I’m hovering near the checkout counter at a used-book store on Lincoln when I catch wind of a discussion at the counter that reeks of conspiracy. The cashier, an abundantly bearded middle-aged man in horn-rimmed glasses, cultivates the Karl Marx look. His eyes are cast in a wide, empty stare as he leans over from his elevated perch to comprehend his inquisitor.
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I remember that maybe ten minutes ago the kid entered with a middle-aged suburban-looking couple. They all stopped at the counter long enough for the father to ask where the leather-bound books were shelved.
“What type of books are you looking for?” the counterman asked.
The clerk, always the pro, stands straight and, keeping his eyes on the subject before him, speaks softly and deliberately as though he were thinking about something else. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a copy at the moment.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
The clerk stands stone-faced for a second or two. He begins a turn toward me, then catches himself and, looking straight ahead, smiles like a Cheshire cat.
