Pica

The plot thickens. Especially since I devour books, this phrase really hits home.

No, really, I devour books. Like, literally eat them. Yes, cover to cover. Even the covers, if they’re appealing enough to my tastes.

I read them, yes. But, see, I developed the habit of tearing small pieces of paper and eating them. I began that habit in grade school. It was something I did not out of curiosity, but out of a unique hunger. Books are nourishment for the brain and the soul. But can they also be nourishment for the body in a literal sense?

The first book I ate was an old copy of Peter Pan that used to belong to my older sister Jane. She was given a newer copy by my uncle Tobias, who himself was a literature major in college. Jane and Uncle Tobias would always talk about the books that Jane began to discover. Peter Pan was one that she always wanted to read, so she found an old copy of it at a Friends of the Valley Heights Library sale at the central branch downtown. It was a copy that was retired from circulation and Jane bought it for a dollar.

I loved to borrow it, not because of the story (which I later read and enjoyed) but the illustrations. I remember seeing one in particular of Peter Pan trying to detach his own shadow by rubbing the soles of his feet with soap. The book had a lovely pen illustration of this, and that was seared into my brain. Peter Pan and Peter Rabbit were the books that made me want to be an illustrator, and while I read a lot of books, I loved to draw on them more. I did so because I wanted to emulate what I saw, and I traced over the illustrations. This led to a lot of stern lectures from not only Jane but my mom and dad.

“Beto, you can draw, but use your own paper,” Dad said. “Don’t draw in the books. It’s getting expensive to pay the fines. We’ve had to buy new copies of the book since the ones you checked out were returned with ink marks.”

“Okay,” I said, chastened. But drawing was not only a pastime, it was a compulsion. I had to draw. I had to get these lovely beasts of my imagination onto a sheet of paper. And at that age, being in grade school, I had no other choice but to draw in the books. I had notebooks, but those were for notes and besides, I hated drawing on ruled paper. By the fourth grade I was given a sketchbook by my mom, which I had in my backpack whenever I felt the urge to draw. That kept my textbooks clean, my notes clean, and most importantly, the library books I checked out clean.

So when Jane gave me her old copy of Peter Pan, I was elated. Not just because it was a story I loved reading over and over — trying my hand at drawing Peter Pan trying to rub soap on his feet, but also Wendy looking out the window at the crescent moon, Captain Hook with the cigarette holder in his mouth, poring over a map, and the alligator in the ocean — but since this was an older book, the pages looked like coffee cake. I found out when I was older that this happened as the acids in the paper began to age. Older books I saw in the libraries of my schools confirmed that. While I never took those books to check out, I do remember drooling a little at the reminder of how those pages tasted in my mouth.

I started tearing small pieces from the back pages of the book, the extra blank pages that helped to even out the total number of pages in the book so it could be properly bound. It all started with the corners of the book, and then half of it was gone. Jane was curious one afternoon at how I treated one of her prized possessions and found that I ate an entire back page.

“Mom! Dad! Beto’s eating paper!”

“Beto!” Mom shouted from the kitchen.

“Yes?”

“Don’t eat paper,” she replied from the kitchen. I only saw her left foot from my vantage point in the living room as she started on dinner. “It will mess up your stomach.”

“I’m fine,” I remember thinking to myself and almost said it out loud. Instead, I whispered it to no one in particular after Jane returned the book to me. I remembered thinking at the time if I’m to continue this tasty little habit, I’ll have to eat notebook paper. Even though it wasn’t aged like this old hardcover of Peter Pan, and it took longer to let it moisten in my mouth before I chewed the pulpy goodness before I swallowed it.

I had that copy of Peter Pan before my dad threw it away during a round of house cleaning when I was a freshman in high school.

“Why do you still have this old thing?” he asked me as I sat in bed reading a comic book.

“Oh,” I muttered and looked up to him. “I dunno. Guess since Jane gave it to me, I didn’t want to throw it away.”

“Ah,” Dad huffed. “You do know the last few pages are gone, don’t you?”

“Are they?”

“Yep.”

“Well, that’s ‘cause they got water damage,” I said. “It was when I had my pet goldfish in middle school. Remember? I was changing out its water when I spilled some onto my desk and on the book. So I tore those pages out. I already knew what happened in the story, so it was okay.”

“Okay,” Dad replied. He inspected the rest of the book. “We’ll have to go look for a new copy for you. I’m throwing this one away.”

“Wait — “

“It’s falling apart anyway, Beto. You won’t miss it.”

But I did. Because it tasted divine. And now, relating this story to you, I miss it.

