Judging a book by its cover

‘The Nomad’s Guide to Free Living’

Big black letters pasted onto a beige background. Minimalist. It matched the crystal white pages, lined with beautifully written sentences, ultimately made up of words that meant nothing and did nothing, except take up space in your brain that would be much better taken up by useful things like how to change a lightbulb or what are the best times to drive to avoid traffic. The words in that book couldn’t help you with things like that, but Beatrix supposed that wasn’t why she had come into the store in the first place. She knew those things; she was looking to learn something different.

She didn’t think this book would help her learn those things either.

She put the book back, squeezing it in-between a book on the journey of life and another about living life to the fullest, somehow struggling to place it back even though she had just taken it out from the very same spot a moment ago, as if the book was fighting against her, screaming and kicking like a disobedient child, not wanting to be left alone, doomed to a life of wasting away on a bookshelf, waiting for the day it would be brought that would never come.

Eventually, Beatrix won their silent struggle and continued her wander along the lining shelves, fingers stretched out to feel the paper of each book as she went by, as if it would make her any more likely to pick one of them up.

The whole place seemed to have been built as a bookish labyrinth, some sort of monument to an ancient God of books and self-help. It would have been so easy to get lost, to become just another sacrifice to its never-ending appetite. Every shelf was the same, and so tall you could only just see the crack of light coming through the gap between the shelf and the ceiling, as if to taunt you that, yes, there was another world out there, beyond the books, but you would never find it. It made it impossible to tell if the place was empty or full to the brim with more silent walkers just one shelf over. She hoped it was the former. It was the bad enough she had to witness her shame in coming here, loathing pulsing through her every waking moment, she didn’t need anyone else to see her too.

How did I get here?

The question runs through her on loop, a badly written sitcom for the mind, something it can ask in the quiet, nightly moments when there is nothing else on.

Physically, the answer to the question was very simple. She had walked first from her flat into the centre of town, to Wyman Street, and entered the overly priced chain bookstore, the larger one set over two stories instead of one. From there, Beatrix had made her way past the cashier point, the tables topped with novelty items no one ever brought except at Christmas, the mystery section, the romance section (making sure to speed up past the more erotic containing bookshelf), the history section that seemed to think all of human history had occurred between 1939 and 1945, and finally the sci-fi section before reaching, right at the very back, stuck in its dusty corner, the self-help section. This long walk was a fact that comforted Beatrix greatly, as it meant no one else walked this far in by accident, so she was unlikely to meet any strangers while browsing, or even worse, someone she knew. Her palms grew sweaty at even the thought. It didn’t pass her notice, of course, that she would have to show someone the book when she brought it, probably some minimum wage teenager, and that was one of the reasons it was taking her so long to choose. Even one minimum wage teenager was one person too many.

‘A Gentleman’s Guide to Self-Improvement’

This one felt different, making her stop. The book’s yellowing pages were encased in a suave brown leather cover, its title edged in gold. It was the sort of book that shouted that its owner had elegance, poise and class, but was doing it so loudly it ended up giving the opposite impression.  

Beatrix moved on. She was no gentleman, not even a gentlelady, and she needed no help in telling people that. Everyone already knew. Instead, she was a fuck up. No one said it, no no no, they were much too polite, a leftover from an era where there had been true gentlemen and gentleladies, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you had to say. It was the air in the room as she entered, turning from a joyful chatter to a luke-warm question of Why is she here? It was the fake smiles on almost-strangers faces, as they asked, “How are you?”, “What are you up to?”, “We should talk more.”, only for them to change to sneers when she wasn’t looking.

Fuck up, fuck up, fuck up. 

Her brain whispered in beat with some satanic chant.

They know everything, how couldn’t they know? They know Daisy dumped you for that chick with the red hair, they know Pete past you over for a promotion for the up-ith time, they know Luke and April and Nathan have all stopped hanging out with you because you’re ‘too emotional’. They know, they know, they know.

They know you don’t have any idea what you’re doing, that you’re squandering your life away every time you breathe because every day is another day wasted. 

After all, isn’t that why you’re here? Standing in a second-rate bookstore, in a crumbling town high street that can’t keep up with the times, hidden far away at the very back. You two have a lot in common. 

‘Guide to Global-style Wellness’

She reads the title of another book to calm her. Distract her. It’s a technique she learnt about online, not from a therapist, she can’t bring herself to see a therapist, because then someone knows, truly knows, because there is a difference between knowing and knowing, because when you tell someone and they know it makes it's real. It's real that’s she's failing. She is failing and she can’t stop failing, but she can’t fail because she supposed to be a winner. Her whole childhood, everyone said she was a winner, a champion, someone who would make great strides and change the world, till she was no longer a child and apparently, no longer a winner.

