“What are you up to today?”
“Not much. Probably sit on my deck and read.”
“What book are you reading now, anything interesting?”
“I always read interesting books.”
“Not the last one you recommended to me.”
“Which one was that?”
“Oh, I don’t remember its title. It was very uninteresting.”
“Sorry to hear that. Did you return it to the library or throw it out?”
“I don’t borrow books from the library. I like to keep the books I like just in case I want to read them again.”
“And do you ever?”
“Not really no. No, I take that back. You know about a year ago I reread all of Charles Dickens novels.”
“All of them? That’s impressive!”
“Well, I stand corrected. Not all of them. There was one I just can’t get beyond the first ten pages.”
“Bleak House correct?”
“Correct.”
“I agree with you. It put me to sleep every time I picked it up to try again.”
“I hate to think that there was one of his books I couldn’t read.”
“You’re allowed.”
“Anyway, so what’s the title of the book you’re reading now?”
“You’ve probably never heard of it. It has an unusual title and then when you begin to read it, you realise that the title has nothing to do with the book itself.”
“That’s strange. Why would an author do that?”
“You tell me you’re an author!”
“Well, the title of my books have to do with the subject matter.”
“You mean like Bleak House?
“Exactly and how appropriate was that name?”
“You’re right very bleak and very long.”
“Do you have any coffee?”
“I do yes. Why did you run out again?”
“I did. Isn’t it sad the amount of coffee I drink just to stay awake so I can write.”
“It’s not sad if it works.”
“The problem is it doesn’t.”
“Then stop drinking it!”
“But I’m afraid the day I do, is the day I cease to write.”
“So there is a connection between the two.” Robert looked off into the distance, not to contemplate what his friend Stuart had just said, but to try to ignore and forget what his friend, Stuart, had just said.
They had both lived close to each other and had been friends for about 8 years or so. Ever since Stuart once he had left the corporate world decided he had had enough of the rat race and it was time for him to do what he loved the most, and that was read.
It took Stuart and his wife about 2 years of research before they decided to move to a small village of about 35 homes thrown around a few palm trees, in the South Western corner of Florida, where the waters were pristine and the only screaming belonged to an irate seagull. The nearest commercial structure, a restaurant, could only be reached by negotiating a bamboo bridge on foot which had been constructed at least a century ago to discourage invaders and residents alike. The lapping waters of the Gulf of Mexico provided the only public sound other than the snoring of an occasional resident who had fallen asleep in the midday sun on the beach and had woken to both the restless incoming tide and skin that now resembled the advance stages of well-seasoned barbequed ribs. It was the piercing scream that sent shivers up the spines of the more intelligent residents who put down their books and lowered their sunglasses so they could watch the spectacle unfold. After a few nods of their heads, they went back to their reading. They left the poor chap to fight for his life by having to cross the bamboo bridge and then a trip to the emergency room of the closest hospital which had a reputation of spitting out more patients in the general direction of the morgue than back to their homes.
Stuart and Robert met every morning regardless of the weather around 6 for a 2 mile walk, which served as their daily exercise before settling into the routine of reading or writing books.
The village which was named by the first resident who still lived there, as Hamlet, a nod both to Shakespeare and to its alternate meaning, emptied twice a week. Nearly every Monday most of the residents walked across the bamboo bridge to their parked cars and drove to the closest grocery store to refill their refrigerators, or on Thursdays to the local bookstore or library. The village was equally split between those who went to the library believing that owning a book was a waste of money, and those like Stuart, who wanted to leave behind the largest private library in the world.
As the two friends walked along the beach near the water’s edge that morning, talking about what else books, neither of them paid much notice to a storm brewing in the distance which could make landfall at some point during the day. Their pace of life and serenity was not dictated to by the weather, or for that matter, any other external influence that was out of their control. Stuart and Robert, even though they came from two completely different backgrounds in their former lives, got on fabulously well and even their wives met for coffee each morning while their husbands were out walking and exchanging opinions on the literary world. But their lives, as did the others in this small community, revolved around books and not much else. No one wanted to upset that balance. Yes, the fact that today would be the same as yesterday and therefore tomorrow would be much the same as today, suited the residents well.
“What do want me to do with the copy of Bleak House you gave me?” asked Robert.
“Are you having a barbecue soon?”
“Not that I know of.” Robert examined Stuart’s question a little more closely, “Are you suggesting burning the book?”
“Sure why not? I don’t want it.”
“Oh dear Stuart. I never thought I would ever hear you condone burning books.”
“In this case, I am.” Robert walked along looking down at the sand and suddenly bent down and picked up rather large ornate shell which excited him.
“Wow!” he said rather loudly for him, “isn’t this beautiful?”
Stuart agreed and took it from Robert to examine, “and heavy as well.”
“I wonder where in this world that originated?”
“It wasn’t here yesterday, was it?”
“I don’t believe so. I’m going to want it and put on my bookshelf.” Robert stopped walking for a moment. “Oh dear, I don’t believe I have room on any of the bookshelves for a shell of this size”. “How many pages are there in Bleak House?” asked Stuart watching a seagull dive into the ocean and come up with what looked like seaweed draped over its bottom half of its beak.
“Close to a thousand, I think.”
They both smiled. “Coffee in a bit?” asked Stuart.
“Yes please,” replied Robert trying to figure what he was going to do with the copy of Bleak House, which neither of them wanted. The breeze picked up buffeting the seagull which was still trying to determine whether what it had picked out of the water was worth keeping.