I am not the dog-eared one

“But this isn’t the book you checked out.”

“Yes it is.”

“Where is the plastic sleeve and the barcode?”

“Ms. Critchfield, I know this is ridiculous, but I need your help here.”

“Listen, Tom, I’ve let you get away with overdue fees, with dog-ears, I even overlooked the water damage, but I simply can’t do this. This isn’t the book you checked out.”

“Yes it is! Please, I checked out 252 pages, I’m checking 252 pages back in. It’s the same book. The same words.”

“I wouldn’t even know how to scan it.”

“Please. I just need you to take this. I don’t want it. I’m donating it. Charge me the lost processing fee whatever just take it.”

“Tom, there’s writing in here. On every page. I really can’t take this. Look, your name is printed inside. This isn’t the book we checked out.”

“Ms. Critchfield, it’s the same book. It’s the same words. We pay for the words on the paper, not the paper itself. We don’t pay for the ink in the author’s pen, we pay for the author’s pen.”

“Tom, please be quiet. I’m sorry, I really am. If I could take this, I could. I’ll just mark the other one as lost, you take your copy, and we’ll move on.

“Pat!”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. Ms. Critchfield! I need you to take this book, shelve it.”

“I told you, we’ll mark the other one as lost, and we’ll forget about it.”

“But what do I do with this one? You have to take it.”

“You wrote in it, Tom.”

“No, I didn’t. It's still in great condition. Never been read!”

“Someone wrote in it Tom, we can’t do anything with it.”

“It’s worth more, now. There’s more words than before. It’s like a bonus.”

“Then keep it for yourself. Look, right here, there’s a nice note in here addressed to you.”

Ms. Critchfield, please take it. I can’t keep it because then I’ll read it and I’ll cry and I’m not giving her tears. I can’t burn it because the ashes will float away like white feathers from our mattress and they’ll dust my lungs and make me cough and bring me tears and I’m not giving her tears. I can’t throw it away because it will decompose and become a part of the earth like the bird we buried in the pizza box and then the grass will grow from it and the grass will be cut and it will agitate my allergies and I’ll sneeze and I’ll cry and I’m not giving her tears. Ms. Critchfield, Pat, librarian, woman, you, take this. Shelve it. Give the words to someone else, to some other poor fuck. Make it his problem. Let him cry about it. Let him give her his tears. This is my last chance. Take it. It’s a good book. Take it. This is all I have. This is all there is. It is more than enough.