The Walk Down Memory Lane Always Leads to a Bookstore

I sat across from him, noticing his knobby knuckles and five-o'clock shadow.  He ordered coffee with his pizza--his first cup of the day.  I told him about the time I'd downed 22 cups in one day.  We both admitted to our dependence.  The image of us in fourth grade, dressed as angels in the all-school Christmas pageant came to mind for no reason at all; I was a head taller than he was even then.  Then I thought of the picture the yearbook staff had taken of us for our senior superlative.  My sash and his crown said the same thing: Most Musically Talented.  I couldn't believe I'd been dreading our lunch reunion, worried we wouldn't have anything to say.  I should have known better.  The more we talked the clearer it became that we had done our respective maturing in separate spheres but had somehow met up on the other side, now running parallel in the lifelong race.

After the plates were cleared and the bill had been payed we walked to his car for my Janis Joplin shirt and his cigarettes.  He asked me to explain the writing process to him and to suggest a good book, one that would make him want to keep reading.  As I waited for him to finish his cigarette I explained that I wrote mostly about my own life--moments, events, and chapters more so than day-to-day occurrences.  I didn't say it, but I was already writing this in my head, well before the reunion was concluded.  

We walked around the shopping mall, laughing at the gaggles of teenagers, relieved that that era of our lives was behind us.  We discussed passion and music and passion for music.  He told me matter-of-factly that writing music came before work and money and he has no problem with living poorly.  I smiled: he was the same boy I've always known, a bit more serious and thoughtful but still the same.

Our wandering led us to Borders where he again challenged me to find him a book.  He promised to buy whatever I picked out, trusting me completely to supply him with inspiration.

With my mission in mind, I set off.  I considered inspiration and passion and the fact that he was not a reader.  I was well into the K's before I realized I'd passed what I was looking for.  Back in the S's I cringed at the over-abundance of romance novels.  I started to worry I wasn't going to find what I was after.

"I hope my life is never so pathetic that I have to resort to trashy novels for excitement, ya know?  Ah, here it is!" I squatted down to look at the selection.

"I don't have your address, but can I send you angry letters if I hate it?"

"Oh, for sure.  Just leave them with Andy, he'll get them to me."  He laughed.

 

Triumphantly, I stood up and handed Luke a copy of Nine Stories.