Dr. Paul Weissand's Power of Perseverance

           As an undergrad, I worked in the college bookstore, a place where I witnessed the unlikely. It was a pleasant bookstore, old-fashioned for the most part, with dark, exposed wood and warm lighting in the stacks. The main portion was modern, with recessed lighting to attractively display college memorabilia, nostalgic felt pennants, sweatshirts and joggers, bumper stickers and the like. During the first two weeks of school, the store was always flooded with new students. They unfolded their computer receipts of classes and purchased headphones and candy in one transaction, knowing that their parents would simply assume that the price of books seemed to keep rising, not knowing that their sons and daughters had arranged a few extras in each transaction. Pens, paper, books, and Dr. Dre’s Beatz headphones, some junk food, a sweatshirt. All on the credit card bill that Mom and Dad would pay without scrutiny.

           During the holiday break, the bookstore was always dead. I looked forward to this time of year. My parents lived only five hours away, but I could earn holiday pay working at the bookstore over Christmas break, and I could get a jump on reading for my classes before the start of the next semester, with no one around to tell me to tidy up the shelves. I could help myself to a fresh cup of the dark, rich coffee and eggnog creamer that had been purchased for the holiday rush. So, every year, after spending Christmas Eve and Christmas Day and the days leading up with my family, I trekked five hours back to school to earn some money for my own entertainment, but mostly to read ahead for my Philosophy classes. I looked forward to the warm burnished wood and bright, quiet light.

           I’d just begun the first chapter of “Meaning and Existence,” the textbook for Philosophy class, when I heard the little brass bell on the door jingle, and I saw him come in. He looked familiar to me. I had seen him around campus, but I didn’t know his name. He was a mouse of a person, one of those people that you’ve seen, but have never met. He met my eyes briefly, and then quickly looked away. I respected his privacy, realizing that he recognized me but wanted to be anonymous. I’ve felt that way before myself, so I’d decided to leave him alone. If nothing else, we are at least entitled to our anonymity.

           The bookstore was quiet but for the two of us. Fifteen minutes passed, and I found that I was having a difficult time keeping my concentration on Philosophy. The only sound was the scratching of an icy tree branch on the window outside, where a little bird’s nest, empty, could be seen, bobbing up and down, up and down in the quiet day. I strolled the aisles, intending to interrupt with my customary “Anything I can help you find?” when I saw him in the self-help stacks of books. This was an area of the bookstore that no student would be found dead in. Of course, we all had a portion of self-doubt, of feelings of inadequacy, but it was almost as though a collective agreement had been reached not to display such ugly flaws publicly.  I couldn’t help but to glance sideways at him to try to see what he was reading.

           I saw that he was sitting, Indian-style, on the carpeted floor in the aisle. He was wearing red Converse high tops, the kind that have never gone totally out of style, but which are also clearly not in style, either. He was too stocky, with an inch or two of extra padding on his chest and arms. I was frankly amazed that he had chosen to sit on the ground. It would clearly require effort to rise again. He had clear blue eyes and his face was mostly covered with a prodigious beard, the kind that the hipsters wore. He lacked the hipster’s body and self-assurance. He held the large book up to his face, and he squinted at the words on the page.

           He caught me then, and I had been lost in observing him, so I awkwardly asked, too late, whether he needed help. He said no and went back to reading. It was odd, I thought. Normally, my question prompted a purchase and an embarrassed scurrying back to the dormitory on the part of the patron, but in his case, he didn’t seem to be embarrassed at all. A true geek. I decided to go back to reading my Nietzsche. 

           Have you ever had a small nagging feeling that you can’t seem to shake? That was the feeling I had even before I picked up my book. I just couldn’t seem to dismiss the idea that he was taking unfair advantage of the bookstore. I tried to resume, but I found the seat of my chair to be hard. I squirmed. It was no use. I got up again and approached him.

           “You can’t just read the book here,” I said. “It has to be purchased.”

           “Hm.” he said. There was a pause. “Did you purchase the one you are reading?”

           I reddened. The nerve! I worked at the bookstore.

           “No, but I work here.”

           “Funny that you find it different if a person is reading who doesn’t work here,” he said.

           His blue eyes looked at me so directly, so unblinkingly that they caught me off guard. I couldn’t think of what to say.

           After a pause, he said, “Look, I’m here over Christmas break. I want to read this book. You read yours, I’ll read mine, and if I’m not out of your hair within the next two weeks, start of school, you can kick me out. If there’s damage to the book, I’ll pay for it. Deal?”

           There was nothing to say. He’d found me out, and I couldn’t begrudge him reading his book, especially in the self-help aisle, when I was helping myself to some free coursework reading and (basically) free hours of pay over Christmas break. I certainly wasn’t breaking my back to do inventory or anything. I made a mental note to revisit my shortcomings later. Surely I was entitled to some slack minding the store over holiday hours. I found myself talking again. 

           “Deal.” Then, “At least tell me what you are reading?”

           He held up the book. It was called “Create Your Life through the Power of Perseverance,” and was written by “Dr.” Paul Weissand, Ed.D. 

           I loathed these types of books. They are overwritten, schmaltzy and full of cheerleading, light on information. On top of it all, such a book felt pathetic. Pathetic to write, pathetic to read, pathetic to sell. And Paul Weissand had not convinced me he was a doctor. He was a school administrator, or psychologist. A lightweight. I nodded in encouragement. 

