An Intervention in 5 Parts

“Harry lay in his bed that night, thinking about the good time at Hogsmeade with his friends. Outside. With his friends. He had a great time. He should do it more often.”

I stopped reading and stared at the words. These words were wrong. This was not Harry Potter. I blinked a few times, but the paragraph didn’t change. I shook the book, half-wanting the words to fall off the page. But they defied me, the assholes. I looked around my apartment to see if anyone else saw. But how would they, I lived alone. It was a pretty simple place. One bedroom, kitchen, bathroom. A window, curtains drawn. There were sounds coming from the road, so it was probably day by now. I could go check, but then I’d have to get up. And put the book down. 

Maybe I’d been up too late. I’d been challenged to read for a full twelve hours and I wasn’t about to lose to myself. I yawned into a full-body stretch and thought about food. Getting off my couch, I slinked around the overburdened bookshelves that acted as my walls. I was a lizard-like, stealthy, ninja-assassin, silent as a photograph.

With a thud, a column crash-landed behind me, spraying its contents all over the floor. I kicked them away in a hurry so I could make a sandwich. Reaching for an unfinished horror novel, I set about bitch-slapping peanut butter onto bread.

“The monster roared, its hideous visage twisting in fury. Jessie screamed. She wouldn’t have been in this position if she’d gone to that party in the Seychelles last Monday like she said she was going to.”

What. 

I squinted at the pages in frustration, the knife still in my hand. I almost stabbed it, stopped only by the horrific thought of getting peanut butter on the pages. I remembered my anger management issues. An affirmation. Yes. That will do. I am content with what is. I am content with what is. I am content with what is. I lifted the book and slapped around the pages until they gave way to a new set of words. Finally.

“Roy seemed excited. ‘Sunlight!’ He shouted. ‘It’s weak to sunlight! A human needs to spend at least a few hours in the sun every day or they get vitamin D deficiency!’”

With a grunt, I put the book back and finished making my sandwich. I was hungry, that was it. As I passed by the bathroom door I looked critically at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t that pale. And I’d been outside…. Last week.

I flopped back onto the couch and automatically reached for a book. A good time lovin, hot and heavy romance. That would do the trick.

“He longed for her, longed to take her into his arms. But she would never see him. She was highborn. And he only went out to get groceries and how can anyone find a girlfriend like that?”

“Fuck me.” I said, carefully putting the book down. “Am I crazy? I’m not crazy. I’m not. I’m just tired.”

Twelve hours. I had to do it, too.  My books were being neglected. I’d worked late almost every night this past week. On Friday I had been accosted on my way back from the grocery store by an old woman who needed help feeding pigeons in the park. Barely half a dozen hours of reading this week! It just wasn't enough. I had promised my books this morning that I would make it up to them. I would really get into them. A full day’s worth of reading. If I lost, I had to do it again the next day. And if I won… Well, then I was allowed to do it the next day. I was hoping that I won.

It was nine hours in. I’d polished off several of my favorite series, and nothing had been odd at all! I knew these books by heart, of course, and I could tell.

A mystery novel. That always drew me in. I could spend days reading a mystery series.

“I stepped into the bar, my jacket billowing behind me. Which I could only do because I actually left the house that day. People were having fun. Normal people, doing normal things like meeting friends. My target was towards the back. Carefully I made my way through the crowd, which I only knew how to do because I actually socialized with people. She met my eyes and raised her glass. She was drinking a bourbon, straight, which you wouldn’t know anything about because you’d have to go to a bar.”

“I’ve been to a bar!” I protested hotly, not even bothering to hide the fact that I was arguing with a book. “Christ, I know what a bourbon is!.”

“I kept her in my sights as I leaned against the bar counter. Casually. Which I also only know how to do because I talk to people. ‘What’ll it be?’ the bartender asked. I ordered a drink. And because you know so much about drinks, you can use your imagination from here.”

My mouth opened slightly. Well fuck you too then!

“I do know about drinks.” I proclaimed, tearing into a bite of my sandwich. “He orders a whiskey. That’s what he always gets.”

Feeling triumphant, I put the book down and reached for another one, at random.

“‘Hah! You thought you could defeat me!’ The Count shouted. “Ten minutes of exercise at least twice a day is critical for maintaining your health and vigor!’”

I looked guiltily at the exercise bike I’d purchased a year ago, with every intention of using it at least once a week. It was still in the box, and that box was being used as a makeshift table for several books on how to exercise.

“Ok, yes, working in a cubicle doesn’t give me much chance to exercise.” I admitted. “But the building has stairs! I walk down them… when the elevator is broken. And I walk to work the few times I miss the bus. So I’m doing fine in that department. Screw you.”

Desperate, my gaze fell upon an old technical manual. It was pretty dry material, covering how to do various handyman projects like building a deck, or fixing a leaky pipe. But it was a book, and right now my body was trying to remember how to chew without the rhythm of turning pages.

“Chapter 12: Building a bookshelf. This is a fairly easy project that can be done in an afternoon.”

This was perfect. I just so happened to be in the market for a bookshelf, for all of these judgemental books I found myself with. And my afternoon was free.

“Supplies needed: 2 12 inch by 36 inch hardwood planks. 3 12 inch by 48 inch hardwood planks. 18 2 inch self-tapping screws. A screwdriver. Most of these supplies can be found at your local hardware store. Do you know where that is?”

I squinted suspiciously at the book. That did seem like something the manual would ask though. I did not, in fact, know where my local hardware store was. But who just knows that kind of thing anyway?

“This project can be completed alone, but a friend always makes things easier. You might find some friends at your local hardware store. Or anywhere, really. Please.”

“But I can do it alone,” I declared.

“Step one. Make a clear space to work. You’ll want a 6x6 square foot area. You would have that kind of space if you put your books away.”

“That’s why I needed a bookshelf!” I pointed out. “That’s a catch-22 right there.”

“Begin by laying down a cloth to protect your floor. Or don’t, because you never have anyone over anyway so who cares what happens to your floor?”

I groaned in disgust, closing the book. “Not you too! Why’s everybody so judgy this… whatever time of day it is?”

Silence. I looked at my half-eaten sandwich, then took a bite, once again automatically reaching for a book. This one felt different. New.

Looking down, I saw it. The self-help book my sister had sent me over the summer. Out of all the books in the apartment, it was the only one I had never read. Its cover was still pristine, and it gave off that lovely new-book smell as I opened the front.

I didn’t want to read it. 

There was nothing wrong with me. Everything was fine, and fuck you for thinking otherwise. But I could feel the judgment of the other books bearing down on me, with their smug pages. With a groan of frustration, I turned the page.

“Hello friend. Has life got you down? Trouble making or keeping friends? Trouble getting up the energy to leave the house? Does it feel sometimes like the whole world is against you? Have books turned their spines to you?”

I blinked. This wasn’t what I had expected. A self-help book seemed like it would be even more preachy. But this was… kind of nice. It disgusted me.

“Life is hard. But you're not alone. Lots of people care about you. Even if you do make excited squeaking sounds whenever you see a book. It’s going to be ok. I can help.”

I swallowed my peanut butter and looked around my room. Maybe I should have stuck with the judgy romance novel. With a sigh, I realized that if I was going to finish my sandwich, I had to keep going, as much as I didn’t want to.

“Ok, tell me more - I’m listening.”