I continued my book-eating in college. I sought out used copies of the novels we had to read for literature classes. I had to buy a couple of anthologies, but I always sold them back to the bookstore at the end of each semester. My aim was to get some money back for them, and then I headed to Book Nook, one of my favorite used bookstores in town, over in the eastern side. It was one of those little blink-and-you-miss-them stores inside of a strip mall, the entrance hidden by the massive thrift store to one side and the brightly-colored and brightly-lit windows of the beauty supply store on the other side. But if you kept an eye out for the gnome etched into the glass of the front of Book Nook, you would find it. It was under an OPEN/CLOSED sign next to the door.

Book Nook was my orchard for my book-eating habit, and every chance I had during college and grad school I went to buy three books at at time: two to read, one to read and eat. Each time, the books were aged and usually in good condition. Some would be adorned with USED stickers from different universities, either locally, within the state, or from elsewhere. I remember I bought a copy of The Scarlet Letter for an American Literature class with a USED sticker from the University of Arizona.

“You’re far from home, my friend,” I said to it as I plucked the book from the shelf and inspected it. Not overly underlined nor annotated, it was to serve me well for the class. However, I spared it the fate of being eaten. That was saved for an obscure sci-fi novel I found in the 50-cent bin near the register, Return of the Pale Visitors: Solar Knights Saga, Book 4.

“Have you read any of these?” the cashier asked as I fished out my wallet from my back pocket.

“I have to read Scarlet Letter for class —”

“No, I mean the Solar Knights collection,” he replied as he flipped through the slender book. “The author isn’t as big as Bradbury or Asimov, or even Arthur C. Clarke, but I think you’ll like it.”

“I can’t wait to dig my teeth into it,” I said. I felt a sliver of drool near the corner of my mouth, which I dabbed at with my thumb. I paid for the books and headed home.

The plot thickens. Return of the Pale Visitors was not too bad. However, it was a thin book. The author, Stephanie Boldon, probably was told by her editor to stretch the story out over a few books in order for the publisher to cash in. So all told this one was 120 pages, and there wasn’t much after the last couple of pages. There was the brief author bio, a back page checklist of other books the reader of this volume may be interested in buying, and then two blank pages. Those two pages were gone by the time I finished the first chapter.

The story got interesting around the fourth chapter. Pale beings from another planet came to Earth. They wanted to establish a trading pact with our planet: sugar in exchange for a material, pallidore, from their home planet. Pallidore was a million times better than lithium, so its use in batteries could mean anything requiring a battery pack may be able to be useful for infinity. A coalition of governments from Earth agreed to the deal and the first shipment of sugar was taken by this pale race of beings back to their planet, while the first shipment of pallidore was expected to arrive soon.

This was a mass-produced paperback that showed its age. Stephanie Boldon wrote this back in 1962. The pages had aged into a lovely dark beige, the print a dusty brown. The first two pages I devoured from the back were very tasty indeed. And as with all used books, it gave off that lovely aroma of mustiness. Given this was over 50 years old, time had been kind to these pages. I couldn’t wait to devour more of both the story and the book, so I read it whenever I had free time.

Chapter Nine had the pale beings return with a quibble for the Earthlings. Apparently one of the countries sent gypsum instead of sugar. Gypsum is lethal to their kind, one of their representatives explained. The president of the United States, President Daniel Howard, designated as the spokesperson for the coalition of governments, apologized and promised the next shipment will be entirely of sugar. The pale beings’ representative receives a message from the home planet while stationed near Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. While gypsum is lethal to consume, it makes for an excellent explosive when mixed with the pallidore. A perfect recipe for ammunition in the next battle against the beings of Planet H-43. One of the interpreters for the Earthlings received a copy of this communication by mistake, and realized it was not for Earth to know about this. She reaches out to the president of her country, Portugal, and the Portuguese president calls US President Howard to warn him the pale beings have the capacity to develop ammunition.

“This deal was made with peaceful intentions,” President Howard said to the pale beings. “While we have apologized for mistakenly sending gypsum, we were not aware that pallidore and gypsum can be mixed to create an incredibly volatile explosive. We as Earthlings wish for your planet and the inhabitants of Planet H-43 reach a peaceful resolution to your dispute. While we respect your sovereignty and rights to deal with your own affairs, we recommend this path.” The pale beings replied by saying they respect Earth and its inhabitants. But that the inhabitants of Planet H-43 have designs on taking over the pale planet. So the pale beings have to arm themselves just in case.

