in front of the slot. "Vice Squad," I said. "Open up. This is a raid."
Art cackled delightedly and started undoing the locks. In a minute or so the door opened and I stepped inside. "Nothing objectionable here, Officer," Art said. "Look for yourself."
I looked. Art probably had the largest collection of pornography in the commonwealth—maybe on the entire East Coast. His store was crammed from floor to ceiling with old Penthouses and Playboys and Hustlers, with Fanny Hill and The Story of O and The Delta of Venus and Emmanuelle, with hundreds of novels by Anonymous about Victorian gentlemen and their willing maids, with thousands of novels that told the steamy inside stories of the sexual hijinks of Hollywood stars, of the international jet set, of the glamorous people in the high-powered worlds of advertising, finance, fashion, publishing... crammed with anything that might feed people's fevered imaginations about the old days, that might tantalize and delight and exhaust them with visions of pleasures they could never possibly share.
Jesus Christ did not approve of Art.
Art didn't approve of himself, really, but a guy's gotta make a living, and this was what people wanted in a bookstore. So he gave them their cheap thrills, and he saved his affection for the occasional discriminating customer. Like me.
He was a little man, with bright eyes, long white hair, and a beard that hadn't been trimmed in twenty-two years. He looked the way Santa Claus might look, if Santa Claus were forced to subsist on our modern diet.
"You're absolutely right," I said, picking up a dog-eared copy of Greta, She-Wolf of the Nazis. Greta glared at me from the cover, whip held menacingly in one hand. She was bursting out of her too-tight storm trooper uniform. "Just good, wholesome literature here. I must have been misinformed." I handed him the book I had brought. "Here's a present for you."
Art nodded with satisfaction as he examined it. "Brin. The Postman. Hardcover, 1985. Very good condition—better than the one I have. Postwar Oregon, right?"
"Right. Bobby Gallagher and I carted off an old lady's library the other day, and this was in it. He let me keep the book—no one else would want it."
"This is excellent, Walter. Thank you. Let's go add it to the collection."
We went through the store, past a "No Admittance" sign, and into a storage area. It, too, was piled high with books, but there was also a cot, and a sink, and several locked cabinets. Art opened one and placed the book reverently inside, next to a softcover and another hardcover edition of the same novel.
"Are there any you don't have?" I asked.
Art shook his head. "Who knows? You wouldn't believe how many books got published in the old days. There were a lot of people writing back then."
I stared at the books—row after row. I had only bothered to read a few of them. It always seemed like such a waste. On the Beach. Alas, Babylon. A Canticle for Leibowitz. Fiskadoro. "It looks like they were all writing about the same thing," I murmured.
"There were a lot more She-Wolves of the Nazis than post-holocaust novels," Art pointed out.
"You're the expert." I watched Art lock up the cabinet. "You know, this is a very weird hobby," I said.
Art smiled. "You think so? Perhaps that's because you're so young, You don't feel the need to connect. This is my way of connecting."
"They also wrote books about useful stuff, like how to make glass, and how to treat typhus."
"But I'm not a useful person. Did you ever think that some of these writers are still alive—looking at the world as it is, and comparing it to the world they had imagined? I wonder how they feel about it."
"Probably they think: geez, it coulda been worse."
"True. But it's harder living in a world than it is imagining one. Now, you didn't come here just to give me a present. What can I do
I took out the badge that Mickey had given me and held it up in front of the slot. "Vice Squad," I said. "Open up. This is a raid."
Art cackled delightedly and started undoing the locks. In a minute or so the door opened and I stepped inside. "Nothing objectionable here, Officer," Art said. "Look for yourself."
I looked. Art probably had the largest collection of pornography in the commonwealth—maybe on the entire East Coast. His store was crammed from floor to ceiling with old Penthouses and Playboys and Hustlers, with Fanny Hill and The Story of O and The Delta of Venus and Emmanuelle, with hundreds of novels by Anonymous about Victorian gentlemen and their willing maids, with thousands of novels that told the steamy inside stories of the sexual hijinks of Hollywood stars, of the international jet set, of the glamorous people in the high-powered worlds of advertising, finance, fashion, publishing... crammed with anything that might feed people's fevered imaginations about the old days, that might tantalize and delight and exhaust them with visions of pleasures they could never possibly share.
Jesus Christ did not approve of Art.
Art didn't approve of himself, really, but a guy's gotta make a living, and this was what people wanted in a bookstore. So he gave them their cheap thrills, and he saved his affection for the occasional discriminating customer. Like me.
He was a little man, with bright eyes, long white hair, and a beard that hadn't been trimmed in twenty-two years. He looked the way Santa Claus might look, if Santa Claus were forced to subsist on our modern diet.
"You're absolutely right," I said, picking up a dog-eared copy of Greta, She-Wolf of the Nazis. Greta glared at me from the cover, whip held menacingly in one hand. She was bursting out of her too-tight storm trooper uniform. "Just good, wholesome literature here. I must have been misinformed." I handed him the book I had brought. "Here's a present for you."
Art nodded with satisfaction as he examined it. "Brin. The Postman. Hardcover, 1985. Very good condition—better than the one I have. Postwar Oregon, right?"
"Right. Bobby Gallagher and I carted off an old lady's library the other day, and this was in it. He let me keep the book—no one else would want it."
"This is excellent, Walter. Thank you. Let's go add it to the collection."
We went through the store, past a "No Admittance" sign, and into a storage area. It, too, was piled high with books, but there was also a cot, and a sink, and several locked cabinets. Art opened one and placed the book reverently inside, next to a softcover and another hardcover edition of the same novel.
"Are there any you don't have?" I asked.
Art shook his head. "Who knows? You wouldn't believe how many books got published in the old days. There were a lot of people writing back then."
I stared at the books—row after row. I had only bothered to read a few of them. It always seemed like such a waste. On the Beach. Alas, Babylon. A Canticle for Leibowitz. Fiskadoro. "It looks like they were all writing about the same thing," I murmured.
"There were a lot more She-Wolves of the Nazis than post-holocaust novels," Art pointed out.
"You're the expert." I watched Art lock up the cabinet. "You know, this is a very weird hobby," I said.
Art smiled. "You think so? Perhaps that's because you're so young, You don't feel the need to connect. This is my way of connecting."
"They also wrote books about useful stuff, like how to make glass, and how to treat typhus."
"But I'm not a useful person. Did you ever think that some of these writers are still alive—looking at the world as it is, and comparing it to the world they had imagined? I wonder how they feel about it."
"Probably they think: geez, it coulda been worse."
"True. But it's harder living in a world than it is imagining one. Now, you didn't come here just to give me a present. What can I do
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