Vellichor and Daisy

4…3…2…6…click. I grabbed the pair of keys from the small lockbox located with an inconspicuous intention on a small floodlight near the front gate. The wrought iron entryway squeaked good morning as it did each day. The surrounding willows, hugging the faded apartment building, gently waved good morning as they whispered in the crisp, salty air of any typical California morning. I let myself in with ease and made my way up the tamped carpet staircase to the second floor, apartment 29. The recurring appointment had led me here twice a week for the better part of the last several months. I liked the job. It was easy to like. Daisy, though, was probably my favorite.

Upon entering the apartment, I was greeted with the familiar smell of pleasant must. The same kind that intoxicates when entering an old bookshop or antique store. Vellichor. Expectedly, my next sensation was one of pure love, joy, and immediacy. Daisy was always quite ready for her walk and happy to see me. In most recent history, she was more elated to see me than any other friend I could name.

As I adorned the controlled energy of the enthusiastic cocker spaniel, a rustling of papers and a muddled voice came from an adjoining room. This was puzzling. Not because someone was home during an appointment. That was commonplace in this job. Rich, LA types filled their lives with large houses, jealous worthy items, and pets to fill the holes in their souls that they came to Los Angeles to fill, only to find the city had a way of making them larger. Their practiced smiles flooded southern California with a hollow sense of worthiness. I didn’t bother to see who the voice’s owner was, but I did notice Daisy’s understandable impatience to lead me out of the entryway living room which was in a sort of unusual disarray. What was usually an extremely tidy home looked and appeared more now to be the den of a mild hoarder. There were boxes of different sizes and shades, idly and poorly stacked paperwork, pens with caps off lying nearby, a few dishes here or there, and other miscellaneous items. What struck me was the shopping cart of books that I didn’t notice tucked just behind me. Before my eyes could even scan the first handful of titles in curiosity, though, Daisy let it be known again that her clock was ticking.

On all of our walks together, Daisy led, not in an insubordinate manner of any kind. She trotted and strutted her stuff like a pretty girl walking past a large gym window as the heavyweights inside desperately sweated themselves towards a molecule of self-worth that mostly only came to them upon returning home and giving up their apartment to another starry-eyed, Hollywood hopeful. She was never bothered by unusual scents. She knew what she wanted. I envied that in her.

Few people were out at that time which was one of my favorite features of my appointments with Daisy. Another was that the handful of blocks didn’t feel like typical Hollywood, though we were only a smattering of grid lines away from the Walk of Fame where tourists would herd around in hopes to see a moment of real personality from the faces they had come to love on television, most often to find that reality so rarely met expectation.

For this half hour, twice a week, I could be transported. I didn’t have to juggle and dodge questions of “Are you planning to make a payment, sir?” or “Do you have your rent check yet?” My grumbling stomach didn’t erk me as much, drowned out by the exuberant panting of Daisy on her mission. The bitterness of listening to acquaintances talk of their latest namedrop that may or may not lead to their big break could wait. LA felt like walking up an escalator the wrong way. Though the sight of the end game was not only visible but perceivably attainable, the presumed progress made never actually led anyone closer to the top. 

Returning through the pale blue door marked 29, the voice was no longer muddled. An elderly gentleman was on the phone, holding a few papers, and appearing to be a bit confused and bewildered by the conversation he was having. Given the dated furniture and nostalgic scents, I had guessed before that the apartment was inhabited by persons of an older generation. The best I could glean from one side of the phone conversation was that it was some matter of insurance. His eyes briefly caught mine. They were distant, looking through me as if I were a stranger on the street though I intimately stood in his living space. His glossy eyes then twinkled as he met the gaze of the beautifully curly black-haired pup. He labored himself to a knee and prepared himself for an embrace that he knew had the potential to topple him over. At his age and apparent frailty, it would likely end with a ride to the hospital should he not take proper caution. The two of them froze in time, unmoving. Love like that is so rare. It was cut short by another ring of the telephone. He brought himself to his feet in stages and beeped the receiver of the phone. He politely excused himself from the room.

Usually, I would have simply given a quick goodbye to Daisy as I knew I would see her soon. She appeared to know this as well. She was one of those dogs who could speak very clearly with her stately, doggy actions. Upon issuing my final pats of gratitude and adoration to her, I turned to walk out but was nudged by what had caught my attention before: the basket of books.

