Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

When he awoke, the doctor was nowhere in sight. But clearly someone had been by, since there was a folded piece of notebook paper in his lap.

“…a poem?”

Let me tell you the story of one Etaoin Shrdlu
Not a normal man like me or a normal man like you.
He was only present as a mistake some people made
Until it happened once too much and Etaoin up and stayed.
The printer was astonished and dropped his coffee cup
When Etaoin walked right in and asked him what was up.

It was signed, or perhaps titled, simply Shardborn.

I found myself waiting in his office with plenty of time to kill ans not a whole lot to look at save the mammoth bookcase behind the desk.

The volumes on the shelf ranged from Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason to the second edition of Integral Calculus. The bindings weren’t worn, and I got the feeling that these books were present not for the entertainment of their owner but rather served to intimidate any lesser minds who happened to glimpse the shelf’s contents.

“Maybe that’s his strategy,” I grumbled. “Sit people down and have his library intimidate them. Softens ’em up.”

Idly, from behind her counter, Leah watched the Sunday shoppers bring up their carts. Checking groceries didn’t require her full attention, so there was plenty of battery power left over to classify the customers by genre and genus.

Students from O’Knesyl College were easy to spot, as their carts were full of beer and things that only tasted good while drunk, like Cheez Doodles. They almost always paid by credit card, and the names on the card often didn’t match with the sex of the person using them.

Then there were the people who pulled into the “9-items-or-less” aisles with fully loaded shopping carts and the people who stood in regular lines to buy single bunches of bananas. Management had made it clear to Leah and everyone else that customers were not to be turned away no matter how grossly they exceeded the item limit; often those “express” lines moved slower than any other.

Most entertaining were the cart derbies that sometimes went on, when two shoppers noticed a short line or newly opened register and would dragrace for it, trailing screaming children and knocking down passersby as needed, all for an extra few moments. Maybe that’s why Nascar is so popular with our shoppers, Leah mused. It gives them the cutthroat racing skills they need to cut off other shoppers every Sunday.

Ever mindful of the story, told early and often, of her parents meeting in an ENGL 250 class, Susie had attempted to duplicate that magic in her own relationships. And, in the three subsequent years of frustration and heartbreak, she had noticed a few strange trends.

Like blueberries. Three of the last four men she’d dated had been fierce blueberry fans to the point of all but ordering them on pizza. Then there was the strange case of band–it seemed like every one of them was a current or former band member. And not “band” in the sense of “rock band” either, but full-on brass bands in high school, college, or beyond.

There was Chaz, for instance, a trumpet player for the Marching Emus, who was always sucking on a blueberry Dum-Dum. He’d left Susie for an old flame, sending a “Dear Joan” via text message. Then there was Gus, former clarinet section leader in high school and fierce patron of the blueberry muffins at Schneider’s Bakery. He’d decided that Pin Chakrabongse, the Thai girl in the textile arts program and a regular patron of the Intercultural Beauty Pageant held every summer, was a better match despite her loose command of English.

It got to the point where, when a potential suitor ordered blueberry pancakes at IHOP or began fingering along with the college fight song, Susie would, with weary resignation, begin looking for a way out.

“You can’t treat people like that,” Jerry cried, leaning forward in his seat and filling the camera. “Doesn’t matter who they are. He crossed the line!”

“Uh, okay,” the interviewer said, sounding every bit of their 16 years. “Could we get back to the…”

“No,” Jerry said. “I’m going to finish what I had to say, and you’re going to sit there and tape it for your class.”

Whispers were heard as the interviewer conferred with his cameraman and note-taker. “Kay,” the interviewer whispered, miserably.

“You don’t treat people like that. You just don’t. So I got to talking to some of my friends about how to set things right. And soon they got to talking with even more people. Seems like he and his made a fair share of enemies acting the way they did…but I bet they never thought they’d see twenty of us coming to put them down for good.”

Harold doesn’t see why anyone comes around to visit anymore. It’s never pleasant for anyone, since the medication makes him prone to moodiness and outright bouts of rage. And it’s no secret that the children would rather be somewhere–anywhere–else, given the amount of time they spend on their game systems each visit.

