All You Have To Do Is Read

The alarm rang.

He stopped it and dragged himself out of bed, preparing himself for his day.

He straightened up his bed, neatly fluffing and placing the pillows.

He showered, letting the soap cleanse his body, the water going down the drain.

He got dressed, buttoning down his white-collar shirt, tying his tie around his neck.

He walked into the kitchen and sat at the counter.

He heard toast pop out of the toaster.

His wife, Cassie, spread jam on the toast, put it on a small saucer and handed it to her husband.

He took a bite of the toast. It was burnt. Blackened. It was tough and hard to chew. He ate it anyway.

"Good morning, Luthor," his wife greeted. She greeted him politely, as wives do. "Off to work."

He nodded. "Yes. What are you doing today?"

"Oh, the same thing I always do. Reading. Say, do you think you could bring home a few books?"

"I can't do that. Why must you have books in the first place? What makes you read them?"

She thought on this for a moment. "Well, reading is part of my relaxation process. Reading a new adventure every time and it helps me get away from it all."

He laughed. "Nonsense! There's no adventure in books! They're nothing more than mere words on pages!"

"Then, why are you at the library every day?"

He laughed again. "It's because I work there, Cassie. You know that. The library is a boring and uneventful place."

"Then why don't you quit?"

He wasn't laughing anymore. "And do what? Stay with you?"

"No. You would find work someplace else,"

"Where would I work?"

"There are plenty of jobs out there! The thing is, you don't want to quit," she said, pointing the dishrag in her husband's face. "You don't want to quit because you don't want to give up on your dream."

“That’s not true!” he denied. “I can quit any time I’d like to!”

“Then why don’t you quit today? Right now! Quit!”

“I could work as a school teacher! I could teach children and they’ll come home educated!”

“Become a school teacher, then! What’s stopping you?”

“I—” Luthor hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“I knew it! You don’t want to give up becoming a librarian because it’s been your dream since childhood!”

He stood from the chair and slipped on his black coat. "Thank you for the toast, Cassie," he said, kissing his wife on the cheek and heading for the front door. "I will be back later."

This is how it was, every day. The alarm would ring, Luthor would make the bed, shower, dress, eat, he and his wife would talk—argue mostly, and he would go to work at the library. The cycle would repeat every day of his life. It would not change.

Some mornings, he would struggle to remember the date.

"Cassie, dear," he would say. "What day is it? I've forgotten."

"November 17th," she would answer.

The next day, the eighteenth. The next the nineteenth.

His life was bland, dull.

But, that all changed one night.

Luthor was walking home late one night. It was dark, but he relied on the moon and street lamps for light. He was muttering something, but it wasn’t complete sentences.

“Tick. Tock,” he mumbled. “Bit. Knock. Sick. Sock. Mit. Meet. Met. Song? “

He kept this up. It didn’t end. “Boring. Bland. Blander.”

His foot kicked an object. It wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t very soft either. He picked the object up. It was a book. He wanted to throw it behind him but the book was stuck to his hand.

He heard a voice from behind him. “Read it, Luthor,” the voice said. Luthor looked behind himself. There wasn’t anyone there. “Read it,” the voice said again. “Surround yourself with an adventure.”

“I don’t know who you are,” Luthor called. “And I don’t know where you came from, but I refuse to read! There’s no adventure in books. That’s impossible!”

“Is it?” the voice asked. “All you have to do is read.”

Luthor opened the book slowly. Fahrenheit 451 was the title. Ray Bradbury was the author.

He began to read the first page. The scenery around him began to change. There were people around him, walking by. Characters. There were buildings. Shops and restaurants. Setting. A man in a fire hat walked into a firehouse. Luthor caught a glimpse of the nametag on his vest. Guy Montag. The main character.

Luthor followed Montag around, watching his life go by as if he was watching a film. He found interest in watching the man’s life. He wanted more. When Montag began to read books, Luthor realized that books are more than words on a page.

It’s a story, he thought, a story that someone has created and written for others to read and enjoy.

“You see?” the voice had said. “Books are stories. They are pieces of art. Your wife is correct, Luthor. Books are adventures.”

When the film-like picture ends, everything goes black. Luthor begins to panic. “No! No! I don’t want it to end! What—what do I do now?”

“Read a different book,” the voice told him.

“I don’t have any other books!”

“Yes, you do. You have plenty.”

“Where?”

The voice did not tell him.

Where do I have more books? He thought. I don’t— he realized something. The library!

He arrived in the same spot he was at before he opened the book. He checked his watch. 8:30 pm. The same time too. He shrugged his shoulders and began walking. His feet kicked a book. He picked it up. His fingers brushed against the cover as he opened it.

He began to read the first page, wondering if something would happen. He was not taken anywhere. He stood there, reading and reading like a fool. The corners of his mouth curled up into a smile. He was enjoying the story. Luthor found a new joy in reading. He liked being sucked into a new adventure. So, call him a fool.