I wasn’t much of a reader. Never had been. This was considerably ironic for someone who once attended a private university with hopes of becoming a high school English teacher. The process of reading wasn’t fanciful to me. I had no habit of curling up with a good book. It was the stories. The idea that such a small object could contain any number of worlds, adventures, lessons, or emotions titillated me. Used books were all the more intriguing. They were survival stories. Not the text. The item. I had often pondered what happened to books. I maintained equal ponderance for all sorts of items. Most items on Earth eventually become rubbish, piles of obsolete wonders once adored by their owners. Sometimes I imagined alien races going through our human trash long after we destroy our own existence. What would they think of the constant cycle of objective worship turned to discarded, laughable memories? But not books. There is untouchable honesty and resiliency.

I began to graze the titles, fingering aside ones on top to get a look at others. The books were mostly fiction with a handful of biographies, none of which I recognized or found particularly endearing. They were, however, all beloved survivors. No jackets. No press junket-filled flaps pleading to potential readers to not only like the text but the author as well. Many of them had subtly etched patterns with whispers of gold-painted calligraphy and designs, speaking of a lost art from a lost era of history. Despite their years, though, most of them were in great shape. 

“No. She’s not here anymore. She has recently passed,” the elderly man voiced trying to assert through a tremble from the next room.

It didn’t take long to put the pieces together, and my heart suddenly gained weight in my chest. For a moment, I became still. My eyes were locked on the cart, but I was suddenly aware of the history of every item in the room. They, too, were still. I was standing in a wake of lifelessness– stillness– death.

“See anything you like?” His gentle voice broke my stillness.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I should be going.”

“They were my wife’s. She was an English teacher once. The ones that remain were many of her favorites. Don’t have much use for ‘em now, though.” 

I expected the comment to sadden him, but it didn't. Instead, I could feel his patience. It was clear that he knew that the sand at the top of his hourglass would soon empty to the bottom.

“They’re pretty cool. I love old books. I was almost a teacher.”

“Almost? And what about now?”

“Now? To be honest, I don’t really know. At the moment, I can’t call myself much more than a dog walker, I suppose.”

“That’ll be plenty for Daisy and me.” He smiled for the first time. It was the kind of smile only formed by ripened age– built, molded, and perfected to its most perfect simplicity. 

“She’s a great pup.”

“That she is,” he pleasantly confirmed with a sigh.

There was a brief moment of nothingness. We both stood there. I was unsure of what to do or say next, a recurring theme in my time in LA up to that point. Part of me wanted to hug him and invite him to lunch and let him regale me with stories of his deceased wife. Tell me about her, I’d say. Oh, she was as splendid as the morning dew on a spring flower, I imagined he’d say. There’d be other appointments to get to soon, though. I was also uncertain of how he would receive such a conversation. While talk of things lost may keep their spirit alive, the recollections also have the potential to bring heartache, a yearning for a feeling that cannot return. Memories, like old books, were also survivors.

“Well, I should leave you two to enjoy your day. It was nice talking with you. I’m sorry for your loss.” I hated the words as they came out. I meant them, but those words always had a way of sounding trite no matter how sincere the intention was. He didn’t appear to have any reaction to them which was relieving.

“Take some. The books I mean.”

“I couldn’t.”

“You’d be doing me a favor. What I was going to read, I read already. What I wasn’t, I won’t miss. Tulip would’ve liked that. Passing on stories was one of her favorite things. Always said it kept them alive somehow. Made survivors out of ‘em.”

“I’ve thought that, too.”

“Then it’s a deal. Whatever you can carry, you can have. Really. Take your time. There’s some good stuff in there.”

“If it would be helping you...”

“It certainly would. Don’t forget the ones on the shelf over there.” He gestured towards a worn bookcase in the corner. “Those-” He took a long pause. He stared at them as if he had recognized an old friend but couldn’t place the name even though the feeling had gone unchanged. I could feel his heart swell and recover. He looked to them with such longing, such reverence. Clearing his throat, he said, “Just take look. I’d better get some food in Daisy’s bowl before she gets to yippin’ about.” He shuffled his feet carefully into the nearby kitchen. It was as if he knew exactly how many steps his legs had left in them and took each one with precision and attention. The excited patter of paws on linoleum and offerings of love faded gently away as he disappeared behind the dividing wall.

