A Story
Books are going out of fashion, I believe. At least those meant to be read. Books as commercial objects, especially old books, are still hot items in the collectors’ world. My friend George knows all about this. He loves to visit flea markets and garage and estate sales in search of literary treasures. But most of the books that catch his eye are not treasures. He will handle mostly books that in his estimation he can resell for, say, two or three times of what he paid for them. It’s a regular little business he runs there. He uses the internet to find buyers. His dream, of course, is to hit the jackpot, like picking up a first edition of The Wizard of Oz which, according to available records, would fetch more than a thousand dollars. But this would work only if somebody (a) has a first edition, (b) does not know its value, and (c) wants to get rid of it. The probability of being confronted with this combination is extremely low, obviously.
But there are other opportunities, smaller fish, so to say. One might, at an estate sale, unearth a volume of the speeches of President Coolidge, for example, a small volume, probably. Not many people would pay money for this. But there may be a scholar somewhere who would gladly give you fifty dollars for it. Which is a good deal if you got the little book out of a grab bag for a dollar. When George spots a likely find he follows a certain routine. Typically the seller names a price. George then examines the book and talks a bit to the seller about the book, remarking perhaps that it is a rather steep price for this kind of a book. The seller usually responds by coming down a bit on the price. Now it all depends on how much George thinks the book might be worth. If he decides to buy it he will close the purchase with the formula “Will you take x dollars?”, x being an amount just a little under the sellers last quotation.
To most sellers the books they offer mean nothing. So if they ask for thirty dollars and get only twenty not much is lost from their point of view. Twenty dollars is money, after all. A useless book is a useless book that takes up space. Occasionally a seller is really ignorant as to what makes an old book valuable. Just because Grandfather once owned this copy of Moby Dick adds emotional , but not monetary value to the book. George often has to explain this to disappointed people.
Rarely, very rarely, George’s eagle eye spots something a notch above the ordinary, say a slightly worn copy of a well known poets early works, worth maybe a hundred dollars. When this happens it is very important, George says, to show no anticipatory emotion when asking for the price. Pokerface is the order of the day. You then take your time looking the book over, making sure it really is what you thought it was, then pay and quietly move on. Those cunning windfalls are the stuff of endless telling and bragging in collectors circles. George was a master in this art.
One day, though, the force was with him for sure. He stopped at what looked like a very poor house. An eight year old boy was watching the spread-out garage sale merchandise. Shirts, pants, and shoes mostly. There was a power drill amid the things. “Does your Dad not need this any longer?” he asked the boy. In a small, shy voice the boy answered that his dad was dead. There was not much else of interest. George almost passed it up but there was a box full of mostly paperbacks and maps. Also buried in this box was a hardcover book, the binding of which had come loose. As George picked it up his heart almost stopped. It was time for the poker face. This looked like a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, dated 1884. The book was in bad condition but by George’s estimate could still fetch about a thousand dollars. “Look at that”, he said under his breath, “this is unbelievable.” His eyes lit up. The vulture in him circled for the kill. This, he realized, was the big one, the chance of a lifetime. The boy was watching him with wide eyes. He, too, sensed that he was about to have a paying customer. But something happened. George, still holding the book in his hand, just stood there motionless looking at the boy for a long minute. Then he fished for something in his pocket, pulled out an old envelope, stood there as if thinking about what to write, then scribbled a note on it and stuck it in the book. “Kid”, he said, his voice suddenly turning raspy, “is your Mom at home?” The boy nodded. “Here, take your book and show it to your Mom, right away”. The boy took the book and ran inside as told. George did not look back. He got to his car and was gone.
I don’t know what got into him. He must have been temporarily insane that afternoon, or something.
(c)2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman, Picture credit OpenClipart-Vectors