Dirty storefront glass reveals the diffuse glow of a faint bulb inside, and the building itself, drab and gray, suggests decrepitude. Herein may lie wonders, I think. A surprisingly young man behind a makeshift counter formed by columns of books watches me approach. To get to him I have to navigate a long, narrow passage between walls crammed from floor to ceiling with books. As I draw near, he sets down a green, jacketless hard-cover with a faded title on its cracked spine, and his gaunt face regards me coolly. “What’re you looking for?” He’s probably fifteen years younger than me. How ridiculous that he should have at his command this vast emporium. “Excuse me,” I say, “are you the proprietor?” “I’m his son.” He scowls. “What do you need?” I’m reassured by his response. Nepotism is one of several satisfying explanations for life’s inimical unfairness and requires no further thought. “Do you carry science fiction?” “Upstairs.” He points in the direction of a rickety staircase and resumes his reading. “Would you mind holding on to these?” I place a bag on the counter, containing my purchases from earlier in the day. “Receipt is inside,” I point out. Wordlessly he takes the bag, which disappears behind the counter. Up I go, emerging on an even dustier second level over-stuffed with books and coin cases and mismatched plates and decorative tiles and incomplete silverware sets and what appear to be broken lamps. After a few valiant heartbeats I study the bookcases, organized in no apparent order. Deep inside this crammed, dusky labyrinth, between stamp-collecting catalogs and railway manuals, I hit the mother lode: three bookcases sagging under the weight of obscure science fiction magazines and paperbacks, again in no decipherable order. I roll up my sleeves and begin the treasure hunt. Within minutes, I claim two issues of Odyssey. Until now, I’d never even heard of this magazine, but these two specimens, the first with its bright golden Kelly Freas cover, the second with its seductive magenta backdrop and stylized ships, steal my breath the moment I spy them on one of this bookstore’s endless shelves. And now that I’ve scanned their contents, my fear of glossy-but-caloricallyempty product has been allayed. The nonfiction has its hooks in me. The first issue, dated Spring 1976, includes “Charlie Brown’s Fan Scene,” as well as book reviews by Ted Sturgeon and Bob Silverberg — and there’s even an interview with Zenna Henderson. The second issue, from Summer 1976, has more reviews by Silverberg, another fan piece by Charlie Brown, and essays by Ackerman, Pohl and Goldin. Looking at the fiction listings, the only author who grabs my attention is Thomas N. Scortia, whose collection a few years back, Caution! Inflammable!, won me over with its Aztec-infused tale “The Goddess of the Cats.” Senora Martin and that mermaid mural — sigh. Those two exclamation marks pack a punch, too. Take that, feeble singleexclamation-mark Dorsai! and Cryptozoic!! The magazines are dusty but are otherwise in acceptable condition, their covers mostly uncreased. They possess the scent of unrealized potential, and they bear the eccentric touch of Roger Elwood, a loony and obsessive editor. He pumped out fifty-five anthologies from 1972 to 1978. I once heard it said that Elwood showed up at a convention where a fan was seeking signatures for his copy of Clute’s Encyclopedia — “The Book” — and when Elwood, who’d never heard of the volume, saw that it contained an entry about him, he proceeded to use the convention hotel’s staff-only photocopier to make himself a copy. Apparently he also once threw cellophane-wrapped sandwiches at the audience of a Lunacon in an attempt to get folks to attend one of his talks. Still, some of Elwood’s misconceived, thoroughly warped projects, like Androids, Time Machines and Blue Giraffes, which Elwood edited with TV publicist Vic Ghidalia, have a certain charm. All of which is to say that despite Elwood being more blemish than medallion, I have a soft spot for him and his work, and it inclines me to like these two magazine issues bearing his imprimatur. The issues’ greatest virtue is probably that they don’t take up much room. I have to think of this now, because once I walk out of here and head back to the apartment, I’m going to be confronted by the reality of my upcoming downsizing. If nothing else, though, I should buy them as a memento of this experience. I finish rifling through the current shelf, but the rest of it turns out to be pretty mundane. I keep going. Time passes in a kind of fugue. Titles start to blur together. Three shelves yield nothing, and I feel my energy wane. But there’s a shot of pick-me-up on the very next shelf, Kenneth Bulmer’s On the Symb-Socket Circuit, which I started reading two years ago, loaned out at a Mayflies gathering, and never received back. Less intriguing but also coming home with me will be Ernest Callenbach’s Ecotopia, Geoffrey Simmons’ The Adam Experiment and David R. Bunch’s Moderan. I examine them as best I can in the weak light. Is my treacherous right eye acting up again? Two of these paperbacks have hole-punched covers, but are otherwise intact, and the third looks unread. I set them aside along with the magazines. Again, the shelves after this are mostly junk, and the pendulum swings back toward exhaustion. I need fuel. I advise the young man behind the register that I’ll be back shortly to continue scouring the place for more manna. “Knock yourself out,” he says. On my walk I pass a Hardee’s, a Perkins Pancakes and a Bob Evans eatery. I opt for the latter, order one of their “farm-sized” chicken and noodles dishes and leave half the food on my plate. My wristplex tells me about half an hour has passed since I left the Curio, and I hustle back. I receive a surly nod from the cashier and head back to the literary ossuary, now as before, deserted. I’ve barely resumed my efforts when I make out three hardcovers by William Kotzwinkle — isn’t he the writer with whom that Custodian was so enamored? I’ll admit that this trifecta tempts me. Hermes 3000, an unusual Pantheon hardcover, has a pristine jacket, and though Fata Morgana and Herr Nightingale and the Satin Woman, both issued by Knopf, are ex-lib, their worn jacket sleeves can be peeled off without difficulty, as can their spine stamps. The presence of this Pantheon edition puts me on high alert for more British goodies, and this attentiveness pays off when I find a pile of New Worlds Quarterly’s. Anthology number 8 in this series, edited by one Hilary Bailey, has two stories — “The Broken Field” and “Black Hole” — by Nigel Francis, a writer I like, and also two tales by Robert Meadley, whose titles — “Conversations at Ma Maia Metron” and “Love at Lost Sight” — immediately captivate me. And so it continues, until the clerk downstairs calls out, “Fifteen minutes to closing time!” “Be right down,” I yell back. I kick into hyper-mode, assessing and re-assessing my stack of intended purchases with frenetic diligence. I feel guilty about spending any money at all on this stuff, but the store owner clearly has no idea what some of this is worth. Leaving the principle of the thing aside, the books and magazines are in superb condition, and their combined expense won’t make a dent on anything except my grocery money. Besides, if I’m going to reduce my collection to its absolute essentials and sell off most of it, I should allow myself these last additions, which will no doubt enhance the 21
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