Aselin

Bookstores. Every time I go inside one, a whole world of interests I didn’t know I have opens up before me. People, places and ideas unfold in a veritable feast of knowledge. Who knew the President of Genovia raises hairless cats? That hydroponic gardening can be practiced in the desert? That Nostradamus predicted Obama’s presidency?

It makes me dizzy with delight as I move through aisle after aisle of potential treasures. One of my favorite spots in the bookstore is the bargain table, an eclectic collection of titles that didn’t sell the first eight tries.

I worked in a small bookstore as a teen. I know the drill. Books that haven’t generated a love connection with a customer should be given a higher profile. Given the chance to scream out “just get to know me a little, you’ll learn to love me!” These books are a little desperate, and would be happy to be chosen by just about anyone.

As I’m pouring over one such table a man that looks suspiciously like Yanni joins me. Normally I try an avoid other people when in the zen state of book shopping, but there is something about this guy that catches my eye. He has shoulder length gray hair, but a very young face. Trying to surveil with out getting caught I pretend to be fascinated by a copy of Latvian Lullabies while squinting out of the corner of my eye. From my natural-like contorted position I can only see up to his waist. He’s barefoot. He’s wearing linen pants... and remember he looks like Yanni.

I resist the urge to ask him if he’s carrying a pan flute and move to another table.

Forty minutes later I’ve ascertained that the book I came in to purchase is sold out, but on back order. Disappointed I lumber over to the check out line. Right behind Linen Pants Dude.

Now I can get a better look without being noticed. Everything is a little off about him. Had I been in Sedona or Ojai he would have fit right in, but few people walk around the Phoenix Metropolitan Area barefoot.

Using my bargain purchase, “The Book of Yiddish Insults and Curses” as a shield I give him the once over when I notice there’s something sticking out of the collar of his shirt. Barely visible above his collar are the spiny black threads from three stitches. He’s got a 1 inch incision that has been recently repaired.

Suddenly I realize what’s going on! I saw episodes of the X-Files! Agent Scully had been abducted by aliens, had something implanted at the base of her neck which only through intense physical suffering did she eventually notice and have removed. Yanni was also abducted! OR... maybe he IS an alien, trying ineffectively to blend in. Maybe his mother ship dropped him off behind Barnes and Noble with the mission of surveying intelligent life-forms. Clearly my powers of observation are more acute than the average bookstore patron since no one else in the establishment recognizes their imminent peril.

I’m torn between the desire to flee from the possibility of alien encounter, and the notion that if you’re an alien who wants to study someone I think I might make an interesting subject. Do I want to be picked? Do I not want to be picked? I’m like the bargain books!

Yanni swings around with his purchases, also bargain table books, and today’s copy of the Wall Street Journal. I have that horrible jerky reaction of being caught staring when you don’t want to be caught staring which only makes it completely obvious that you’ve been staring. Yanni doesn’t smile. I feel betrayed. We’ve developed a psychic connection over the last fifteen minutes as I’ve been mentally crafting his story. Doesn’t that count for anything?

Luckily I have my handy 99 cent Yiddish reference book for situations like this. As Yanni abandons me out the front door I mutter, “Er zol vaksen vi a tsibeleh, mit dem kop in drerd...” For those of you not yet fluent in Yiddish, this translates to: He should grow like an onion with his head in the ground.

That’ll show Alien man.