I've taken to commuting by trolley. Circumstances being what they are, my living simply can't accommodate driving my own vehicle around the city, and I'm certainly not interested in straining my few friendships by bumming rides everywhere. My regular trip now takes about an hour one way, and even though it was nice to be relieved of the stress of driving myself places, I had started to get bored. I installed some small games on my phone, listened to music, and even considered bringing along a sketchbook (but ultimately abandoned the last idea as I was far too afraid of getting caught drawing a stranger like a creep), but their ability to distract me wore off pretty quickly.
One day, I noticed someone get on the trolley with a book in her hands. She was a tired old woman, her eyes were almond shaped and her face was weathered and scrunched up. As soon as she sat down, she propped open her weathered paperback and started thumbing through the pages, smacking her lips. huh.
"Can I help you?" the friendly, bearded clerk said as I walked by him. He and I both bumped into each other as we purposefully made wide berths around the 'New Romance' section of Barnes and Nobles.
"Err, no, I don't think so. Thank you." I smiled politely, somewhat dazed. Of course, I did need help, but the question on my mind was way too embarrassing to say aloud. "Yes, I want to start reading books again. Where do I start?"
I used to read all the time. A few years ago, when games weren't even a part of my life, books were there. I remember one day a rambling man on the trolley was explaining to a pretty terrified looking infant seated two rows away that if you lived a hundred life-times and read a new book every day, you still would only be able to read a fraction of all the books in the world. He might have been insane but I thought that was probably true. Even in a library two stories tall, I always managed to find something good to read--fantastic tales of swashbuckling mice and bloodthirsty pirates, coquettish maidens and thieves with hearts of gold. Spine chilling mysteries, curious characters, clues and page-turners. I used to know my way around the stacks; I used to comfortably spend all of my time in those worlds. But now I felt lost again. It's amazing to realize how much you've changed as a person in one instant, standing kind of flabbergasted in a tiny Barnes and Nobles. Another thing I did realize, though, is that I didn't want to outgrow books.
The Mysterious Benedict Society stared up at me from my lap, a Barnes and Noble receipt tucked behind the first two pages. The cover looked just as it had when I saw it a few years ago in a scholastic books catalogue. A cheerful, pastel yellow covered the paperback, along with an illustration of a lively stone house with children peeking out its windows and climbing along its walls. I didn't even remember what it was about, but I remembered it was the last book I ever wanted to read. The trolley had started to move again; it was moderately empty. I took a deep breath and flipped it open. Here goes nothing!
Three days later, I was curled up in a nook of my bed, nothing but a flourescent desk lamp beside me to cut through the darkness of the night. The phone charging at the foot of my bed read 1AM. The morning was going to be hell. It was going to be groggy and painful and involve a severe case of crankiness, but I didn't care. I just have to finish the damn thing. The yellow book I had bought earlier that week was clutched tightly in my hands, my thumb fingering the last few pages in anticipation. ten pages left, then five, then two, then one, then nothing.
I looked up from the book, and I could feel myself smiling; just smiling because I enjoyed it so much. I was half surprised to see the room around me wasn't just as it had been was I was in 5th grade. My cheeks hurt I was smiling so hard. I felt something lurch in the bit of my stomach. A beautiful piece of me that I had lost a long time ago had resurfaced. I'm back, she said, Did you miss me?
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