An Obsolete Man

"Hey, Frank, you awake?"

"Yes," Frank responded, sounding wide-eyed, "and have been for about two hours. Just laying here thinking about how wonderful life is."

"Oh, listen to Ms. Sunshine." A purposeful pause. "Oh, before I forget, happy anniversary! Couldn't happen to a grander individual."

Frank jumped from bed and put his standardized uniform on. "Has it really been ten years, Graham?"

"Yes," a smile was injected into Graham's words, "and I've experienced every day of that decade with you and your sunny disposition. I know your routine as well as my own." He snickered humorously. "Hold that," the six-foot, six-inch stood and leaned against the wall separating them, "I know your routine better than my own, because there aint no one else in this blasted prison with a schedule as rigid as yours." Stretching his back out, side to side, the beds were not made for a man with his long frame, causing his body to hurt. "Today is Thursday. Is that correct, Frank?"

Rolling his eyes with disdain, knowing where this conversation was going. "Yes, Graham, today is Thursday."

"You see," Graham lit up with a smile, "you're gonna stroll your uppity backside to the mess hall, get yourself some coffee. You will not eat breakfast because today is Thursday and you do not eat that swill as you call it, but those of us that speak normal call oatmeal."

He heard Frank begin to protest.

"No, no no," he held up his hands as if Frank could see the visual protest, "I'm just getting started here." Clearing his throat, loudly, he continued. "After getting your coffee, black, because you never use cream or sugar. This fact is furthered by the fact that you once noticed the expiration date on the creamer box used to fill the dispensers." Leaning up against the bars, as if he could see into the cell next to him. "Then, in part because no one wants to listen to you rattle on about how you're innocent and shouldn't even be here and in part because you don't want to hear someone in this clink say to you, yo, Frank, everyone in here is innocent."

Frank stifled the desire to explain that he was indeed innocent, that being wealthy had a set of standards none of these would be able to relate to, let alone understand the tax code wrapped around it. A tax code he was found guilty of violating to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars. Whereas it is true that he was not innocent, he certainly wasn't guilty of the crimes they tried him of. In a world of Three-Strikes, a third offense got the book thrown at him and the upscale life he had made for himself was gone.

"Frank," Graham pushed, "you still with me?"

"Yes."

"Oh, good," he prodded, "I thought I smelled smoke, that means you're thinking and that's dangerous." He traced a finger across and engraving some former soul made into the wall. "Because it is Thursday, because you are a perfect prisoner and the man likes that, you'll race off to the library, where you will spend the day reading." He rubbed his temple in thought. "What is it you say?" Taking the tone of a snooty upper class person. "A room without books is like a body without a soul - Cicero. On a day that you're feeling uppity, you will add, 'a reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, the man who never reads lives only one - George R.R. Martin.'" Graham laughed, partly at his words, moreover for his soliloquy. "Frank?"

"Yes," annoyance evident, "Gra-ham?"

"You're one strange white guy!'"

The pair laughed together, a sound not commonly heard within the confines of the 1,187 male population at United States Penitentiary (USP), Atwater. Home of Somali pirate leader Mohamud Salad Ali. Ali killed four U.S. Citizens in 2011 while attempting to hi-jack the civilian yacht Quest.

With no knowledge of Ali's existence within the prison, Frank finished his ablutions and waited. Something he spent the majority of his life within the prison doing. As he heard the commands being shouted from one guard to another, Frank left his bed and waited for his door to slide open. For the first time, he considered what wonderment he would share in today. Atwater prison had many educational programs, occupational, vocational with apprenticeships and leisure programs, but none of that mattered to him. The vast library was not large in size, but it had the classics; Dostoevsky, Dumas, Harper Lee, Tolkien and Golding, to name a few. He had started one of his favorites, Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' last week, but another prisoner got there before he could get to it. That would not happened today. To ensure such, he would forego the coffee and head straight to the library, where he had all the locations memorized. The Dewey Decimal Classification System a friend of his.

Frank had few friends other than books in his life, inside or outside of the clink. Fact is, he spent decades building an empire of books. Millionaires, like Frank, spent money on mansions, limited edition cars and, more popular these days, islands. That was not Frank's thing. He lived modestly, considering his $5 million net worth, but he did have a weakness, as most wealthy individuals do. He did not surround himself with lose woman, bimbos as mom always called them. He did not partake of recreational drugs or booze. His drug was literature.

Amassing a collection that would cause some libraries to blush, he focused on early editions of the classics. Fact is, one of his last additions before being found guilty was a second edition of Jane Austen's 1813 novel, 'Pride and Prejudice'. He paid $32,000 for the book that had belonged to the aristocrat Eliza Emily Huskison, her ownership inscription on the title page.

He knew nothing of Huskison, cared even less for the details of the books history or the cost, he wanted only to immerse himself in the words. Mark Twain once said, 'Classic, a book which people praise, but don't read.' This would not be the case for Frank. His goal in life was to purchase a copy of every book that twinkled his fancy and then spend time reading it. The words within were his mistress and every dollar he had earned over his lifetime was to bring her closer to him.

