Paper Trail

The future of books looks bleak.

 

“Excuse me, young lady, but is that a book? An actual book?”

            I look up from my old copy of George Orwell’s 1984 and smile at the middle-aged woman sitting a couple of tables away.

            “Yes,” I say.

            The woman’s eyes brighten. “Where did you get it?”

            I smile again. I look forward to this everyday. The extinction of conventional (print) books has helped me in more ways than one. Sure, it has forced most business establishments -- even large ones -- to go under, but it’s been a thriving business for me. All I have to do is sit at a café with a print book -- any print book -- and voila! A new faithful customer emerges, fattening up my pockets in the process. 

My shop, Paper Trail, sits on the main street in a small New England town, nestled between a Starbucks and a Victoria’s Secret. It’s a haven for print book lovers and collectors of every race and age imaginable, and they swoop in from all parts of the country to either buy or sell print books (but mostly to buy). Thank goodness I had the foresight to keep every single copy of my old books and hadn’t replaced them with a tablet, a format that is now the format. Even e-readers are gone. Paper books had made a comeback a few years ago, but after the paperless takeover, all print books ceased to exist. Only hardcore bookworms still own them -- though many of them have felt the need to sell them out. And that’s where I come in. I buy them for a small amount (people are desperate for money these days) and then resell them for far more than its original value. It helped me establish myself as one of the most sought-after booksellers in America.

            I rummage through my tote bag until I produce my iGenius (the latest do-it-all toy) and ask the woman for her mobile number. Then I send her my electronic business card via text message.

            “My name is Wendy Gomez. You can drop by my store at any time. We carry almost every print title imaginable.”

            “I take it they don’t come cheap.”

            “They don’t, but they’re worth every penny.”

            The woman sighs. “I can’t believe pen and paper are obsolete.” She looks down at her thin tablet with something akin to contempt. “It’s crazy.”

            “I agree, but it’s not like we didn’t see it coming.”

            “You’re right. That’s what makes it worse. We wouldn’t have embraced technology so much if we’d known where it would lead us.”

            “Someday it’ll replace humanity.”

            “It already has.”

            A moment of nostalgia passes between us. Then the woman closes the conversation with a thank you and walks out of the café with a slow, almost weary gait.

            I scan the café. The place is full, tables occupied with groups of twos and threes. In spite of the rising level of people lining up in front of the automatic coffee and latte makers (the electronic barista), the place is as quiet as a morgue. Each person is engaged with some gadget or other. Some are texting while others tap away on their tablets and iGenuises. Conversation has ceased to exist -- or at least it seems that way to me. Human interaction has dwindled in such a way that no one seems to notice it, or even miss it. After all, why talk when there’s a virtual keypad handy?

            Businesses as the world has known them are no more. Store cashiers, restaurant servers and coffee shop baristas are expendable, almost obsolete. Most stores don’t bother with them anymore. In fact, most businesses are only accessible on the Internet. Want a loaf of bread? Visit your supermarket app, and you’ll get your loaf of bread delivered in less than fifteen minutes. Paper money still exists, but most people use their phone apps to make payments now. Credit cards are now stored in your phone. Everything has been built to make it easy for the consumer. The world is literally at our fingertips.

So how come everyone looks so miserable?

“Damn,” a man in a suit and tie growls to the e-barista. “This stupid thing is broken. What the hell does it take to get a cup of coffee these days?” 

He says it to no one in particular, just thinking out loud. People seem angrier now, think out loud a lot too. Or are they speaking to someone through their miniature Bluetooth headsets? Hard to tell sometimes.

I ignore the man and glance down at my watch. It’s five-fifteen. The person I’m meeting is already fifteen minutes late. I toy with my titanium coffee cup, turning my attention to my battered copy of 1984. Even though I always carry a print copy of my books wherever I go, there’s a purpose to carrying this particular book today. The person who introduced me to George Orwell’s masterpiece ten years ago"the person I both long and dread to see"is meeting me here. He should be walking in at any minute, or at least I hope he will be.

What if he doesn’t show up? What if he takes a good look at me through the window, decides I’m not worth his time and takes off? My scalp begins to tingle. I wouldn’t blame him for standing me up. But I know he’ll show up. I’ve used the perfect bait: a print book. 