Except, she can still be a winner as long as no one knows. Admittance is defeat, and defeat is not winning.

So, Beatrix stays focused on the book, a short thing with a stock image cartoonist photo of the globe on the cover, with the title written underneath in a jazzy font. Not comic sans, but something not far above it in the world of fonts. The book looked like it been published in 2005. It was the type of book that sat on the shelf begging “Read me, read me,” but never did, in fact, get read. It had that aura of disappointing, you didn’t have to open it to know.

That’s you in book form.

Her brain whispered, sending a shiver down her spine. It was some attempt of a joke that almost made her laugh. Almost.

“What flamingos and you have in common, and how that can help you be better”

That one made her laugh. A good, proper chuckle, like one she hasn’t had in months, coming out fully formed as she examined the pink cover, pink pages and pink ink, all in different shades. A whole spectrum of colours, as long as it fits between bubblegum and rosy rouge.

It was incredible, the number of books the shelves held. They were ones on every conceivable topic, even those topics not thought up yet, that were still potential electric sparks in someone’s neurons, waiting to light up their own little light-bulb. They were all here, gathering dust on the shelf till someone took them home to gather dust on a different shelf. The only topic that seemed to be missing, according to Beatrix’s luck, was how to fix her fucked up life.  

She laughed at that too. She couldn’t stop now she’d started. She roared with laughter, laughing about her relationships, her job, how her life seemed to be a constant storm of bad decisions, awkward social encounters and general lack of any good ideas. A shitstorm, all geographically concentrated on one small point, her, least it leeches out and ruin someone else’s life for a change.

‘How to be happy’

If only it was that easy, she would buy a million copies. It was easy for a book to say, it didn’t have to experience life, the most painful experience on the planet.

The book was average. Average width, an off-white cover, the title written in a classic font. It was, for lack of a better word, uninspiring. It was also like a pigeon trying to blend into a jungle. Everything else besides it was too flashy, too over-powered, that if anything it stood out where it was, settled neatly on the bottom shelf.

Beatrix reached down to pick it up when a hand brushed her own. Both hands pulled back instantly in a wave of embarrassment.

“Sorry,” Beatrix turns to see a young woman go rosy red as the woman stammers and pulls her hands tightly to her chest, “You have it.”

“No, no please,” Beatrix replies, equally as red now that another living creature has seen her, “You were probably here first. You should have it.”

It was a polite gesture, and Beatrix let out a sheepish grin to go with it, in an effort to recover the encounter. An awkward silence only hung in the air like a damp rag.  

After what felt like decades, the woman returned with her own sheepish grin and reached down to grab the book.

“Thanks.” She said, out of more a desire for the conversation to end than anything else.

The woman began to turn away.

“I like your hair!” Beatrix blurted out. It was true, the woman’s hair was bottle blonde with blue highlights that were yet to fade to green. It reminded her of Daisy’s hair, she’d had blonde hair too, with pink highlights. Daisy had always liked crazy hairstyles

That’s why she left you for the red-haired chick. She was more fun.

Her brain whispered again, but she shook it off. Like what she had just said. Why would you say that? She berated herself and her rambling mouth. It was a stupid thing to say to a stranger.  

The woman turned back around. Surprisingly, there was a smile on her face, a proper smile, fully showcasing her dimples and teeth.

“Thank you, I got it done last week. At Kelly’s down the street.” The woman babbled.

“The colour’s lovely.”

“I thought so too, though I was worried it would be too light.”

“It isn’t. It’s perfect.”

The woman smiled again. “My name’s Vess, by the way, but most just call me V. Well, some.”

“Beatrix.”

The silence arrives again, ready to ruin something that hasn’t even begun.

“You know…” Vess/V starts, “If you want, I could give you this book after I’ve read it. Only if you want, though. I just feel bad leaving you without one.”

“Don’t worry, I saw a great one about flamingo’s and self-help earlier that I can get instead.” Beatrix jokes, causing Vess/V to erupt in a rowdy laugh, her face lighting up.

“Sounds like a book I could use. Fancy swapping?”

“Only if you throw in visitation rights as well. I might need that book.” Beatrix cursed herself as the words fell out her mouth. Too soon.

But Vess/V only smiled with a blush. “I’m sure we could work something out.”

Their eyes met, unmoving, a connection igniting in the air, sparks flying off. The bookstore felt hot and stuffy, but Beatrix felt fresher than she had in a long time.

Her brain wasn’t whispering. This was something new.

She realised; she had been asking the wrong question all along. It didn’t matter, the past. It didn’t matter where you were or how you got there. The only really important question was simple:

Where do I go now?

She thinks she might have found her answer.