A six-year-old girl was selling her books on 6th Avenue & Lincoln. She had them arranged neatly on three steps of her house and in a neat row on the ledge. I stopped on my walk to look at the books. I love children’s books, especially pop-up books that are harder to find now.
“What is your favorite book?” I asked her. She thought about it for a minute, then pointed to a book called “The Best Dog in the World” featuring a German Shepherd with eyes closed and his nose in the air, ecstatically scenting some heavenly perfume.
“Will five dollars do?” I asked her. It was early in the morning and I may have been her first customer. She thought about this for a minute, too, then said, “OK.” I handed her a $5 bill, thanked her, put the book in my shoulder bag, and resumed my walk.
I had just gotten to the end of the street when I heard the little bookseller running and calling after me, “Mister, mister...” I stopped. “I can’t sell you that book, it’s my favorite.”
I understood perfectly. I took out the book, handed it to her and walked back to the outdoor display. “Anything else,” she said.
I took my time with the covers and titles, watched over carefully by the very serious book owner. I chose “The Gnat,” a square hardback featuring the eyes of a little girl holding up a red bell pepper to study something in or on it.
“Five dollars still OK?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, and picked up the book before I could. She held it before me: “Do you know what a gnat is?” she enquired, pointing to the pepper. “A pepper?” I asked. “No,” she said, “It’s a tiny, tiny little insect.” I mouthed, “Oh, I didn’t know.” I reached for the book, but she wasn’t ready to let it go. She turned each page and explained patiently every illustration. After she finished educating the ignorant buyer, she reluctantly handed me “The Gnat.”
I resumed my walk, listening carefully, expecting hurried steps behind me. They didn’t come, but I knew what she must have been feeling. When I was 20 years-old and worked at the Eight Street Bookstore, I was equally protective of our books. Yes, they were for sale, but not to just anyone. I was much older, but I felt the same reluctance to part with books, and they weren’t even mine. This six-year girl was born a book-lover and, projecting a few years ahead, a writer of books that replaced the ones she sold.
Prominently displayed on my living room table where everyone could see it is “The Gnat.” If you pick it up, I will explain it to you page by page. Do you know what a gnat is?
