July 17: Two-Plied Terror

I don't like buying books. A book, for me, is not like a CD or a movie that I want to experience over and over again. I love to read but when I finish a book, I'm done with it. Because I'm not settled down into life yet and I'm constantly on the move, boxes of books are not something I want to be hauling around. A week of enjoyment isn't worth the twenty dollars either. For these reasons, I'm an avid visitor of libraries.

I have three library cards from various locations in California, one from Pennsylvania, and I had my Austin card within a week of being here. I love having a different book on my nightstand to fall asleep with and to wake up to. It wasn't until a recent conversation with a friend that really screwed that up for me. You see, I sleep in boxers. No shirt; just boxers. I never had a problem propping a book up on my bare chest while in bed until this conversation.

"I always feel dirty after I read from a library book. You never know where the book has been or how many people have had it in their dirty homes."

I knew that other people had read from the books. That's how the library system works. I knew the librarians didn't wipe down the books upon return, but they were books. Pages with words. That's it. I always believed that books were published with magical self-cleaning, never germ-infested pages but it was this conversation that was nestled into my mind every time I lay in bed with a book on my chest. Nevertheless, I persevered and kept reading.

I had the fateful conversation almost a year ago and I was on the cusp of forgetting all about it. There were nights where I didn't think of where the book had been as it sat on my naked chest. This morning, however, the conversation knocked on my door and let itself in. After reading for half an hour, I got to the point in the book where the last reader left. Sometimes this page is marked by a scrap of paper or a folded page corner. Sometimes it's a copy of the library receipt with the due date and sometimes (as was the case this morning) it's a piece of toilet paper.

It was simply a piece of clean tissue, but it was clear where the book had been. The patron had come home from the library and had to drop a load. He was so excited about his new library book that he brought it along with him. He dropped his jeans around his ankles and followed with his underwear. He then sat and shat with this book (currently residing on my chest in my bed) resting on his naked lap.

As he turned each page, the waft of the previous night's meal snuggled within the fibers of the book. When he was finished (in more ways than one) he tore a piece of toilet paper to mark his place, sat the book aside, wiped off, and flushed. Based on what I've seen in other bathrooms, I would guess that he didn't put the lid down before flushing which meant poop particles were flying around and landing on the clear plastic cover. He probably didn't wash his hands before picking the book up and placing it on the nightstand next to his bed. Either he became bored with the book or he ran out of time before having to return it, but here it was: on my chest still marked with his two-plied tissue.

Horrified, I carefully pinched the corner of the tissue and threw it out of the binding and on to the floor. I retrieved my own library receipt and marked my place before tossing the book aside. I was too disgusted to continue reading. Maybe this is what happened to the last guy. He was enjoying a book when he came across a snotty rag left by the previous reader. Disgusted and too disturbed to read beyond page forty-one, he grabbed the nearest marker and closed the book. Maybe every time he went back to continue reading, he couldn't get past the idea of that rag and before he knew it, it was time to return the book.

I don't like buying books because I don't want to have to put up with storing them and moving them every time I change residencies. But if reading other people's bathroom material is the only other option for me, I may have become a Barnes and Noble member.