Book Sales are Hell

Every year I patiently await the month of October for many reasons: The beginning of my favorite season: autumn, Halloween and book sales & fairs. Two book sales in particular: the local public library's annual Friends of The Public Library Book Sale and the Women's Auxiliary Book Sale. Well, since the FoTPL has been bumped up to this month, I went to the WABS (Wabs?) book sale last week. As I mentioned in a previous post, the sale used to be held every year at the Army Reserve warehouse, but ever since the war, it's been relocated to the Lutheran church across the street. (As usual, images go from left to right)

As usual, I found lots of books (a small box full) for around $15. I'll show you all the stuff I found, tomorrow. In the meantime, I'd like to introduce some of the various characters I came in contact with while at the sale. The only one I was unable to capture on film was Cell Phone Woman (there's always at least one). Her fuckin' cell phone rang, and I'm not exaggerating, at least 8 times during the one hour duration I was there. AND every time it rang, she let it ring so long that everyone within earshot was able to hear practically the entire length of the song she had the ring tone programmed to (I have no idea what it was. It sounded like a Latin version of Bolero, but who knows). I hate people that think their ring tone is so unique and special that the general public should be exposed to the entire length of the ring tone. Personally, I wanted to stick it up her ass. Sideways.

Next on our list of fellow book browsers, is this guy. I nicknamed him Butt Breath. It seemed like whatever section I wanted to browse in (Biography, Mystery, etc.), there he was. Breathing. Normally I don't mind people breathing... through their nose. However, this guy felt the need to exhale often and his breath was the things suicide notes are made of. Seriously, it smelled like a combination of coffee, cigarettes, Fritos and ass. Lovely. Needless to say, I shook this foul fiend fast!

...only to come face to face with this guy: Weezie. No, folks, these aren't the names of The Seven Dwarves in some alternate universe, these are the people in your neighborhood. In your neighborhood. In your neiiiiiiighborhood. People that you meet each day (sorry, I couldn't resist). I gave him this name because he sounded like a walrus with emphysema. The sound he perpetually made was a combination of a wheeze, a rattle and an exhale (not to be confused with a shake, rattle & roll). Before you go "Awwww, poor dear," save it. He wasn't sick, just a mouth breather. Ack! They drive me nuts! Funny side note, when I took this picture, I was right across the table from him and the fuckin' flash on my camera went off! I wanted to crawl under the nearest table. I always try and make sure it's off (that's how I'm able to get so many stealthy photos without the person's knowledge, thus saving me drama), but this time I guess I forgot. The best part? He never even flinched. He was oblivious, as was everyone else. Nancy Wake has nothing on me!

The rest of the sale was pretty uneventful. No hunks or babes (doi), just mainly older men and women, a light smattering of armchair intellectuals and soccer moms buying their guttersnipe books, undoubtedly thinking to themselves "Heather is so advanced for her age. She loves to read. She's going to make mommy proud someday by getting a degree at college, marrying a rich WASP and shooting out babies like a tennis ball machine. All the while maintaining great taste in clothes and a penchant for seasonal crafts." Meanwhile, "Heather" is under a table somewhere eating her own boogers. Precious.

Oh, and last, but not least, how could I forget this guy: Sir Poots-A-Lot (AKA Frances Farter). He brought both laughter and tears. Literally. Laughter, while I was browsing in the "Rare Books" room and heard him let out a cacophony of machine gun-style farts. I almost cracked up, but was able to contain myself long enough to see him clench his butt cheeks together tightly and make a hasty exit to the auditorium, where the rest of the book sale was being held. Like all hit-and-run farters, he left me and others in a cloud of stale-smelling farts, giving the appearance that one of us was the poot perpetrator. Gah! Everyone else seemed to be oblivious. I'm just gifted I guess. Or perhaps overly perceptive.

With that said, I committed to one more lap of the book sale, before going to the check out with my box of books. I spied a crate of records under the Biography table, which I had overlooked before, so I knelt down to browse through them swiftly before I went to check out. Little did I know I was about to become the victim of a stride-by-pooting. *For the remainder of this story, it helps to envision the scene in the last paragraph, in slow-motion B&W archival-style documentary footage. Think JFK assassination footage:

As I was kneeling, sorting through the crate of records, I was nearing the end when out of my peripheral vision I spotted Frances Farter coming my way. My mind let out a low, guttural, echoing "Noooooooooooo!" He was getting close. His ass level with my face! God, NO! My first instinct was to dive under the table, with no though to the debris that would scatter. However, being the domesticated person I am, I fought that urge. Tension mounted as I struggled to rise from the kneeling position, while holding a heavy box of books. I could hear the legs of his polyester slacks rubbing together as he got within arms-length. I dropped the box. It was every man for himself. I had one knee up and was in the process of rising to a standing position. That's when it hit me, like a French firing squad. The sound will forever haunt me: brAaaP! I'd been hit right between the eyes. My vision got blurry momentarily and I almost fainted. I had to run blindly to the other side of the room. Moments later, I was able to collect myself long enough to re-enter the danger zone, just long enough to grab my box of books and sprint towards the check out area. My eyebrows had been badly singed, but I'd made it out alive... this time.