Frank loved the classics, this is true, his Shakespeare collection had collectors across the world trying to get him to sell, he was not interested no matter how lucrative the offer. Frank was also an avid lover of Fiction, considering such names as Edgar Allan Poe, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Tolstoy among his favorites. It was not uncommon for the man to enter a Barnes and Noble store and spend an entire day accruing the latest titles, after which time he would spend the next week consuming the words like food.

Nourishment was on the menu today, as Frank leaned back in his chair, he digested one chapter after another. Even in the confines of prison, his soul was happy to be reading Jane Austen. Emotionally he was swept up in the descriptions of social hierarchy, marital expectations and gender roles of the time. He wondered more than once how this book was not blacklisted by some group because of the limitations placed upon women hundreds of years ago.

Perfection was interrupted, as he felt a tap upon his shoulder.

Looking up at the guard. "Hey, Kurt. It's not time to be locked up again," perplexed, "is it? Feels like I just got settled in."

"No, Frank." The guard motioned his head left to right, indicating he was to get up. "Warden wants to see you."

"Problems?"

"No idea," the dullard of a guard shrugged his shoulders, "I was just told to get you."

Standing, Frank followed Kurt's lead.

A visit to the Warden was not a common thing and should've piqued the inmates interest, truth be told, he was more irritated that his time reading was interrupted.

Entering the lavish office space. "Hello, Frank." Motioning to the chair in front of his desk. "Please, have a seat."

Frank did as instructed. Projecting a perplexed look at the prison supervisor.

"It's alright, Frank." Warden Luther smiled. "I've got good news."

Trying not to sound impetuous, but failing. "You know you're interrupting my free time?"

"Frank," Luther held up both hands, "I said I've got good news."

The inmate slumped in his chair, not having the patience for people.

Seeing the uneasiness, the warden got straight to the point. "You've been paroled. I've already processed your paperwork and you'll be free to leave in a short period of time. The tall man stood, hovering over the still seated prisoner and extended a hand. "Congratulations," quickly adding, "and thank you for being such a stand-up individual while here. Your impact on others was evident and I want you to know that it hasn't gone unnoticed. Graham especially was encouraged by your presence here and I do not doubt he's going to be upset that you're leaving."

Wanting to avoid a moment Frank stood. "It's over?"

"Yes, Frank." Luther smiled broadly towards him. "It's over. All you need to do is clean up your cell, get your things and you're free to go." Extending his hand again. "I wish you the best of luck."

"Thank you, Luther." The slight breech of etiquette, calling the warden by first name went unchecked. Frank skipped from the room, his head spun. Not quite with happiness as much as anticipation.

After cleaning his cell, saying goodbye to Graham, wishing him well, he received a bad with all of his belongings and was walked to the gate, where a van would escort him home.

"That's funny." Frank said to no one in particular.

"What's that?" The unnamed guard asked.

"Last time I was in a van like this," he smiled, "I was in cuffs."

The driver smiled and the odd pair drove in silence.

Four hours later, they pulled up to his modest home in the not so modest Calabasas, California.

Standing in the living room, he shivered. In all the years of lock-up, he never felt as alone as he did in that moment. Suddenly filled with the words of Socrates, Employ your time in improving yourself by other men's writings so that you shall come easily by what others have labored hard for. The need to improve himself never felt so urgent.

Rushing to the garage, his soul panicked, wondering if his Honda would start, having been sitting there for who knows how long without being started. He had a young man on payroll whose only job was to make sure the car was started from time to time, but who knew if he was actually doing what he was being paid handsomely for. His heart purred to hear the soft rumbling of the engine turn over.

The ten minute drive to Barnes and Noble felt an eternity to the overtly anxious man. Pulling into the large strip mall parking lot felt surreal, as many of the stores he was familiar with were gone. His heart warmed to see the large Barnes and Noble sign and he drove a little too fast to get to that place where he could once again be nourished.

Finding a spot that was a short walk away, he got out of the car and turned towards the book warehouse, the very notion of which he had built his life around. Walking to the end of the lane, facing the long store front, his heart grew dark. His knees wobbled beneath his frame. Continuing to walk towards the entrance, as if to deny that which he knew to be fact, he pulled the front door and found it locked. Looking through the dirty windows, his eyes acknowledged what he had seen but not taken in moments earlier. The store was empty.

A panic enveloped him.Grow up, man. This isn't the only Barnes & Noble.

Hearing footsteps, he turned to see a twenty-something man holding a cup of Starbucks coffee. "Excuse me."

The man looked at him queerly, as if he was interrupting something. "Yes?"

"Can you tell me please," his head motioned towards the closed store, "what happened to the book store?"

"Oh," the man stopped long enough to answer, "yeah, they finally got 21st century and decided to stop killing trees for the sake of literature."

Frank had an expression that showed he was no closer to an answer.

Impatiently, "they went digital. 100% e-books across the nation." Without waiting to see if his answer sufficed, the men kept walking.

Frank recalled decades of collecting, considered digital books, recalling an Arthur Conan Doyle quote, "It's a great thing to start life with a small number of really good books which are your very own." Falling down onto a cement block that served as a chair. "They went digital." A tear fell from Frank's eye as he considered his own obsolescence. Feeling a nauseam overtake him, he considered the Twilight Zone episode with Burgess Meredith, 'Time Enough to Last". Where book lover Henry finally finds himself alone with his books after a nuclear war, only to step on and shatter his reading glasses.

Frank wept.