rayaso

THE BOOK THIEF

I am a book thief, or at least I was until I was caught. Now I’m the prison librarian, courtesy of that damn chair. I learned the hard way -- never trust talking furniture. A comfortable reading chair just isn’t worth it, even with an orange jumpsuit thrown in.

Book theft is a very lucrative field if done right, and believe me, I was the best. “But how do I become a book thief?” you ask. Look, this isn’t Career Day and I don’t make school appearances (the warden fixed that—evidently, I didn’t scare anyone straight). Stealing rare books is a calling; you either have it or you don’t. Besides, I’m not about to give away my hard-earned secrets. I'll be out of here in only six months.

It takes a special chair to be a snitch -- it has to talk. Talking chairs were inevitable once Fisher-Price marketed the first one for potty training (“Oops! Better luck next time!”). Everyone thought it was cute, but no one saw the dark side. Little chairs grow up to become big chairs, and speech, once given, cannot be taken back. That was something the Fisher-Price potty engineers unfortunately overlooked.

I was always looking for the right reading chair. I’m tall, so regular chairs just aren’t comfortable. I finally found one while I was casing a loft for a signed first edition of Finnegan’s Wake. I was wearing my Pest Inspector’s jacket, so I could go anywhere unnoticed – this city practically invented cockroaches.

I spotted the chair in an alley, next to a roach heaven. It looked new and very comfortable. The chair had been abandoned, so I stuck it in my van, finished my “inspection,” and drove home to make my final plans.

I found out that my new chair could talk the usual way -- it spoke to me: “I hate this corner. It’s dusty and I’m allergic. I’m going to sneeze my stuffing out. Don’t you ever clean?”

I think I handled it well. I didn’t have a heart attack or drive a stake through it – I got my gun from the desk, and shot it. The damage was minimal, but the chair never let me forget it.

“I miss you – it’s been hours since you sat down. I know, it’s the bullet hole. I’m ugly, aren’t I? Whose fault is that, Quickdraw?"

I'd heard of talking chairs, of course, but now I had to learn to live with one – this chair was too damn comfortable. Besides, it’s not like I could return it.

Bit by bit, we worked things out. We agreed on a location in the library, away from the window (“Too cold!”), but not too close to the fireplace (“I’m flammable, you idiot; where did you learn about furniture -- Ikea?”). The best place, apparently, was facing my desk (“Wonderful natural light!”). The chair dictated a cleaning schedule (“Could you go for two weeks without a shower?”), demanded organic cleaning products (“Why don’t you care about the environment?”), and banned my cat, Dante, from the room (“Those claws! All that fur – I’m allergic, you know.”).

Conversation was limited at first – fabric, craftsmanship, famous chairs (“A throne is too a chair!”). Later, the chair became interested in what I did at my desk, so I talked about my rare book store, Antiquitus, which provided a cover for my other activities.

I enjoyed living alone, but the chair needed company. I think it had to do with its lack of mobility – it always needed to be moved. “I’m so tired of looking at those bookcases. Move me closer to your desk.”

I got to like the chair, even its awful sense of humor: “I’m bed to the bone” and “I’ll always chairish you” were favorites. Then there were potty jokes: “Why did the toilet paper roll down the hill? To get to the bottom.”

Out of boredom, the chair sometimes asked me where I’d been, who I saw, what we talked about. “What do you expect? I can’t go anywhere. You’re my eyes, ears, and legs – but I’m my own mouth!”

I also ran the acquisitions side of my business from the library, so it became natural to talk a little about it, and then after a while, a lot. I trusted the chair; who could it tell -- Dante? I eventually told the chair what I did, where the storage facility was – nearly all of it.

I learned too late that I had been played. One Friday morning, there was a pounding on my door: “Police! We have a warrant!” Without waiting, they kicked in the door, grabbed and cuffed me, and dragged me into the library.

A detective went straight to my desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and yelled “Gun!” I couldn’t open my mouth before the chair said, “That's the only weapon. Just grab the computer and all the records, then secure the premises and take him downtown.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. The chair worked for the police! I could not believe it -- I felt so trapped.

After the Miranda warnings, I was left to sweat it out alone in the interrogation room for over an hour. A beefy detective wheeled the chair in. A detective’s shield was pinned over the bullet hole, but nothing surprised me anymore. “Wonderful,” I thought, “good cop/bad chair -- I’m completely screwed.”

“Let me tell you where you stand,” began the chair, “I’m a detective with the Furniture Crimes Division of the Department. I was recruited by Book Crimes to work undercover as a plant. You’ve been on their radar for a long time, but they could never get anything on you.”

I remained silent. If they expected me to say anything, the chair didn’t really know me after all.

“We had a tip you were working that loft, so they planted me in the alley, hoping you would take me home. No real book thief can resist a good reading chair, especially a thief as tall as you.”

More silence. I hated that chair.

“You didn’t let us down. I was wearing a wire the whole time. We have everything except your client list. It’ll go easier for you if you turn it over.”

I finally did something right: “I want a lawyer.” A little bit of stuffing erupted out of the bullet hole behind the badge.

My lawyer couldn’t work out much of a deal without promising them my client list, but I refused to give it up. Thieves have more honor than chairs, it seems. My clients knew I was loyal, and I knew they would still be there when I got out.

So here I am, serving the last stretch of a three-year sentence. I spend my days pushing the library cart past rows of cells and handing out what passes for literature to those who can read. Mostly, I just wait.

There will never be another chair in my life, not after what happened last time. When I get out, I'm sticking to futons, though it pains me just to think about it. What kind of future for a reader is that? But at least I’ll have my books, and Dante the cat. Best of all, I'll have my client list.

I'll be back in business in no time.

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