           “I may be different the next time you see me,” he added.

           Ugh, uncomfortable, I thought. Not only did I have to endure an encroachment on my quiet time, he was embarrassing himself in a way that I would not be able to forget later. Pathetic, I thought, and went back to my reading.

*         *         *

           The next day I got in to work at 8:00 a.m. The sun was shining, and I hadn’t even had time to rub the sleep out of my eyes when I heard the bell jingle. It was him. He did look different. He was wearing a beat-up baseball cap and clearly had not yet showered. He smelled faintly of sweat and bacon grease. He nodded to me and walked to his post, sat down Indian-style in the self-help section, and again began to read.

           I resumed my Nietzsche. He remained all day, and from time to time, I wondered what could be so compelling in Dr. Paul Weissand’s book. I was well-versed in the bookstore’s inventory, and I couldn’t remember the book from the ordering list. It must have been leftover, a non-purchase remaining from clearance sales years ago. We simply kept these books, for people like the student, who wander in without any idea of what to read. When I trolled the aisles, I found that he was writing in a black, leather bound Moleskine notebook, with the heavy gel MasterPen that was my own personal favorite writing instrument. The parchment pages of the Moleskine were covered in neat, black lettering. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it,” he said simply, and, after I rang him up, he resumed his post in the self-help aisle. No one else entered the bookstore all day.

*         *         *

           The next two days passed without incident. Strangely, I was beginning to enjoy his company. I brewed a pot of coffee, “for customers,” I told myself, knowing that there would be no customers. I poured a steaming mug half full of eggnog creamer and offered it to him. He accepted, lifting his head up for only a moment, then returned to his note taking. On the third day, however, he refused it.

           “Why don’t you want it?” I asked, before I had a chance to vet myself. It sounded strange to be asking this in a confrontational manner.

           “No more junk food,” he responded simply, and I noticed for the first time that his jawline seemed less soft and jowly than it had been when he’d first appeared.

           “What are you writing in that notebook, anyway?” I asked.

           “My notes,” he said simply.

           I sighed and went back to my reading.

*         *         *

           He continued to show up, and I began to notice other changes. First, he shaved off the beard entirely and cut his hair. He no longer wore a baseball cap. I noticed he’d traded his trainers for running shoes, an expensive brand I’d seen the professional athletes wear, and I began to notice that he brought a gym bag with him to the bookstore and left promptly at 4, instead of 5. I assumed he was hitting the gym afterwards.

           I, in the meantime, had finished my Nietzsche and was moving on to Sartre. It was funny. Now that I’d observed him day in, day out, taking notes in the Moleskine, getting cleaned up, eschewing the eggnog creamer coffee, I was feeling like a bit of a slacker. I picked up the bottle of creamer. The first ingredient was sugar, then soy oil solids. Disappointing. I drained my coffee in the trash.

*         *         *

           I’m not going to lie. I was starting to look forward to seeing him. When he stopped drinking the eggnog coffee, I found myself searching for ways to check up on him. He was no longer drinking black coffee (too much caffeine, he said), so I was relegated to pretending to inventory new pens and notebooks. When he didn’t lift his head my way, I dropped a box, and they rolled towards him. He picked one up absently and looked at me quizzically.

           “You’re going to ruin your eyes without a book light,” I said. I grabbed him by the hand. “They’re over here, but if you refuse to get one, then I insist that you at least rest your eyes for five minutes.”

           I rang up two herbal teas and poured him one.

           “Christmas break is almost over,” I said. “I hope you’re almost done with that book.”

           “I am,” he said.

           “You seem different,” I said.

           He just smiled.

           “Do you want to go out to dinner with me?” I said, surprising myself. His icy blue eyes seemed a million miles away, and I noticed that he had an attractive square jawline and broad shoulders. The pad of fat was gone and he no longer looked soft.

           “Sure,” he said. “Where would you like to go?”

*         *         *

           That was decades ago. We’d gone out on a single date. He then transferred schools. He became a geneticist, and I became a lawyer. He went on to discover a rare genetic disease. I saw him on television, on a spot on the Today show, explaining how he’d made the discovery. Amazing, I thought. He looked pretty much the same, blue eyes that could look right through you, same wavy dark hair. He was much more muscular, though.  It was obvious that he spent a significant amount of time at the gym, and I wondered how he’d found time to do that and make his genetic discovery.

           I remembered how, after our date, I’d been smitten. I’d gotten curious. I’d taken to trying to find out more about him but gave up when I found out he’d transferred schools. I’d developed a yen to read the book that he’d read. Though I’d looked for it on the shelf, I’d never found it. There wasn’t even evidence that we’d ever ordered it. Could he have stolen it? It didn’t seem likely. But this story is true. And I tell you truly, that the book seemed to have simply vanished.

           Years later, I still find myself somewhat mystified. I’ve attempted to google the book, to hunt it down, as it seemed to be the key to my Muse’s transformation. I was unsuccessful. But I’d be lying if in my forty years here on earth, I haven’t observed some evidence of the power of perseverance. Sometimes I wonder, with or without the book, whether we all could transform ourselves, if only we found the Power of Perseverance.