Nevertheless, one a month, Harold entertains portions of his family. He suspects that they have a rotation, probably designed to keep anyone from having to visit two consecutive months. Sometimes it’s his divorced granddaughter Charlotte and her three and a half kids–she takes after her mother, that one; Harold sees very little of his late son in her. His grandson Gregory never comes, but sends his wife and the twin girls instead. The wife is Sandy, and Harold can never remember what to call the girls…they have some terribly modern, terribly ugly names with trendy spellings.

And, sometimes, Jason visits–Harold’s great-nephew, the only son of his only sister’s only daughter. When Charlotte or Sandy ask after him, Harold always says the same thing:

“There’s a reason nobody after Julius Caesar had much to do with their great nephews.”

“It’s about time,” the Libyan sergeant cried in Arabic. “We’ve been waiting for a new maintenance crew all week!”

The Chadians continued their advance, and a moment later a look of complete and utter horror dawned on the Libyan’s face…one which brought a smile to Williamson’s own.

“Fire! Open fire! They’re not reinforcements, we’re under attack!” The Soviet-made tanks and armored personnel carriers behind him began to cough and smoke to life.

“Right now, boys,” Williamson whispered. “Just like we practiced.”

The Toyotas in front parted, revealing a line of trucks with anti-tank missile launchers welded to their beds. The Libyans didn’t even have time to fire a single round before the rockets were inbound and angry.

Powmia Johanssen had been named after her father’s abiding belief that U.S. servicemen, including his aviator brother Kevin, were still being held prisoner somewhere in Southeast Asia. He’d never been able to quite articulate why, after so many years, the Vietnamese, Laotians, or Cambodians would see fit to hang onto prisoners, save speculating that Kevin’s reputation as a ladies’ man might have endeared him to a female jailer after his F-104 vanished over a sector of thick jungle.

As with any child who isn’t named John or Mary Smith, Powmia was teased for her name throughout grade school, first because of the punchiness implied by the “pow,” and later–as the children grew more sophisticated–for the beliefs behind it. She tried a variety of responses over the years, from asserting that the name was a heroic tribute to insisting (unsuccessfully) that she be called simply Mia.

After a research project in the sixth grade, Powmia had confronted her father about a supposed inaccuracy. “Dad, it says in this book here that the correct status is ‘Killed In Action – Body Not Recovered.'”

After considering this for a moment, Mr. Johanssen had retorted “Kiabnr doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. And if we add in the POW’s–who are in no way shape or form dead to anyone but the kleptocrats in Washington–it’d be Powkiabnr. And that’s just too much of a mouthful when you’re late for dinner.”

“So you’re working as a lifeguard over the summer, huh?” the girl said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said, sucking in my gut and hoping that the loose t-shirt I wore gave the impression of muscles lurking beneath.

“That must be hard if you can’t swim.”

“Who said I can’t swim?” I said.

“You did,” the girl purred. “To Betsy, two tables down, just a minute ago.”

My face instantly was red as a beet.

“I, uh, er…that is…um…” I sputtered.

My brain was trying to come up with something witty and subtle to say that would quickly evaporate the incident into a cloud of soft laughter. All I came up with was a sort of stutter. Doubtless, I would wake up in the middle of the night a week from now with an absolutely perfect line, but it’d do me little good now.

Cary’s behavior was just too odd to place–normally so open, subterfuge seemed completely contrary to her nature. And why had she wanted to keep Winslow occupied for so long?

“Seems like everyone got together and decided to make this the summer of crazy,” he said, climbing the stairs to the good old fourth floor.

The door to his apartment was ajar. Winslow had seen too many movies to just stroll in—for all he knew, there could be a chainsaw wielding, hockey mask wearing burglar inside waiting for him to do just that. So Winslow ran up to the security room and asked the guard if anyone had gone into his apartment.

“Yeah,” the guard said. “Had a key. Short guy with blond hair—I’ve seen him around before.”