 

 

 

****

 

“Technological innovation should be at the service of mankind. It allows us to live better lives, but it can also be used against us. I guess that is one of Orwell’s lessons, probably the most important one.”

            “Technological innovation has nothing to do with Orwell’s novel, Steve. It was written in a different era and has no connections with modern technology whatsoever.”

            The English Literature 101 course at Boston College was quite a lively one. Pseudo-intellectuals swooped in and put in their two cents on the latest literary topic. Class participation did not intimidate them. They loved to hear the sound of their own voices. I listened but never spoke. Sometimes, if I was lucky, I tuned them out, leaving the obnoxious drone of their voices as muffled background noise.

            “Sarah, I think what Steve meant was that the book is still apt today as it was when Orwell wrote it in 1948,” the professor, Mr. Daniel Morelli, said. “Even though we aren’t facing the threat of communism, and everything that entails, we are facing the perceived threat of technological innovation and the fact that it’s taking over the world.”

“We might not be facing communism per se, but we are facing the threat of fascism.”

“That’s subjective, Sarah.”

Sarah, a nineteen-year-old with mousy hair and a face full of acne, rolled her eyes.  “No offense, Mr. Morelli, but few people would see the advance of technology as a dangerous threat. Facebook and Twitter bare no similarity to Big Brother and thoughtcrime. In any event, I doubt anyone would see a novel about the pitfalls of evolutionary technology as something negative.”

“My grandfather would,” someone in the back row said. Laughter filled the room.

Steve, a kid whose passion for literature made me gag, opened his mouth to say something, but quickly closed it. He scanned the class, looking for someone to help him out. His eyes landed on me. I turned my attention to my book. 

Deflated, he decided to tackle Sarah on his own. “What about the way computers use and manipulate our information?”

“What do you mean?” asked Sarah.

“It seems to me that we are always under a microscope, especially after the Paris attacks.”

Mr. Morelli brightened. “That’s a good point, Steve. Terrorism is a big threat at the moment, and this new threat is causing the US government to act in a way that is similar to that of the government in 1984. Big Brother is watching us… so to speak. The book is as relevant as ever.”

“I disagree, Mr. Morelli,” Sarah countered. “The new threat of terrorism is causing the media to act in a way that is similar to that of the government in 1984. The media controls everything. Just watch Fox News for a day. They should change the name to the Fear-Mongering for Baby Boomers Network.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Steve said, aghast. “Haven’t you seen all the footage on nine-eleven? All those innocent lives lost, the way the twin towers demolished before our very eyes. And then all stuff now with ISIS? Did the media do that?”

“I know terrorism exists, dumbass. I was talking about media manipulation. The way they cause panic. The way they spin things around to their convenience. They’re the real threat, not computers or even the government. The government has secrets and manipulates information to keep us all in the dark, we all know that, but we’ll never know for sure what their motives are, and what we don’t know won’t hurt us.”

Steve muttered something to himself about highly opinionated liberal b*****s. Sarah stuck her tongue out to him. I rolled my eyes and buried my nose in 1984.

Mr. Morelli leaned over Sarah’s desk, towering over her. “The thing is, Sarah, that George Orwell was referring to all totalitarian regimes in general and not just that of communism. That’s why his book has lived on. There are modern day parallels to the infinite war on ‘terrorism’ as a constant, never ending war. There are also parallels in modern technology and how it’s taking over the world. Those who do not understand such parallels will never really understand this book.”

Sarah’s face darkened. “Are you saying that I don’t get it?”

“No, not at all, I just mean that --” Mr. Morelli sighed. “Never mind. We can all agree on one thing: 1984 will never be irrelevant.”

“Big Brother will always be watching us,” someone in the classroom said.

The discussion continued. I glanced down at my watch. Twenty more minutes to go. I’d be done for the day after this. It was Friday and I had nowhere to go. My so-called parents would not want me home and my roommate had declared this day to be her “private day” in our dorm room, which just means that her loser boyfriend would be dropping by for sex. Under those circumstances, I preferred to just sit in class and be subjected to book talk. Everyone ignored me, which was fine with me. Well, maybe not everyone.

