I’ve always loved bookstores.
In the rural California town where I moved after leaving the foster homes in Los Angeles, there was no real bookstore. No Barnes & Noble or Borders (those still existed in the early 2000s).
Across the street from the boxing gym I went to, though, there was a little shop that sold knick-knacks and trinkets and candles. They had a couple of shelves. On one shelf was a row of used DVDs. On the other was a row of used books. So I’d cross the street every few weeks and browse. On one occasion, after my neighbors gave me ten bucks for raking their leaves, I bought a tattered copy of the Tom Clancy novel Patriot Games and a DVD of the 2001 Will Smith movie “Ali.” Those used DVDs were more expensive, so that was a red letter day.
Now, sometimes when I step into a real bookstore, those two modest shelves flash across my mind. I’ll remember being twelve years old, opening my frayed Velcro wallet, wondering if I’d be able to afford a book that day.
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