As the meeting between President Howard and the pale beings continued, there was an attack from a warship from Planet H-43. They fired a series of photon bombs and destroyed the Washington Memorial, St. Peters Basilica in Moscow, Big Ben in London, the Sydney Opera House, and damaged the Kaaba in Mecca.

“This act of aggression will not stand,” President Howard stated when he was briefed by a staffer. The pale beings got agitated and started ranting about how they will strike a blow to Planet H-43 as retribution.

“Let us try to settle this peaceful—

I had devoured the pages from the back up to this point. Just as the novel was about to end. There were about four pages’ worth of story left in the final chapter, and I needed to find out how the book ends. Given this was a series in the Solar Knights saga, I assumed the next book involved Earth developing a space force to fight alongside the pale beings’ planet against Planet H-43. But it was better to discover what happened while flipping the pages.

I called Book Nook to see if they had any more of the Solar Knights saga in stock.

“Hmm, lemme see,” the cashier replied. He put me on hold and I heard the acoustic guitar strains of “Classical Gas” while he snooped through the aisles of the store. “We have Book 6, Books 1, 2, and 3. We have another Book 4 that someone brought in on Tuesday to exchange.”

“Great,” I said. “I’ll swing by tomorrow to get those. So no Book 5?”

“I didn’t see one here. But come on over tomorrow. It might be in another shelf and I may have overlooked it.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The plot thickened. I woke up the next morning with a raging stomachache. I had sharp, jabbing pains whenever I tried to get up out of bed. I moaned whenever that happened. Jane happened to walk by when she heard me.

“You okay?”

“Of course not,” I said. “My stomach’s killing me.”

“Oh, no,” she said and sat next to me on the edge of the bed. She ran her hand on my stomach. “Want me to fetch you the Pepto-Bismol?”

“Okay, please. Thanks, sis.”

Jane came back and poured a heaping tablespoon of the viscous pink liquid. I pinched my nose and swallowed it. Jane saw my copy of Return of the Pale Visitors and clicked her tongue.

“Beto, were you eating this?”

“Yes,” I said and smacked my lips to try and shake off the taste of the Pepto.

“My gosh,” she replied and flipped to the title page. “This was printed in 1962? No wonder you’re sick. Think of how bad that paper must have reacted in your stomach.”

“I think I went overboard on eating the pages,” I said as a jab of pain struck. “Can I ask you for a favor? Can you swing by Book Nook over on the east side and pick up some books for me?”

“What? Why?”

“I need to find out how this one ends.”

“Are you kidding me? No. You’ll just eat the damn things and be back in this bed with another stomachache. I mean, can we even eat books?”

“I didn’t have any problems when I ate other books.”

“Like my copy of Peter Pan?” Jane shot back. “All this time I thought it was a mouse. Turns out, it was you. Oh, Beto. Want me to call Mom or Dad so we can take you to the hospital?”

“I think I’ll be okay,” I said and rubbed my stomach. “I just need to let this pass through me.” After I said that, another sharp jab of pain struck. Jane shook her head and pulled out her cell phone.

“Hi, Dad,” Jane said. “I’m here with Beto. He has a pretty bad stomachache. Can you meet us at the hospital? I’ll drive him there. Okay. See you there. Bye.” She put the phone in her pocket and looked at me.

“Well, let’s get you dressed. I’m driving you to the hospital.”

“Okay,” I grunted as I forced myself up out of the bed. “Thank you, sis.”

“Promise me you won’t eat any more books.”

“Only with my eyes, not my mouth,” I replied. She shook her head and patted my shoulder. “Help me with my shoes,” I added as I struggled to put on a pair of jeans that were on a chair next to my desk.

“Your son has what we call pica,” the doctor said as my parents stood next to me in the hospital room. “More specifically, xylophagia - eating wood products such as paper. We ran tests on him to see if he had a blockage in his intestines. Thankfully, he did not. It was a reaction to something in the paper of a book he was eating while reading it—”

“Beto,” Mom said, in that tone that levied guilt upon me. I looked at her for a bit of sympathy, but to no avail. Dad gave me the stared version of that tone. Jane texted a friend on her cell phone over in the corner.

“We gave him some magnesium citrate, which will help stimulate bowel movements,” the doctor continued. “We’re sending him home with a bottle of it. Make sure to take the recommended dosage for the next day,” he continued, staring at me. “That should make the paper be expelled in a couple of bowel movements.”

“Thank you,” Dad said. “Beto, we’ll pick you up tomorrow when you’re discharged.”

I was left in my hospital bed to watch TV. I wanted was a book to read. Then again, maybe that’s for the best. Enough plots thickened already.