Sometimes the Books Find You
“Can I help you find anything?”
All kinds of stores ask that—clothing, grocery, hardware, makeup, cosmetics, liquor, etc. Today, I heard it in a bookstore. Here, that feels like a loaded question.
Normally, I would reply with a simple, “I’m just looking for now, thanks.” But when it comes to being in a bookstore, one of my absolute favorite places to be, it’s more often that I’m not here for anything specific. I’m here hoping something finds me. This is the inherent magic that comes with entering a bookstore. Yet…
“No thank you, I’m just looking.”
I’m left to my own devices. In a bookstore. What could happen?
As I peruse with gentle excitement, it quickly turns to concern. No matter what section I’m in or shelf I look at, I can almost always find something that I find interest in. I see the benefit of every book and story. This moment always frustrates me. It’s the potential start to a spiral ending in a miserable bookstore visit— and that is blasphemy. I look at the shelf across the way and Where’d You Go, Bernadette by Maria Semple catches my eye. In this book, Bernadette is indecisive in her personal life and her career, but because of this, she ends up considering bolder, unconventional choices that bring her to places no one would’ve expected. My spiral stops in it’s tracks.
I share the next aisle with a group of teenage girls having a great time together as they read the backs of books to one another. Sounds like they’re getting a book club together. They’re holding The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. I adore that book, and want to tell them to look no further. But I find myself too shy to insert myself into their joyous conversation. They put the book back down and head to the next section.
I kick myself for being too shy, and I pick up the book after they walk away, wanting to apologize for keeping it from its next home. I flip through the pages and remember that Charlie, the main character, is a very quiet and observant kid. Some would even call him “too shy” or “too quiet”. Yet his quiet personality allows him to watch, absorb, and notice details that most other people miss. This gift allows him to deeply empathize and ultimately helps him learn to connect with others and himself. Instead of apologizing to the book, I instead whisper, “Watch and wait. The right reader will come.”
As I’m standing there talking to a book, a man in a football jersey walks by. I would’ve been embarrassed if the encounter wasn’t so brief. He moreso stumbles by, bumping me in the process. I nearly drop the book I’m holding. “Oh sorry, you alright?” I said instinctively. He didn’t hear and made his way to another section like a zombie on a mission. An elderly woman sees the whole thing and comes over. “ I would’ve told that guy to watch it and get it together! Honey, you’re too nice.” I flash an awkward smile as we part ways. I’ve always found it strange when people called me that. “Too nice.” Is the only way to survive in this world to be hardened and living on the defensive constantly? Granted, I didn’t see anyone bumping into her. Is she onto something?
For the sake of getting away from the older woman as I have my internal existential crisis, I walk in the opposite direction and find myself in the children’s section. A little boy is holding a book and staring at it. The book is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl. “I saw this movie!” he excitedly tells me in that unprompted way children do. “Oh yay! Uh-did you like it?” I reply, caught off guard and relieved to see his mom walking over. As she grabs his hand and smiles at me, the boy says, “Yea! Charlie was really nice, even when the other kids weren’t. So he got the biggest prize at the end.” They walked away, the book still in his hand. Lucky for him, I’ve read the book already or he would’ve spoiled the ending for me. But he did remind me of something—maybe being nice does matter, after all.
Leaving the children’s section, I realize I’m back at the door. I’ve done my lap, and still there is no book in my hand. I walk past the cashier’s line on the way out and notice some familiar faces. The mom holding a stack of books in one hand and holding the little boy’s in another as he reaching up, trying to add Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on top of the rest.
In front of them, in joyous conversation, is the book club. The girls look excited about their next chosen piece. Curious, I look at their hands. Perks of Being a Wallflower held or hugged by each one, ready to bring theirs home.
At the very front, with abhorrent posture, is the man in the football jersey. Getting a good look at him this time, I realize he isn’t just clumsy, he’s exhausted. I can’t help but wonder why. He trudges up to the cashier and puts his book on the counter—The New Dad’s Playbook by Benjamin Watson. That gave me all the information I needed, and gratitude that I chose to be kind to a man who was here to find something to support him while in the newborn trenches.
“Did you need helping finding something?” another worker asks me. “No, thank you. I was only looking.”
What I needed certainly found me. And everyone else.
That is the magic of bookstores.