Mr. Morelli had glanced my way. I suspect that my silence filled him with a mixture of intrigue and amusement. I could tell by the way his brown eyes twinkled whenever I squared my shoulders and sank farther down in my seat that I was a challenge to him. His mouth twitched until he flashed me a sideways grin. “Is there something you’d like to add, Wendy?”

I shook my head.

He considered me for a moment. “Come on, Wendy. I know I said that open class participation is optional, but I’d still like to hear you say something once in a while.”

Everyone in class turned their attention to me. Warmth stirred within me, and I felt my cheeks flushing pink. Ugh. Maybe someone would say something, save me from the agony of doing so myself. No one spoke, and Mr. Morelli moved away from Sarah’s desk and stood in the center of the lecture hall, watching me.

Challenge not accepted.

He did not let up though. There was no way around it. Wallpaper status was not permissible in this class, not with Mr. Morelli’s constant scrutiny. Big brother is watching you, indeed.

Sighing, I sat up straighter and said the first thought that came to mind. “Amazon.com offered 1984 for e-book readers, but then the publisher decided it didn’t want to make the book available that way. Something about publishing rights.” I paused, took a deep breath. “So Amazon deleted the book from all the Kindle readers, including the ones that had already been purchased and downloaded. Customers who had already purchased it lost the book and had the money credited to their accounts. They had no say in the matter.”

Silence took over the classroom. Then an eruption of laughter and comments broke out.

“So they deleted the book from their database and cancelled the sale altogether, without first telling their customers? They simply did it?” Steve asked.

I shrugged. “That’s what I read in the paper.”

Sarah giggled. “So 1984 went to the memory hole.”

“At least in Kindle’s memory hole,” Steve added.

“The book has been vaporized.”

“It has ceased to exist.”

“Big Brother lives!”

“Man, that is ironic.”

“Very ironic.”

“Well,” Mr. Morelli added, smiling, “it appears that technology is relevant after all.”

They continued to talk for the rest of the period. I was no longer listening to any of it. Mr. Morelli wasn’t paying attention to his students either. His dark gaze was fixed on me, and something passed over between us that I couldn’t quite ignore.

 

****

 

A loud banging sound makes me jump. The suit and tie guy is still standing in front of the malfunctioning electronic barista, now banging and kicking at it like a madman. He drops his man-purse (no doubt filled with gadgets) to the floor and glares at the e-barista as if it were his worst enemy.

“F*****g piece of --” He gives it a couple of more kicks for good measure, then he turns his attention to the customers hovering nearby. “Is there anyone here -- a human being, perhaps -- that serves coffee to customers? Anyone at all?”

A few seconds later, a youngish heavyset woman in a gray suit emerges from a backdoor that reads “Management Only.” The woman eyes the man and the machine with mild disapproval, then she smiles and says, “May I help you?”

“Yes, you may f*****g help me,” the man shoots back. 

“There’s no need for that kind of language, sir.”

“Look,” the man responds as if trying to control his temper, “this machine is broken. I’ve ordered a mocha latte with three espresso shots and nothing happens. I’m late for work, and I can’t work well without at least two shots of espresso. Could you please get this machine to work?”

The woman heaves out a sigh and examines the e-barista, typing some codes on the virtual keyboard. An error message pops up on the screen, and the woman restarts the computer. When this doesn’t work, she tries the good old-fashioned troubleshooting technique of unplugging the power cord, waiting a couple of seconds, and then plugging it back. Still nothing. Sighing again, she turns to the angry customer and says, “I’m afraid the computer has crashed and will have to be checked out by a technician. You are welcome to use one of our alternative --”

“Well, get the technician then!”

“It’s not that simple, sir. I will have to contact the technician and set up an appointment --”

“Wait, what?” the man’s eyes are bulging. “Are you saying that I won’t be able to get my latte now?”

“I’m afraid not. I can e-mail you a gift card today for twice the amount of your latte and you can come back at a later --”

“This is f*****g ridiculous.”

The manager looks toward the office door, plotting her escape. You can tell that she has no experience dealing with a disgruntled customer. “I apologize for the inconvenience,” she says gently, “but you are welcome to use our regular coffee e-barista --”

“But I don’t want regular coffee!” the man shouts, startling everyone at the café. “I need my espresso. Now if you can’t get this piece of s**t machine to work, then make me one yourself.”

