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Dec. 5, 2008 It was the second time that Jacob had tried his luck at the store. It wasn’t really a store as such. In fact the place was unclassifiable. What had made him stop both times was a large sign outside that said- THOUSANDS OF USED BOOKS FOR SALE He could not remember exactly what happened the first time he went there but he knew he didn’t get to see any books. He did vaguely remember going in one of the numerous entrances and feeling like he had been transported through a vortex to a ramshackle hallway not scrubbed or cleaned in decades. There were old items everywhere, and it wasn’t the good kind of gritty that abounded either. There didn’t seem to be a redeeming thing about the place, not even for the weekend ‘antiquer’ or for a flea market enthusiast. Mostly Jacob just remembered leaving. The second time was about a year later. He had reason to be around the place, and pulled in, making fresh snow tracks. The sign was still there, and he tried another door. Spaciousness this time, but spaciousness that spoke of mildew, the sadness of time in the ether, and somehow even hard-luck people. No books anywhere. He saw something though. He saw a box with key chains, a large crate in fact. Scattered here and there among them were handsome looking stainless steal knives with locking blades. Someone had acquired these knives in bulk. He picked one up and opened it. He like the feel of it and also the design. It felt weighty. Something weighty in a plastic disposable world. A man, sturdy and even walked up to him and patted him on the arm. “Hello there, how are you? “Good.” “Great.” “How do you close this knife exactly?” “This way,” and the sturdy even man wearing an army fatigue jacket, his whole aura gruff, drenched in street smarts and a hundred other things like street smarts surprised him by handling the knife with a special type of ease and care, then slowly and methodically pressing a part of it in that released the blade again, and then carefully folding the blade. All this was done in one seamless gesture and the hands worked the knife like an artisan, like a landscape painter with a brush. Like a man that knew how to use knives. Actually, Jacob had realized the moment that he saw the man that he knew the man, had had conversations with the man, and that also, obviously, that the man knew him. He remembered everything he had said to the man and everything the man had said back. But the man didn’t recognize him because he was standing too close. For this Jacob was grateful, and would continue on like a stranger, because he was not in the mood to re-connect. “Special price for you today, just let me know if you want it. And if you like knives there are more over there,” gesturing to a large case, inside of which were more knives, bigger knives, and atop the case was another crate full of the stainless steel locking blade knives. “ Where are the books?” “ No books. We had to bury the book lady.” Strange pause. “ Actually the book lady is not here. Wednesdays is her day off.” Jacob looked around a while longer, but only so as not to look like he was fleeing the store too fast. He put down the knife. He would have bought one. He would have bought two of them, but his desire for the man not to recognize him weighed stronger. Walking by some portable wooden tables, the long kind that church bazaar ladies put out, or perhaps organizers of company picnics also, Jacob noticed that most if not all of the items were obviously hot, obviously stolen. He thought about a time long before when he was at a Floridian flea market and one old lady vendor was calling out, “That’s hot. That’s not. That’s hot. That’s not. That’s hot…” while pointing to the items. Small to medium sized power tools and costume jewelry must make for two thirds the stolen items on the planet earth. The blood and backbone of any serious middleman, or serious fence. Outside there the morning had progressed much in an otherwise frugal window of time. The air and entire atmosphere had lost most of the purity it had held not long before. Jacob thought briefly of butterfly knives, and how he had purchased one in the sub-tropical state decades before. They were illegal in his country, but he had brought it back in without any problem. He had enjoyed it for a while, but more the aesthetics of it, with the well made black grip handle. Once you knew what part to hold, the knife could never really cut, scar, or even scrape you, even as you twirled it around and maneuvered it every which way, because it was only the dull side of the knife that ever touched your hand. In his vehicle he waited to back up because there was a large snowplow working the lot behind him. Soon there was room to go from there.
And he did.
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