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Chapter Three: Mark This Page
The piles of books towering about him in all directions left him in complete awe. Three stories high. A full city block. All books. He wanted to buy this place and relish in the dusty pages of each and every story, run his fingers across the embossed lettering on the covers, cry as the protagonists hit rock bottom or were met with the prize for all their efforts. He walked up a small ramp into what he presumed to be called The Blue Room, which was filled with general literature. He immediately went in search for Voltaire, and was greeted with a vaguely familiar sight. Girl, dark blonde hair, high heels, scarf. Reading a book. He casually picked a random book off the shelf and opened it, staring at her book in attempt to make out the title: Slapstick. Hm.
He knew he would regret it, but the temptation was too strong. He needed an adventure, or something to that effect.
"You're reading Slapstick?" he asked abruptly.
She glanced up and smiled, "Yeah. You like Vonnegut too?"
"Oh sure!" he quickly scanned the shelf she stood by, scouring for a title to pick from. "I mean, Breakfast of Champions was ground breaking. I'm not sure anyone had written something so poignant and extraordinary."
She lifted an eyebrow. "Honestly, I just thought it was funny. Simplistic yet dynamic."
"Well... it's sure a heck of a lot better than," he spotted a target, "Cat's Cradle."
"You're a Christian aren't you?" She queried, randomly, from Elijah's perspective. "A Christian wouldn't UNDERSTAND the brilliance of that book. I was an Atheist until I read that book, it's my bible, God is about as real as Bokonon and Vonnegut is the messiah."
"Um," shit, he thought bitterly. "I only meant that the writing style in that particular book wasn't as great as some of his others."
She gave him a 'duh' look. "All his books are written that way. They're bizarre. It's his style." She narrowed her eyes at him, "Have you even READ Cat's Cradle?"
He scoffed immaturely, "Yes. I'm offended that you'd think I haven't after saying that I have, do I strike you as a liar?"
She searched his face, "Possibly. Who else do you read?"
This he decided, he wouldn't lie about. "Herman Hesse, Hemmingway, Irving--"
"Have you read Steppen Wolf?"
Elijah gave her a strange look, "Only about five times. Why?"
"Are you Buddhist?"
"No. I'm Catholic."
"Oh. Have you read Wampeters, Granfaloons and Foma?"
"What, what and what?"
She smirked, a dawning of understanding crowning her face. This guy hadn't read Cat's Cradle, he was lying. "It's a book of opinions by Vonnegut," she picked a copy off the shelf and handed it to him. "He makes a big case about Herman Hesse and how his best work was ... shit, I can't remember the name. Anyway, it was the one where the protagonist commits suicide at the end and doesn't find enlightenment."
"Oh I hated Beneath the Wheel!"
She made an amused noise. "Well, the rest of his books are rather redundant in plot."
"That's not true..."
She motioned for him to hand the book back to her, she opened it and scanned the table of contents with her fingertip, then turning to the desired page. "Ahem," she began reading and Elijah stood watching her for the next five minutes, watching her mouth form the hurtful words, he could see her holding a cigarette between them so easily. "...This is something a lot of young Americans are considering, too -- clearing out before a holocaust begins. Much luck to them. Their problem is this: The next holocaust will leave this planet uninhabitable, and the Moon is no Switzerland. Neither is Venus. Neither is Mars. In all the rest of the solar system, there is nothing to breathe. Not only would Steppenwolf be homesick on some other planet. He would die."
A soapy rag of depression washed over Elijah as he stared at her satisfied smirk. Was she trying to make him feel miserable and hate his favorite author? But all he asked was, "What other opinions are in there?"
She shrugged and flipped through the pages, he watched her reminisce with the chapters like old photographs. "There's a pretty interesting Playboy interview in here. And he has a great persuasive piece about how all writers should start out with science fiction."
"Huh. Do you know anything about One Thousand Years of Solitude?"
"One Hundred Years of Solitude. A thousand years would make it ten times as thick. But yes, I read it a few years ago. It was quite good. I like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, he reminds me of Isabel Allende."
Elijah smiled impishly, knowing tidbits collected from reading interviews he'd found in various booky-magazines his sister had lying around the house was finally coming in handy. "That's because Isabel Allende reads Marquez."
She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "That would explain it."
"I'm Elijah, by the way," he stuck out his hand but she just looked at it like a vegetarian would raw, bloody steak.
"Okay."
He retracted his hand, feeling highly dejected. "Aren't you going to tell me your name?"
"Why? That would make us acquaintances and not strangers anymore."
Befuddled, he squinted curiously at her. "Well... you're a little enigmatic, but you're not strange. And I don't know what you think of me, you probably think I'm strange, that or just some stupid guy who's hitting on you."
"Well in that case, the name's Salacious Sabrina, but I'm not working right now. If you want, I can give you my card and you can give me a buzz later this evening."
"Salacious Sabrina?" his jaw had dropped and there was a priceless look on his flabbergasted face. "What are you talking about?"
For a split second she looked rather uncomfortable, then she laughed. "Okay, you have three tries to guess what I do for a living."
"Um... a librarian, a writer, um..." he shrugged and wildly guessed, "a dancer."
"Ex-dancer. Ex-ballerina, actually," she gave a small secret smile. "It's funny you'd pick that. I haven't danced for three years, and I think I've gained a little weight since." She laughed, "People think all dancers are anorexic or bulimic, but the rest of the world has its fair share of eating disorders."
Elijah raised an eyebrow, "Thus, your occupation is...?"
She gave him a half smile, and replied flatly: "I'm a prostitute."
His expression was blatantly "yeah right," cynically he quizzed: "Oh? Aren't prostitutes supposed to have no teeth so they can give blowjobs without biting..."
"...And a flat head to set beers on? Those are only the hookers on 82nd." She laughed, "They're what the rest of us call a Perfect Ten. Fucking bitches. But they all have AIDs, so, you know. Most flawless people really have problems; like they can't read or cancer runs in their family."
"So what's your flaw?" the line was smooth and sensuous, it fell easily from his lips, softly.
"I have quite a few actually. I have this hereditary disease where I buy books on impulse, I share my first name with a Disney character--"
"Jasmine?"
She smiled, "No."
"Aurora?"
"No."
"Maid Marian?"
"No."
"Alice."
"Ariel."
He shrugged his shoulders, "Ariel's a nice name. Plus mermaids kick ass."
"I like to pretend I'm named after the poem, by Sylvia Plath."
"I had a girlfriend who was absolutely obsessed with The Bell Jar."
"Understandably. That's a good book."
