D
uncan McLean loved books. He loved the way they smelled. The fresh woody scent of virgin pages straight from the press intoxicated him. The musty odor of old tomes brought a sense of nostalgia. He loved the crisp sound of new pages and how they honored him with the thrill of parting them for the first time. He loved tiny books that fit into his pockets as he moved about his room, and the monstrous books that collapsed into his lap with a firm thud. He loved all kinds of books.
But not anymore.
Dark wood shelves in Duncan’s room peeked between the stacks of books scattered about like the sun shining through the New York skyline. The piles took many shapes and sizes: low, flat tenements of old picture books with faded illustrations, flanked by townhouses of novels and libraries of textbooks full of enlightening information. In the center of the literary city, behind Duncan’s chair, stood an enormous skyscraper, each floor made from a different type of book: thin, fat, small, large. It towered over the room and peered over Duncan’s shoulder as he read.
Or it used to. Now the books tormented him with their words and teased him with the knowledge held inside; knowledge that he would soon forget and have to regain by opening the book’s pages once more.
Read Me, The Call of the Wild said.
No, read me, said Jane’s Fighting Ships.
Quiet, Duncan replied.
Don’t you want to know what happens to Boo? asked To Kill a Mockingbird.
No, I don’t.
How about the relation between Buddhism and Quantum Physics? You know you want to know, The Web of Life said.
Shut up! All of you shut up!
He glared out the large bay window of his room as a woman and child stopped to stare. They wore bright neon colors, unlike Duncan’s drab khakis and patterned shirt. The girl pointed at him and said something to the woman, but he could not hear through the glass. They must be taunting him too. How could he read all these books? Duncan scowled and reached for a book off the top floor of one of his tenements. Weapons of War, how appropriate, he thought. He flung it at the girl. The paperback slammed against the window causing her to jump back. She began to cry, but Duncan didn't care. The woman furrowed her brow, mumbled some inaudible remark, and led the girl from his sight.
He slumped back into his chair and looked down noticing a tattoo on his wrist. His initials: D-MCL. When did I get this? He flicked his wrist in frustration and tried to fling the inked letters from his skin. They held steadfast. He flicked harder, standing up for more leverage. The letters continued their grip on his flesh. Duncan spun his arm in a wide arc to hurl them off, his backswing carrying right into the 24th floor of the great skyscraper like a manic wrecking ball. The towering pile teetered a moment before crashing down on him.
Duncan struggled on the floor under the immense weight of millions of words for several minutes before a wood panel, beside the now visible shelves, whizzed open . A man in a white jumpsuit stepped into Duncan's room.
Who are you? Duncan read the man’s nametag. Ah, Mr. Staff. I am glad you are here. Can you please get these books off me?
The man complied, but did not reply. He shoved several blocks of books off Duncan's back, then tapped his wristband, held it up to his mouth and said, “Sanderson to Museum Control. Looks like unit 500-1150 is on the fritz again. Can you reset him?”
#
The lights came on in Duncan McLean’s room. He loved books. He loved their aroma and the texture of their pages. He loved their variety of sizes, large and small; and he loved sharing his joy of reading with the curious people who walked by his large bay window every day.
