Typical Day
Dusty Pages grimaces as she tries to open her email. "What was that password again?" she thinks. "Chaucernut42? No. Chaucernut24? No." She groans and goes to fetch another cup of tea.
Dusty has been a rare book dealer—or antiquarian book dealer, as she prefers to be called—for a long time. She's getting along just fine financially, but she misses the days before the Internet invasion started a new chapter in her business.
As she sips a third cup of Earl Grey tea (all three before 9:30AM, mind you), she reminisces about the mail that used to come printed on fine paper, and the catalogs of glossy pages that used to fill her coffee table. Dusty sighs and turns her attention back to the computer screen—the digital bane of her existence.
"Harry!" she calls across her house to her young intern.
Harry rushes into the room so quickly that his royal blue dreadlocks don't finish arriving until a full second later. "Why does he insist on looking like that?" Dusty thinks, but she doesn't say it out loud. She's tired of lecturing him on his appearance.
"What's up, Pages?"
"That's Ms. Pages, Harry."
"What's up, Ms. Pages?"
"What is up is that I cannot remember that password you set for me."
"I got this." He hops into her chair, his fingers moving like lightning over the keys. Almost instantaneously, Dusty's email is open.
"Looks like you got an offer on the Workes of our Ancient and Learned English Poet, Geoffrey Chaucer. That's a kinda clunky title."
"It is a perfectly acceptable title for a work published in 1602."
She leans over his shoulder to peer at the email. Being a Chaucer specialist, she has many of the writer's works stored neatly around the room. This one is one of her favorites—mint condition, beautiful.
"Nine thousand dollars? I don't know..." Dusty sighs.
She'd bought it off of another dealer at a book fair fifteen years ago and only put it up for sale recently. The longer a dealer waits to sell, the more valuable the books become—usually, anyway. Dusty has yet to make a big sale this year, though, so she's decided to part with it. She can only hope the buyer will truly appreciate the beauty of what she's passing along.
Harry shakes his head, causing his dreads to flail about. "Lemme check the ABAA site to see what it's going for."
Harry quickly brings up the current prices on the website while Dusty thinks (for the fifth time today) about how she can't get used to this digital world. She's been a member of the Antiquarian Bookseller's Association of America for years, but she's never been a regular visitor to their website.
"Well, it looks like $9,000 is the going rate everywhere," Harry concludes matter-of-factly.
"So it must be."
"Yes...yes..." Harry's clicking through the sale agreement pages. "...aaand confirmed. Sold."
"Thanks very much, Harry. Make sure to have it sent out today."
"You got it, Pages."
"That's...never mind. Get that out today."
Harry retreats to his desk in the other room just as the doorbell buzzer sounds, sending a grating electrical pulse through the apartment. Dusty nearly spills her tea.
"I wish we could make that thing play something more comforting," she laments. "Maybe a nice quartet by Schumann."
"I dig Schumann. I think I can order a custom doorbell online if—"
"Just show the client in, please."
Clients used to come by her brick and mortar store, but she closed up shop a few years ago. Like with so many dealers, it just didn't make sense for Dusty to keep the doors open when so much of the business was on the internet. Now, she only meets clients by appointment in her book-stuffed apartment.
It turns out the space is about to get even more cramped. A minute later, Dusty is sitting in her parlor with none other than the Brick, a former pro-wrestler turned action movie star. Collecting rare books has been a recent fad in Hollywood, but Dusty suspects the stars are only collecting so they'll look smarter than they really are in front of their famous friends.
"What've you got for me, Dusty?" booms the Brick, as he casually flexes his muscles and checks out his reflection in the mirror behind Dusty.
"What I've got, Mr.—er—I'm not sure how to address you."
"Mr. Brick is cool."
"Very well, Mr. Brick. What I've 'got' is the very early printing of the Canterbury Tales that you requested." The Brick is currently working on a big-budget movie version of the Tales in which he'll star as the Knight. Dusty thinks it's a questionable casting choice, but she once again keeps her feelings to herself.
"How much did you say this was?"
"Twenty thousand dollars, Mr. Brick."
"Sweet, will you take a check?"
As Dusty watches the Brick make out a check with his meaty hand, something clicks inside her. She can't stand the thought of this treasure going to someone who won't truly appreciate it. Her anxiety bursts, and before she can stop herself, she's practically yelling questions at the gigantic man. "Will you love it? Will you treasure it? Do you understand the value of what you have in your hands?"
The Brick flashes a rare, hurt look, and picks up the book, cradling it gently in his huge arms.
"Are you serious? No creases in the spine, pristine wood block prints, errata leaf...yo, it's perfection."
Dusty feels suddenly ashamed of her judgments.
"Yo...you're right," she agrees.