Unable to justify any means of why I shouldn’t take a handful of books, I took a few steps through the cluttered floor to the corner bookshelf. The wistful smell had suddenly been identified. The collection was much more eclectic than expected. There were autobiographies of dead athletes, politicians, and celebrities, travel guides, dated encyclopedias, reference materials, and various self-help books on the middle two shelves. The bottom shelf was end to end with decaying copies of Life, packed so full that another copy could not be squeezed in. I quickly found that it was the top shelf that contained the greatest treasures. Fitzgerald. Hemingway. Tolstoy. Faulkner. Yeats. Poe. Milne. Bronte. Orwell. Lee. Steinbeck. Shakespeare. Thoreau. Austen. Plath. Twain. Salinger. Melville. Frost. Vonnegut. It was like that question people ask. If you could have dinner with any group of people, who would you choose? This. I thought. I would choose this.

My hand began to reach for the shelf, but then it shuddered back in shame. Something about it felt wrong. Like stealing. I reminded myself of his insistence and mustered the courage to hold one. My fingers gently pulled at the top of a copy of Old Man and the Sea. It had been probably the only book I read in high school, but I truly loved it and the teacher who once taught it to me. The cover was unrecognizably different than the school-issued paperback I had possessed years ago. This one was quite plain save for the etched title in the lower right-hand corner.

The same teacher who had once awoken my mind through the text had also taught me how to date the print of a book and to look for the letter of the print and various copyright information. I couldn’t believe my eyes. ‘A’. It was the first print edition. My eyes and hands began to admire it deeply, turning it over and over like a thief in a movie who finally possesses the treasure he had so longed to hold. My curiosity then awakened. I grabbed for To Kill a Mockingbird next. A girl I had loved (or at least thought so at the time) in high school who had later broken my heart had adored it, claiming it as her favorite novel of all time. I gently eased open the front cover. It made soft crackling noises like an old man who has been sitting for too long trying to stand again. Now I was unequivocally astonished. ‘A’. Impossible, I thought. More perusal only led to further astonishment. They were all ‘A’ print copies. Though I knew not much of the book market at all, I estimated the small collection to be worth a couple of thousand dollars. Admiring the preserved copy of The Great Gatsby, a picture fell out of it and to the floor.  

I picked it up and examined the couple in the photo. Judging by their attire, the sepia-shaded colors, and the old-time car they posed in front of, it was quite old.

“Good eye,” he said admiringly.

“These are incredible.”

“Tulip thought so, too. I never cared for reading much. Didn’t have to though. Tuly loved to tell me all about ‘em. Shame to let ‘em sit there gathering dust. Take ‘em all.”

“Really, sir. I couldn’t.” I suddenly felt a need for formality that I hadn’t before.

“You must.” He looked directly into my eyes to best express the sincerity of his words. It was then I realized they burdened him. Sensing the fullness of the clutter of the room, it was clear. It was all burden. The life of the items was only kept when their owner’s capacity to cherish them was still aflame. Once extinguished, it all simply became stuff he had no use for. “I tell you what–” he began again. “Are you here again later this week?”

“Yes, sir.” He assuredly felt no need to hear my formality, but I couldn’t think of a better way to humble myself.

“Hows about I box ‘em up for ya, and you can grab ‘em later?”

“Again, sir. Only if you insist. I really think you should sell them or give them to family or something. I am sure you are aware of their worth. Money, I mean.”

“I don’t think I know of anyone that would appreciate them like I see you holdin’ ‘em there. Don’t have much need for the money and wouldn’t know how to get it anyhow.”

I sighed, having no other means of refusal.

“I suppose that would be fine then.” Realizing I was still holding the old photo, I added, “Is this you? Nice car.”

I handed it to him. A smile emerged and faded into a sigh.

“I thought I’d lost this.” He looked up at me with a face of gratitude, gently waving the photo. “Thank you.”

I had a sense of nervous excitement re-entering the small apartment days later. Part of me hoped the old man would be there again while another part of me still had no idea as to what to say to him or how to thank him.

The living area was far cleaner than before. Turning towards Tulip’s coveted shelves, I was a bit struck with awe. It had been cleared into a few boxes sitting at its base. I imagined how he would have stood there, gently touching and admiring the sight of each text for the last time before placing them into the boxes below. I was not at all surprised that he had left them sitting there. They were rather heavy, far too much weight for him to carry around. On the top of the small stack of boxes lay a handwritten note.

It was the type of handwriting you’d expect from someone who learned to read and write in the 1930s. The shaky cursive letter had a simple message. From one teacher to another. Enjoy! Love, Tuly. ;) 

Survival, I thought. The true scent of vellichor.