“It’s not my job to make coffee, sir,” she says indignantly.

“Then what is your job?” he hisses at her. “To sit on your a*s all day, playing games on your precious iGenuis? Man, technology sucks a*s. We can’t even make a cup of coffee anymore. We’ve become parasites and it’s all because of this waste of a piece of s**t!” 

He resumes his kicking, which prompts the manager to loudly say, “Excuse me, sir, but this behavior is unacceptable. If you don’t stop kicking that machine, I will call security and action will be taken against you, especially if you destroy it. You will also no longer be allowed to enter either this or any other E-Café in the area.”

“You know what? F**k you!” He grabs his briefcase and empty eco-friendly coffee mug and storms out of the café. The woman shakes her head, mutters something unintelligible, and disappears into the safety of her office.

I turn my gaze down to the white and blue mass-market paperback cover of 1984. The man is passionate about his espresso, and my customers are passionate about print books. Money is my passion. No one and nothing else matters.

Leafing through the book, I note the tear and wear in the spine and pages. Perhaps I shouldn’t charge one thousand dollars for this copy. I paid ten bucks for a similar copy ten years ago. But if I don’t do it, then somebody else will. Now that both public and private trading libraries are no longer in business (they were still around a few years ago, but were forced to close their doors for good when people refused to return the books), the used book market has increased in such a way that you have to literally fight with your competitors in order to succeed.

Rare books are harder to come by, and when booksellers hear that an early edition of a book by, say, Edith Wharton or Henry James is out for grabs… Well, it’s every man for himself. Bidding wars ensue, causing the booksellers to lose both their sleep and a big chunk of their money in the process. But once you realize you’re the highest bidder"man, the profit you’ll gain from that book later on is poetry in itself.

And what about pen and paper? There is a market for that too. The US postal service no longer exists -- it went under five years ago -- our mail is now strictly electronic, which is why people enjoy collecting old written letters and used notebooks. The content of the letter is immaterial -- it could be something as simple as an old grocery list -- but it is a piece of written paper and therefore valuable. Notebooks and journals are like treasure to collectors, especially if they come in beautiful stationery. Envelopes are a favorite collectors’ item, and pens are purchased for the sole purpose of storing them without using them. (God forbid the ink runs out!) And if you ever find an ink well or even an old book of stamps… Well, you’ll be set for life. I sell those items at my bookshop from time to time, but they’re not easily accessible. Pen and paper are a rare find in this day and age.

People make some extra money selling paper and books to us in the trade. They sacrifice something they love for a little bit of money. I can’t blame them for doing that. The unemployment rate has increased, jobs that pay minimum wage are scarce, and only corporate careers involving technology thrive. You have to survive at all cost. That is why I do what I do. I’m a bookseller, and I do it for the sheer love of el dinero. I’m a bookselling w***e.

Or maybe I’m just a w***e.

 

****

 

“Wendy?”

My eyes were closed. He must’ve thought I was asleep. My older lover was reading The Wings of the Dove to me. I listened as he made love to every passage, word and phrase in the same passionate way he had made love to me. His voice was like music: bluesy, full of riffs and ad-libs, low and sexy, then dark and sad. I was in love with his voice, his passion for reading.

“Wendy? You awake?”

I opened my eyes, smiling a lazy smile. “Can’t you read me some more?”

He returned my smile and gave me a soft peck on my nose. “Later.”

He set the book down on his bedside table, served a glass of red wine, swirled the liquid, took a sip, and then held the glass out for me to drink. It was delicious. I had never tasted anything like it. In fact, I’d never had wine before. Suddenly I felt older, sophisticated -- worldly beyond my young years.

In between sips, we talked about our lives. He asked me about my family, where I grew up, how I came about majoring in English literature. 

My eyes clouded over.

“Uh-oh. Have I done something wrong?” He sounded surprised.

“No. It’s just... I don’t know if I can answer your questions.”

“May I ask why?”

I shut my eyes. I knew that this relationship -- if that’s what it was -- would eventually end. He would grow tired of me and move on to some other young and shy idealist with a penchant for sex and wine.

