Turning Idolater

by Edward C. Patterson

  Philip opened his mouth and muttered a few ahs. Hadn’t the man heard the tinkling and the two hellos? “I just came in . . . I’m looking for . . .”

  “Ah, you must the boy from Jersey Sterns, to pick up that restored copy of Bradstreet’s. Nice object that and quite a find, even in the deplorable condition obtained. I’ll just check . . .”

  “No. I’m not here for a book.”

  “No?” said the man. “He slid his glasses down his brittle nose. “Well, we don’t sell sweaters here, and if you’re looking for back copies of Swedish Erotica, the Globe is down the block.”

  “No,” Philip said. “I’m here to see . . .” He almost said Uncle Dean, but he didn’t think that would register him much credibility. “I’m here about a job.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know we were hiring. Did the proprietor put something in the Times or on that thing . . . what’s it called? Craig’s List.”

  “No. I met him at a social gathering and . . .”

  “Oh, I see.” He grinned from jug ear to jug ear. Philip didn’t like it at all. It was too sly for comfort and made him think that Uncle Dean had been down this road before. The man bent and shuffled some books he was arranging under the counter, and then shuffled toward the library stacks. He halted and turned. “Are you coming or did you expect Mr. Dean to make a public spectacle in the shop.”

  Philip wondered what that meant. He was the only one here and by the shape of things, he didn’t anticipate a steady flow of customers any time soon, unless there was a sale on DVDs somewhere in the stalls. He followed the clerk (he assumed he was the clerk) over the creaking floorboards into the canyon.

  2

  Philip was mesmerized by the galaxy of fine reading that surrounded him like a mite in a snuffbox. His head slowly bobbed from left to right as he spied golden and tattered bindings heralding names he knew and more that he hadn’t — Tolstoy, DeMauppasant, Eliot, Trollope and Dickens. As he concluded this simple but grand peregrination through the stacks, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a thought. If he lived three lifetimes, he might be able to perhaps read the bottom shelf, and understand just a fraction of that. It left him with a deep sense of loss. How could he feel loss at something he didn’t possess? Still, the very magic of the stacks made him glad at the same time. It was the stuff of madness.

  The center aisle opened into a wider area — a room with wall shelving, four more stalls and three large, overstuffed chairs that beckoned for an ass and a glass and an wide-opened tome. The windows were clear here and showcased an old tenement courtyard, the kind architects called the central ‘I.’ It was overgrown with sumac and ivy, but afforded a brighter light than in the front of the establishment.

  The clerk shuffled to the corner of the room, where a closed door concluded a short flight of three wooden steps. As he placed his foot on the first step, the bell tinkled. He didn’t stop, so Philip reached forward and grasped his shoulder.

  “What is it?” the clerk asked.

  “The bell rang.”

  “Did it now.” Philip now realized why the clerk hadn’t heard him enter. “Just now?”

  “Just now.”

  “Well, that must be the boy about the Bradstreet’s.” He finished the short flight, pushed open the door, and then switched on a light. “You just go up now. The proprietor is upstairs, and if he’s expecting you, it’ll just save me the effort. I spend too much time up there as it is.”

  Philip slid past him into the dim light of the inner staircase. He heard the clerk shouting through the stacks, probably trying to accost the poor courier to stay.

  The stairway was even more wretched than the bookstore. The stairs were broken and the banister shook under Philip’s grasp. He was glad it was only one flight. On the landing, there were three doors, but only one shone light over the transom, so he proceeded to that one. He knocked.

  “Come,” came a voice. He knew the voice and did not hesitate.

  “Uncle Dean?” he asked.

  The room was squat, the ceiling beveled at one end and uneven on the other. It reminded him of an outsized pigeon coop. He was familiar with those, because pigeoning was a popular pastime in Brooklyn. In fact, the rat-with-wings was the official Borough bird.

  “Over here, Philip,” said the old man. “And if you are to work here, I suggest you call me Mr. Cardoza — professional jealousies and all that. I do have other employees.”

  “I know. I met one downstairs.”

  “That would be Pons. He’s been with me forever. I do believe he is older than some of the books.”

