I found one in the corner, huddling behind an empty bookshelf. You have to leave, I said. He shook his head. I don't want to go. I need my bookstore. I need my coffee. You can get coffee anywhere, I said. They'll be other book stores. LIAR, he yelled. You know there are no other ones. This was the last. He grasped onto the shelf. I had to use the pepper spray. I am a soon to be unemployed store clerk; I never imagined myself disabling a fellow book lover.
Howls filled the shell of a store. Everything had been sold off except the fixtures. We tried everything to entice the few hard core customers to leave, even offering them our leftover brownies and cookies free. There are just some very stubborn folks out there. This was their life; hours spent reading and clicking away. We knew a lot of them by name. But business is business.
Let me stay overnight, he pleaded, rubbing his eyes. I purposely aimed away from the eyes. I tried once again to reason with the young man. Think of it this way-you now have time to go to clubs and meet women. He broke down into sobs. I don't want to go to clubs and meet women. Women scare me. I want to read books. Books are safe. I don't sweat when I read. I am in control. I can touch my books and not get in trouble.
Eventually several of us coaxed him out around midnight. He was the last one. I watched him staggering to his car, confused and distraught. The business of America is business, I called out. He gave me the finger and drove off. Right then, I could use a poem.
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