“My life is complicated,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been truly happy. I guess you can’t be happy when you’re being passed around from family to family like disposable paper.”

I opened my eyes, casting a quick glance at my lover. He was frowning.

“You’re an orphan then?”

I snorted. “In a manner of speaking. But not in a Jane Eyre sort of way. My parents were junkies. My father, a crackhead, tried to rob a bank once, with disastrous results. He shot a bank-teller and hurt a few customers. He was sentenced to thirty years in prison. I was five years old when it happened.”

“And your mother?”

“I have no idea. Last I heard she was selling herself for a fix or two. She’s probably dead now, for all I know.”

He didn’t say anything, just listened with solemn attention.

“I was an only child, had no aunts or uncles, no grandparents, so I ended up in a foster home. My social worker was kind, very caring and attentive, as if to make up for my parents’ neglect. She even read stories to me from time to time.”

“Is that why you like it when I read to you?”

I smiled. “That, and because I enjoy listening to the sound of your voice.”

He smiled and leaned over to kiss me. “Go on.”

I sighed. “I’m sure you know how the story goes. I was passed around a lot, each foster parent promising me the moon and the stars. It turned out that I was a means to an end for most of them. Child Services provided them with a good sum of money for my care. They weren’t interested in me, they just wanted the money. I was a baggage to endure.”

That’s the only reason why my new foster parents have me. But time is of the essence. Soon they won’t want me around anymore.

“And this is how it’s always been for you?”

“Yes.”

“And your social worker? What happened to her?”

A wave of sadness swirled inside of me. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I was about twelve years old when she was transferred to another city. I never heard from her again.”

Sadness flickered in his brown eyes. “That must have hurt you.”

“Yes,” I half-whispered, half-sighed. “She didn’t love me either. She only pitied me. That’s how it’ll always be for me. People will come and go, never settling in.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“If only that were true.”

He smiled at me like a child with a secret. Then he took the wineglass from my hands, poured more wine, and handed it back to me. I took it, drank. Smiled. And before I could tell him how good I thought the wine was, he kissed me hard on the lips.

“Wendy?”

“Hmm?”

“I want you to come live with me.”

My spine stiffened, and I moved away from him as if he had flung boiling water on me. I kicked off the covers and crawled out of the bed, adding distance between us. The wine spilled, forming a red stain on the sheets that resembled blood.

“I take it you don’t want to live with  me,” he said, smiling a sad sort of smile.

“I can’t live with you.”

“Why not?”

Because I’ve lied to you. Because, due to my mediocre grades, I lost my scholarship and won’t be able to go back to school in the fall. Because I have to figure out a way to survive once my foster parents kick me out of the house. They won’t want me there after I turn eighteen. I need money, need to make it on my own and stop depending on others. And you, my dear older, clueless lover, are just a means to an end. Sacrifices have to be made, and you will be the sacrificial lamb.

“Listen,” he said, reaching out to me, “I realize you’re only nineteen and probably not ready for this, but I --”

“I don’t want to live with you,” I interrupted, pulling away from him. “We have fun, we f**k once in a while, but that’s all we’re doing. Don’t confuse this for anything else.”

A flash of anger and hurt flickered in his eyes. Then all expression left his face. He got up from the bed and padded barefoot toward the bathroom, leaving his robe on the end of the bed.

A sense of bitter triumph took over me. He would have been more persuasive if I had meant something to him. He would have pleaded so thoroughly that I’d have no choice but to move in with him. But he didn’t do that. I said no and that was that. I was right. He didn’t love me, at least not enough to fight for me. He would have left me in a few months, just like everyone else. 

I heard him in the shower, and I imagined the water was hitting his skin like a thousand fists. Now I had no reason to feel guilty. I could do what I had to do. No wavering, no looking back. The line had been drawn, the deceit had taken place, a boundary had been crossed. All I had to do was finish the job. But later. I’d do it later. 

While he was in the bathroom I got dressed and cleaned up the place a little. I was about to walk out of his apartment when I spotted a copy of 1984­ on his coffee table. It was a white and blue mass-market paperback copy, similar to the one I had in my English literature class. I had lost it, couldn’t find it anywhere. I should take it as a souvenir, I told myself, something to remember my former lover by.

I took the book and left.