  Philip sniffed. There was an acrid aroma in the air — not overpowering, but lingering. He also noticed stacks of damaged books on tables and chairs. Dean Cardoza was working under an intensity lamp, a loupe popped in his eye and a brush in his hand.

  “You repair books here?” Philip asked.

  Dean laughed. “Repair is a lame term for it. We preserve and conserve.”

  Philip placed his hands on a stack of frayed book innards. “Aren’t those the same thing?”

  “Not a bit of it,” Dean said. He laid his loupe aside and smiled. “Come around, my friend. You have seen the wonders of the world of books through the eyes of a reader. And now that you have latched upon such wonderment as an author, you’ve become the wind in a writer’s sails.” He clasped his arm around Philip’s shoulders. “Now behold the landfall — the pot of gold at the rainbow’s end. These vessels make the words stay the tide and hug the furrows. These are the boards that bind us to the wind so the sacred world of wisdom, and knowledge, and Mother Goose, and potboilers are never swallowed by ignorance entirely.”

  Philip’s jaw hung wide. He was staring at a shit load of old paper that was loosely held together by spit and snot beside bent and drying cardboard that faded in this backwater room above a decaying bookstore. He didn’t see ships of the line or even dry-docks here. However, he did feel Dean Cardoza’s excitement.

  “Book repair,” he said.

  “Preservation and conservation,” Dean countered. “Some clients want us to preserve these relics to the state they were when bought on some fabled stall in London, or Dublin, or Calcutta. Other customers want us to conserve a book so it keeps its ancient flavor, but still can be consumed. Call it repair, if you like, but I’m not a cobbler.”

  Philip laughed. What he really wanted to know was why Mr. Cardoza lied to him the night before about his Internet surfing routines, but he was too fascinated with the man’s hyperbole to broach such mundane inquiries. There was a tone in the old man’s voice, much like Thomas’, but not as golden — copper perhaps; fine-tapped copper, or hand-blown glass. That’s it.

  “Will I be conserving or preserving?” Philip asked.

  “At first, neither. You will be . . . observing.” He pointed to the pile of book innards. “You must learn the anatomy of a book first — the twelve styles of binding — the different stitches, glues, blends, techniques, because in order to reconstruct a volume, you need to first deconstruct it.” He lifted one of the innards. “This is a carefully disemboweled 1920 limited edition of Emerson’s complete works. The pages are near pristine, but the covers were depressing. So we separate the finery from the foulery and, with solvent, glue and stitch, we doctor the patient, healing the covers, and then rejoin it to its wondrous quarto.”

  Philip smiled. He actually understood this. He would need to tear apart the books first and then learn how to . . . do stuff to it. Dean Cardoza waved Philip through the room, touching volumes and tattered pieces. He explained the different schools of bindery and the reason and evolution of each. He showed Philip examples of innards that were not pristine and gave him a summary chemistry lesson on the various papers and reparative bleaches. He spoke of vellum and rag and rough edging and smooth. He recounted the history of the word page from the Latin pagina — to link, and explained the different sizes and their uses, from large Folio sizes to Quarto and Trade. He explained the difference between Hardback and Library editions an
d why they rarely saw a Library edition in this shop. There was side stitch, and saddle stitch, and signatures and secret Belgian binding, which must remain a secret.

  Philip found it informative, but exhausting. Finally, he insisted on trying his hand at something.

  “Tomorrow I’ll show you how to unpinch a spiral bound,” Dean said. “I have a practice set. Each day, I’ll instruct you on some phase of deconstruction.” He suddenly stopped, and then clasped Philip’s shoulders. “Two rules: Understand each step before moving to the next. These treasures can die under an inattentive hand. And, No Smoking anywhere on the premises.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Good. If ever you see someone enter the shop with a lit flame, you are to tackle them and push them out into the street. Understood?”

  Philip shook his head. “And today?”

  “Today you can do some filing. Mrs. Blair only works two days a week. She’ll appreciate a little help. And then you can relieve Pons at the register.”

  This seemed very light work to Philip, considering filing only required knowing his A, B, Cs and sales traffic in the shop was as brisk as a tomb visit. “I can do that,” he said.

