Not possible.

No doubt.

He stared at the innocent looking object, lying in wait, between himself and the shopkeeper. When he spoke, he felt uncertain whether the quaver in his voice would give away that his heart had become a battering ram inside his chest.

“How… how much?”

The old man was slow and took too long to retrieve the book. When he did, he spent an eternity flipping over a few pages as if they had all the time in the world.

“Now, let me see.” He pushed his glasses further down on his nose.

“No,” he said, checking the back.

“Nope,” he said, opening the cover.

“Hmm. Hmm-hmm, that is a puzzle. Don’t rightly know son. Normally we put the price on a sticker somewhere. Jeez, I’d better check with Joe. Can I take your number and call you? Okay?”

He smiled when he looked up, lowering his arm, the clutched book momentarily out of sight, below the counter.

William was in a panic. “What about I give you a hundred? Make that one-twenty.”

The man arched his neck backward and tilted his head, examining William as if he’d just said, hold up your hands; this is a robbery. Then he scratched above an ear like he had a family of fleas living in the snatch of hair.

“Well, hell… I guess. Yeah. I doubt he paid that much for it.”

He nodded and puckered his lips.

“Okay, okay. Tell you what, I’ll throw in the Gatsby too. That’ll pacify my guilt. Can probably close up for the rest of the afternoon from this sale. You a collector or somethun?”

He added in a thoughtful, quizzical tone. “You know something I don’t, about this here book?”

“No, I know nothing, nothing, really. I just like the cover. Green. Yes, I like green.”

He chuckled as William handed over his credit card.

“Must be my lucky day,” he said, processing the payment. He stopped for a moment and looked up to add, “Or maybe it’s yours, huh?”

“Maybe,” replied William, shaking his head and giving a nervous chuckle. “But I’m not a big believer in luck.”

74

The shopkeeper waited until the door closed behind the nervous young man. He gave him little further thought.

His hands ached a little today, his arthritis playing up again. Days such as this—warm with a chance of rain—always reminded him his youthful years were a long way behind in the rear-view mirror.

He should see his doctor soon for more medication. Someone told him to take Omega-3. He wasn’t convinced, and fish didn’t agree with him, anyway.

Besides, sometimes experiencing pain made him feel more alive. This was the circle of life and his decaying body was the reward for everything before, good and bad. That sucker of a wheel didn’t care about him, or the fellow so intent on the book. It didn’t care about anyone. The thing turned and around you went; a squeaking mouse pedaling like hell to keep up.