 

 

****

 

“Wendy?”

Blood drains from my face the instant I hear Mr. Daniel Morelli’s voice booming above me. I look up at him. He looks older, but not in a bad way. His hair has gone gray around the temples, but it suits him. How old is he now? Forty-four? Forty-five? The black hoodie over a white t-shirt and worn jeans give him a tough, menacing look that strikes me as sexy. He never wore that sort of thing in the past. In fact, he dressed formally, a little too formal, like one of those men you see modeling suits in magazines and TV commercials. Other than that, he looks just as I remember him: tall, dark hair, alabaster skin, brooding but beautiful. My eyes shift to his left hand. No wedding ring.

He’s standing right in front of me, not moving, a hostile expression on his handsome face. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, and I’m about to stand up when he shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand to me.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he says, voice flat. “This won’t take long.”

He grabs the worn-out copy of 1984, flicks through the dog-eared pages, examines the cracked spine and turns his gaze to me. 

“So how much is this piece of s**t going for?”

I open my mouth to answer, but he cuts me off. “And spare me the bullshit. I checked your website, and I know the value of your print books -- these in particular. So don’t even think about lowering the price. How much do you want for it?”

“I was about to say --”

“That you stole it from me? I know that. I’ll buy it anyway. I know how much you love money.”

I make no response.

“So what’s the asking price for this?”

“One -- one thousand dollars.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

I nod tentatively.

“Nine-thousand dollars less than the asking price? Interesting. Oh, wait, you’re not blackmailing me now. I forget.” He shoots me a sharp look before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a brown wallet. He produces a fat wad of cash and starts counting ten brand-new one hundred dollar bills in front of me. 

“The only paper that’s allowed to be produced these days,” he says, indicating the money. “Do you remember discussing this in class? How technology would soon take over our lives?”

I close my eyes for a moment. “I remember it everyday.”

“I see why you would,” he says drily. “After all, it’s a good thing computers have replaced pen and paper. People’s passion for what is lost and forgotten has made you rich. Isn’t that swell?” He tosses the bills on top of the table, then he opens the book and skims through the pages until he finds what he is looking for.

“ ‘If you want a picture of the future,’ ” he reads to me, “ ‘imagine a boot stamping on a human face -- forever.’ ” He smiles bitterly as he closes the book and jams it inside his jean’s back pocket. He sneers and turns to leave.

“Wait!”

He stops, waits for me. His face has no expression, but his eyes sparkle with something unreadable. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. How do you apologize to someone you’ve hurt so much? 

“Daniel, I’m…” 

…sorry. I’m sorry I turned down your offer to live with you. I’m sorry I went back to your place later that night, told you I was actually seventeen years old and not nineteen like you thought. I’m sorry I blackmailed you, demanded ten thousand dollars in exchange for my silence. I’m sorry that, in a moment of shock and panic, you paid me the money. I’m sorry you were so ashamed of yourself that you resigned from your teaching position and left town. I’m sorry I hadn’t heard from you until now. I’m sorry I don’t know what’s become of you. I guess I’ll never know. I’m sorry, Daniel. It wasn’t your fault. I lied to you. You might have gotten involved with me in spite of being one of your students, but you did it because you loved me, I know that now. And believe it or not, I loved you too. I still do.

“What?” he prods.

My voice is flat, calm, totally belying the sorrow that pierces within me as I say the same words I said to him a decade ago, right after he paid me the money. “It was nice doing business with you.” 

I watch as he hardens his features into stone, taking in my words, remembering them. “Goodbye, Wendy.”

My eyes never leave him as he walks out of the café, and out of my life for the very last time. Customers come in and out, computers chime, keyboards tap. I don’t pay attention to my surroundings as I sink worthlessly in my chair, my eyes fixed on the ten one hundred dollar bills scattered on the table. 

Sacrifices aren’t easy. You make them and then you move on. I’ve made the right decision. I’ve chosen the one thing that would never let me down.

I take the money and leave.

Reviews

[Mitch]

I enjoyed this. It could very well be what things really look like in a few years. I think it's interesting how Wendy views people around her and how they don't interact with other people and she has a similar problem, just not through technology. I liked the time jumps. I followed along just fine. I look forward to what's next from you.