  “Good. And as for salary, how’s $800 a week sound?”

  “$800,” Philip stammered. “For filing and till jingling?”

  “No. You are learning a skill — a marketable skill. When I’m finished with you, you can parley your talents to a much higher tune. You’ll be in demand . . . again.” He winked.

  3

  Uncle Dean deposited Philip into an office that was across the creaky landing. Small. Cramped, but virtually bookless, which Philip found refreshing for some reason. The office had an old-fashioned roll top desk flush against the window (nice view of the sumac) and a metal table holding a computer — nothing space aged, but a Compaq of decent vintage. There were several stacks of papers — invoices, no doubt, and a row of low cabinets. The instruction was simple. Alphabetize the orders by pending or complete. Separate the pending invoices by request date order. File the completed orders in the appropriate cabinet after checking the billing status on the computer. The old man didn’t explain the billing system. He just indicated the icon on the computer’s desktop and thought Philip would be bright enough to figure it out himself. Upon seeing the various Windows folders, Philip almost asked the burning question again, because he noticed a folder labeled — Internet Shortcuts. However, he desisted.

  Left alone, Philip secretly smiled. He was doing an honest days work for an honest days pay. If Mom could see me now. But that wasn’t going to happen. He shuffled through the papers. It was boring, especially alone in this closet, but it was just fill-in work until he could learn how to tear out book innards. He grinned.

  “Deconstruction.” He raised his arms above his head and grunted. “Terminator,” he growled. “Yo! Yo! Yo!” Suddenly, he looked about him. He expected Uncle Dean’s head through the door to tell him he had hired him by mistake, or the pointed nose of Pons poking in with a You’re not smoking in here, are you? Filing was boring. He popped over to the computer and found the Billing System icon. It was beside the Internet Shortcut folder. He gazed about, especially out the window, which presented him with nothing but a black brick wall covered in weeds. Satisfied that he was alone, he double-clicked the Internet Shortcut folder.

  Philip perused the various icons, most of which were as boring as the filing, except one labeled ML. Could it be? He rubbed his hands together and took the plunge. The hourglass came up — slow as shit — then:

  HTTP Error 404. File not found.

  He gazed at the browser line. It was clear. www.manluv.org, the dirty old man. He clicked again. Same result.

  “What gives? Server down?”

  He dove into his pocket for his cell and found the speed dial.

  “C’mon Sprakie. Pick up.”

  He tried again with the same result. Sprakie always answered his cell, especially if it was Philip. Philip tried the computer again, but the site was definitely down. He sighed. It would have been fun to spend some money on this side of the plank — perhaps tease the lads. He would have loved to show Max Gold a good time using a wildly ribald name like Felchlover.

  Suddenly, the door opened.

  “Have you figured out the billing yet?”

  Philip was glad the 404 screen was showing. He minimized the folder and double-clicked the correct icon, a spreadsheet form popping into view with a dizzying array of gray buttons along the top.

  “Not yet, but we’ll get there.”

  “Well, it’s almost lunchtime, so don’t get too engrossed. Take your ease for an hour or so on Nassau Street. There are many great street delicacies to entice a hungry lad — the Globe or, my favorite, Whyte’s. Might I recommend the falafel?”

  “Sounds good,” Philip said. “I’ll try it.”

  Dean Cardoza cocked his head as if he waited for some additional input from his new employee. Perhaps he knew he had dodged Philip’s questions and was giving him an opening to ask away now, but Philip was distracted. Therefore, when the boss disappeared behind the croaker of a door, Philip dialed Sprakie again, but with the same result.

  “Strange,” he said to the spreadsheet.

  Philip blinked, and then went to lunch.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Bantam

  1

  Lars Hamilton towered over every event, whether at a party or at a crowded club. Even seated at the bar, he was head and shoulders above other patrons. Max Gold found the man fascinating and, even though the director of the New Family Players had the look of a vampire, he represented a possible break into a theatrical career, a path that Max Gold had always fancied. Therefore, Max had lost Sprakie somewhere between Thomas Dye’s party and the West Village, and then tagged behind Lars Hamilton to The Bantam, a pick-up bar on the borderlands.

