*I wrote this a few years ago, inspired by a comment a friend made about reading for pleasure becoming socially unacceptable, even scandalous. I’ll admit to being rather proud of it, and I’m told it’s quite good.*
*I acknowledge that it being written the second person and present tense is odd, but I think it works.*
You head into a dark alley, casting about furtive glances, making sure you weren’t followed, or, worse, that someone you know is around. (Being exposed as a reader can ruin you!) You go up to heavy, unmarked door and knock exactly twice, once for fiction, once for non. A panel slides open at eye-height. You see a pair of heavy glasses, and a voice asks, “yeah?” You respond, “Nancy Pearl sent me.” The voice challenges you again, “password?” “Dewey decimal.”
The door opens. “Fifty bucks for the evening… unless you brought some of your own stuff. Then we can…” You shove some bills into the librarian/bouncer’s hand. You’re not ready to write yet. A reader is one thing, but an author? That’s the road to Hell.
It’s filled with all sorts of people. Some just sit, with books, reading to themselves. Others talk about books and authors. They all seem so… well-read. Not like the sleazy people you see on TV, ruined by Dan Brown or Twilight, these people read Vonnegut and Faulkner and Hemingway.
You look around some more. Over in a corner, half a dozen people are in a circle and… my God, they’re reading to each other! You had heard some really hopeless readers do that, but just in groups of two, maybe three? But six? The thought scares you…. and excites you, too.
You see another group, maybe four people. They’re not as well-dressed, they’re wearing t-shirts with slogans you don’t get, things about dragons and such. Another patron whispers to you, “science fiction fans.” You’ve heard the stories, that they’re the ones even other readers look down on. But something compels and you walk up to them and look over a shoulder…
You almost jump when one of them speaks. “Heinlein. Want some?”
“No! No! I thought… I thought this was romance!” You rush away, as they laugh. “He’ll be back,” one says. “They always come back.”
A staffer comes up to you, and says, “I can tell you’re new. Don’t go for the hard stuff. Start simple.” He hands you a tattered volume. “Agatha Christie. A good, solid mystery novel. Great for a first timer.”
You take his advice, find a place to sit, and start reading. It’s hard at first, trying to comprehend more than 140 characters at a time, but you get into it quickly, and soon, you’re swallowing entire sentences, even paragraphs!
You’re just finishing the last words when a voice announces, “7:00 AM! Closing time!” You swear as you realize you’ll be late for work, then quickly decide to go home, call in sick, get some rest. As you leave, a disheveled man approaches you. “Want some to take home?” he hisses. Before you can refuse, he thrusts a stack of papers at you. “Lolita… unexpurgated. Five hundred.”
You shake your head. “Wait, you’re new, right? First timers discount. Two hundred.” Though you’re sure you’ll regret it, you hand him the cash.
Someone else whispers to you. “Potent stuff there. Be careful. You read some of that, you might never stop,”
On the way home, you make up your mind to burn the damn thing. You say you’ll just occasionally read the light stuff, weekends only.
Arriving home, you realize you’re exhausted. You toss the papers on the bed, as you change clothes… but then your eye catches a few words. You can’t help but read. You try to resist, but you pick it up. A sentence, another, a paragraph! Soon, you’re chapters in. You’ve become a reader. Your life is over.
by Maryland_Bear