Twelve days till Christmas. On the 12th day, I remember one of my favorite gifts–a Mandrake the Magician magic set! Here’s my memory of that precious event: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/audio/christmas/1/track12.asx

The winter streets of Birmingham tantalize me. 

Why? Because each person I meet on these streets 

lives a unique life, each person I meet carries 

baggage that I can’t see through, since I’m busy 

carrying my own. 

There are hundreds of individual stories presented 

to me each week at the Museum of Fond Memories and 

Reed Books. Each is special in its own way, sometimes 

joyful, sometimes sad, always mysterious.

Pick a day--for instance, Wednesday:

I arrive at the bookstore two hours before opening time, 

to catch up on newly acquisitioned books, do a little 

straightening up, get the heating system going, becalm 

and brace myself for the day, jumpstart the monthly 

bill-paying. A shaggy street person is waiting at the 

door, staring at the posted shop hours but not seeing 

them. “We open at 10:30,” I say, before realizing he’s 

a regular customer. He says, “I don’t have my watch, so 

I don’t know what time it is…can I pick up that book you 

got for me?” Of course. I usher him into the darkened cave 

and shuffle through the Hold Shelves to find his special 

order, trying to ignore the strong fragrance of newly-smoked 

marijuana emanating from his clothing. I assist him, accept 

his payment, and am now alone in the store. I am happy for 

his patronage but happy, too, that he is gone.

Now, I can get some things done. 

As the marijuana smell dissipates, I become aware of cigarette 

smoke billowing into the shop around the edges of the door. I 

stopped smoking forty years ago, but each day I’m inhaling the 

secondary smoke of  the 3rd Avenue North Smoking Society—the 

employees of adjacent offices and stores who stand in the alcove 

of  Reed Books, lustily inhaling as much as they can on their 

frequent breaks. I seem to be their smoking court, and no amount 

of pleasant hints can get through to them the fact that their smoke 

chokes me and aggravates my allergies. I don’t want to become the 

old guy who tells everybody to get off his lawn, so I never blatantly 

ask them to go elsewhere. I try to justify my wimpishness by reminding 

myself that these are pleasant folks who at least make the entrance 

to the store look busy, and who might come in handy as observers and 

diffident security guards, should anything go wrong on the street.

I guess what quietly bugs me is the fact that, no matter how many times 

I invite them to enter the store and look around at the merchandise and 

the special monthly exhibits, not one of them does. This leads me to 

believe that smokers are not readers or collectors. They are just…smokers.

Later in the morning, when the doors are unlocked, the $2 sales racks are 

on the street, and I am ready for the day, customers and browsers enter, 

talk, enjoy, search, walk out smiling—and leave me smiling, too.

Late in the day, a very large, loud-baritoned man enters with a short, 

obese boy in tow. The baritone laughs broadly, saying, “I want a big doll 

with big t---s…that’s what I want for Christmas!” He laughs at his own 

remark and becomes bigger than the store as he comments on each and every 

item he sees. He reeks of whiskey and is enjoying his high, while the boy 

wanders silently about, trying to avoid him. At one point, the baritone 

starts dancing to the Taj Mahal music that’s playing, chuckling loudly and 

trying to engage the boy in a frisky dance. The boy blushes deeply and averts 

his eyes. Eventually, the baritone leaves, wishing me and the world a Merry 

Christmas and promising to return someday with money in his pockets. I quietly 

slip the boy a free Dum Dum and he seems grateful.

I love my job, my independence, my lack of bosses. I love my books and my 

artifacts and am glad each time someone makes a purchase and goes away happy. 

But at the same time, in a parallel portion of my mind, I’m a little saddened 

at the unfulfilled lives I occasionally see around me. I try to at least act 

better than I am by being patient with these lone wanderers of the City streets.

And I hope that each of them finds a shard of happiness mid the hundredfold 

opportunities for gloom in their daily lives

© Jim Reed 2010 A.D.