The raging inferno licks lasciviously at the blackened sky as great plumes
of smoke funnel upward, threatening to engulf the moon in an acrid embrace.
A scream rips from my throat as the last of the books is dumped unceremoniously
into the fiery ashes. The fight is over; my electronic enemies have won.
Every book has been destroyed, replaced by machines, CD Roms, and Floppy
Disks. My captor grins in supreme satisfaction, his otherwise human features
contrasting obscenely with the computer port imbedded in his forehead.
He reaches out for me, thick serpentine cables waggling seductively, and
...
... I wake up. I have awakened to this disturbing nightmare far too many
times, left with a fear that never quite dissipates in the light of day.
Perhaps this is because the influx of technology and cyber electronics
seems to taunt my fears that books and the hours of pleasure spent in search
of each new literary adventure are going the way of speakeasies and Model
T Fords. My struggle to cling to tradition and sentimentality compels me
to make the two-hour journey to an unlikely mecca in the swamp.
Old Man Manse and his three-legged cat have been an institution in the
tiny town of Bethany since long before the birth of certain fledgling Internet
book vendors who hawk their wares with promises of anonymity, vast variety,
and bargain prices. Instead of an abstract electronic address, Mr. Manse
operates from the ramshackle clapboard building that also serves as a home
for him and his feline companion, Leviathan. The nondescript facade of
the building is unadorned except for the hand-painted lettering on the
opaque glass door declaring the Tome Tomb open for business.
A bell hangs from an ornate doorknob to announce the infrequent arrival
of potential customers. Upon entry, the assault of musty air is redolent
with the smell of mothballs and reminiscent of rainy days spent in the
libraries of my youth. The overhead lighting has long since burned out
and dim lamps struggle in vain to keep lurking shadows at bay. The walls
are lined from the cracked cement floor to the stained ceiling with shelves
crammed full of old, leather-bound volumes of every size and color. More
bookcases form narrow isles in the center of the room shelves sagging under
the weight of their precious cargo. Towering stacks of the overflow form
obstacles in this labyrinth and on every available surface. Colorful signs
and arrows direct patrons to various topics and themes, laughably suggesting
method to this mayhem.
In the far corner of the room, Mr. Manse himself can be found dozing in
a tattered wingback chair. His denture-contoured mouth yawns cavernously
and air whistles laboriously through a beaked nose adorned with smudged
spectacles. His gaunt frame is clothed in worn tweeds, and his plaid bowtie
is crooked. A thick volume is splayed across his thin chest, and Leviathan
sleeps contentedly under his master's gnarled hand.
Several loud coughs are usually necessary to rouse the old shopkeeper.
Waking him is like coaxing Granddad's old Buick to start on a wintry morning.
Even after the eventual start-up, quite a few minutes are needed to recharge
the old battery. Leviathan jumps to the floor and totters crazily on his
three legs before steadying himself. Mr. Manse eases painfully from the
chair and pulls himself as erect as his stooped shoulders will allow. He
reaches into a pocket, extracts a crumpled handkerchief, and roots inside
his nose for an elusive antagonist.
"What shall we look for today?" he asks in a tinny voice, and finally my
nightmare begins to retreat to the far recesses of my mind. Everything
is as it should be. In this wonderful utopia, you will not find a single
computer. There are no flashy advertising gimmicks, and the closest thing
to trendy coffee is the leaky water fountain mounted precariously on the
wall. But it is here that a sense of tradition and a true love of conventional
loyalty are nurtured, and it is here where I can always feel at home.
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