  Max slumped onto the bar, his eyes gazing up at Lars, the thespian meandering through snippets of Marlowe and Fletcher, depending on the alcoholic content of the current drink.

  The bar, thick with an eclectic crowd — leather men, old trolls, and a contingent of Goths, was not Max’s general haunt. He preferred The Monster. Younger crowd. Dancing. Thumpa-thumpa. The Bantam placed Max on the margins of his own grazing fields. In any other venue, he might have attracted the attention of buff young men and some Wall Street slummers. However, the patrons here favored grizzly bears and Bohemians, not that a Twink couldn’t satisfy a Chicken Hawk. Still, Max Gold was far out of his range.

  The Bantam reeked of stale beer, a good many leagues from the pinkie tipping Cosmo set. Some clubs catered to drag queens, while others spun glitter for disco. There were ethnic bars, pink ghettos and purely bear clubs. There were a few gentle collegiate establishments that, beneath the surface, were actually crocodilian. Even a fairy Chinese restaurant that seasoned the Moo Shoo Pork with a quick grab and feel. However, The Bantam was on the borderlands — near the docks — prone to rough trade.

  Lars had just finished Othello’s Farewell to Arms speech, or at least a muddied paraphrase of it, and then raised a shot glass over his beer mug, depth charging the bugger to the murky bottoms. Then, it was bottoms-up and a loud belch. Max laughed and nibbled at the edges of his own beer.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?” came a tense voice.

  Lars careened about nearly falling off his stool. “Who art thou, sir?” he gargled, more like Long John Silver than the Moor of Cyprus. “Oh. It’s Mr. Florian Townsman . . . Townshine . . . Town — whatever. Have you met my new colleague and fellow actor, Mr. Gold?”

  “We just came from their party, Lars,” Max said.

  “Not my party,” Flo complained. “My friend has developed an infatuation for the twink.”

  Lars spluttered, and then wrapped his arm around Max. “So have I. Not this twink, I should hope, sir. Not this twink.”

  Max giggle, eating up the attention. “No, Lars. I’m not into writers. I like stars.”

>   “Well, you’re in the wrong place for that,” Flo snapped. “In fact, I think you’re in the wrong place altogether. This is hogs hollow. Any pig’ll do yer.”

  “Then what brings you here?” Max asked, drawing a sharp glare from Florian.

  “Good question?” Lars slurred. “I was just about to ask it myself, but I thought perhaps you’d volunteer the reasons behind your presence at such a place in such a time . . . and . . . I need another drink.” He raised his hand, and then rapped the bar forcefully. “Gideon Crawl,” he shouted.

  The bartender, who answered to an assortment of Lars Hamilton names as long as it meant another $6.60, refilled the shot glass and spun forth another golden brew. Max stared at Florian. Suddenly he felt uneasy with the man. If Max had paid attention to the surroundings, to the sultry Goth boy who eyed him from across the room, to the hulk in leather who licked his chops, or to the one armed troll who winked and scraped to get his attention, Max would have realized that Florian’s comment could perhaps be misconstrued as concern. Max looked away.

  “You’ve had too much,” Flo said. “And, if you want my advice . . .”

  “I don’t,” Max snapped. This glumkin was ruining his good time. Lars Hamilton was amusing and had promised him a part in the O’Neill. Max knew he might still have to put out for the role, but such was the casting couch’s requirement. Still, at the rate of shots cannonballing into the mug, that requirement would mostly likely be rain checked. Max swiveled about, but Florian had disappeared into the crowd. Max finally noticed just how vulnerable he was, sitting here with a tottering drunk, who would be passing out after the next round. Max felt like Luke Skywalker at Mos Eisly without an Obi-wan Ka-no-bi in sight.

  “Another drink for the twink?” the bartender asked Lars, but Lars was fading.

  Max signaled to the barkeep that he had reached his limit, although he was well past it. Lars blinked, his eyes lidding. Max imagined that the eminent Mr. Hamilton was probably reviewing his own dazzling portfolio, because the actor was suddenly distant.