We Created Our Own World

He Mattered to Me

Photo by Rick Gebhardt on Unsplash

Gillian glanced at her phone, regretted it immediately.

It was only five minutes since the last time she looked. Things were getting worse — or, better depending on who you asked.

If you asked her, she’d say true things that no one wants to hear.

No one wants to admit a 16 year old has a real life. You’re supposed to smile and do your mother’s volunteer gig since she can’t manage her own messed-up life. When the old biddies who run the nonprofit talk to you, you’re supposed to listen like it matters what’s you do with horrible book donations.

No one wants smelly, mildewed, broken books.

As if she could read Gillian’s mind, the tall bossiest one pointed at the recycling pile as if it were the gates of hell.

“We make ten cents for every ten pounds we recycle. It’s nowhere near their value, but we need every penny we can get.” The old woman’s sharp eyes gleamed through smeared eyeglasses.

Patting her shoulder, the old women chattered their way into the back room of the old school house. They closed the door between the front and back rooms against the arctic cold of a bleak December Saturday afternoon.

“Heat costs money we don’t have,” the plump one lectured.

Gllian listened to the brand-new furnace roar when the liars cranked up the thermostat.

Huffing a breath into malevolent cold air, Gillian eyed dozens of sagging boxes holding gifts from the community. She couldn’t believe her mother did this every weekend. Her job was to sort through the boxes, pluck out usable and important books, put the rest in the pile to be destroyed.

Some gifts, she thought. These wrecked old books should have been destroyed years ago, not given to poor people learning to read English.

Gillian loved to read — wished everyone could. She hated that book deserts are clear and present dangers to the world community. However, worn-out books from the 1970s and yellowing romance novels aren’t what people need.

Gillian needed to be with her boyfriend Alex. He was watching the game and eating pizza with their friends.

Cammie was there. And that little skank was all over Alex.

Every text featured outgoing, oblivious Alex grinning at the camera, Cammie snuggled under his arm.

A Porsche roared its distinctive purring growl and stopped just outside the building. Gillian raced to the door.

Alex had come for her. If asked why she ditched her commitment, she’d say the cold made it impossible to sort books.

She didn’t want Alex to see her waiting for him. She dashed to the back corner and wrangled open another box.

The door let in a blast of freezing cold air. It closed after a long moment. Gillian absorbed herself rummaging through books that needed to be destroyed.

“Excuse me, young lady? Where should I put my box?”

A man older than Time stared at her and the dingy room. He looked bewildered at piles of books in a used books nonprofit.

“Wherever you can find a spot.”

It didn’t matter. Gillian was doomed. She’d be sorting these damn books until her mother came to rescue her.

In two hours. By then, it would be too late.

The old man shuffled his way in a circle. He clutched a small cardboard box to his heart.

“What about over here?” The man aimed himself at the TO BE DESTROYED section.

The public couldn’t know most book donations were destroyed. Destroyed books aren’t good public relations even when it makes perfect sense.

“Oh, no, sir. Please, allow me.” Gillian reached for his box.

He wrapped a protective arm over the top.

“Not supposed to come home until I leave these here,” he mumbled.

Relinquishing the box, he settled it in her arms.

“Textbooks. From University of Chicago. Dr. Miller. Brilliant man, absolutely brilliant. Saved the U.S. economy — and much of Europe — after the war. We were the lucky ones. We got to create a whole new world. He changed my life.” A broken-spined blue book trembled in his hand.

“This here belonged to Donny. Meant to give it back, but with this thing and that….the book became mine. Good man, Donny. Came home from the war and got himself educated. Wound up on Wall Street. Died a couple years back. You know him, Donny Gladstone?” He held the book close.

“No,” said Gillian. She was too young to know dead dinosaurs.

“This one here is my favorite. Cracked it open, saw an impossible problem, and closed it. Wouldn’t you know it was the very problem Miller wanted solved that night? He knew it was impossible, but gave it to us anyway. We get stronger with struggle, he’d say.” The old man added it to his heartfelt clutch.

With watering eyes, the man told the story of every single book, adding them to his clutch until the box was empty. Gillian made him put the books back in their box.

Looking around the room, the old man whistled. “Okay if I take a look around?”

Sorting through the TO BE DESTROYED pile, he added a 1947 Social Register, a brown-edged thesaurus, and ragged picture books to his box. Discovering a cache of Hardy Boy mysteries, he accepted another box for his treasure.

Searching complete, he slid a fifty dollar bill into a donation envelope and handed it to Gillian.

“My wife is going to kill me.” His wrinkles settled into a merry grin.

Gillian held the door open, settled full boxes in the passenger seat, and waved goodbye as the Porsche roared to life and charged up the street, running a red light and almost mowing down the track team.

“What are you doing, letting cold air in?” The plump old woman hurried in from the back room and waved for Gillian to come back inside.