Okay, buckle up buckaroos, because today I met an honest-to-goodness cryptid.
I was out running errands and I made a stop at Intimate Books (âŚfor a friend), and on my way out I realized that the bookshop next door was open.
This bookshop has existed for more than a hundred years, and in all my life it has NEVER BEEN OPEN. I mean, I assume it has to be open sometimes, but never at any normal, reasonable hour. Everyone says itâs a front for the mob or something.
So what do you do when the weird mafia bookshop is open? You go the fuck inside.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. You know that smell when you accidentally leave your towel on the bathroom floor all day and you come back to that mildew funk? The shop smelled like that times a thousand. I expected to see stuff growing on the walls, but the books were pristine. Weâre talking first editions, rare editions, weird Bibles and books inscribed to really famous dead people. Librarians would weep for the chance to accession this place. In the first two minutes I found a signed copy of The Crucible and what I think was a first edition of Blakeâs Book of Thel.
Then a clerk showed up out of nowhereâhonestly nowhere. He looked EXACTLY like a bookseller should look, kind of fluffy and bewildered and really, really gay.
âAre you lost?â was the first thing he said to me.
âNope. Just browsing, thanks.â
âBrowsing, I see. Erm. How do you feel about snakes?â he asked. And without waiting for me to answer, he just walked away and vanished around a shelf.
I figured it was a metaphor, or a code phrase for the mafia. Until I turned a corner like ten minutes later and found a little reading nook. It was really pretty, although I feel like that particular window should have been on an interior wall? Anyway, curled up in an armchair in a patch of sunlight was the biggest fuck-off black snake I have ever seen.
Like, I donât mind snakes in general. But in their normal context, right? Outside. On the ground. Not six feet long and sitting on a threadbare velvet armchair like it owns the place.
I was about to turn around and leave, but I saw a gorgeous first-edition copy of Leaves of Grass on a shelf, a little too close to the snake for comfort. But I had never needed anything so badly in my life.
So I went back to the counter to buy it, but the clerk was nowhere to be found.
While I was waiting, I noticed a collection of pictures hanging on the wall behind the counter, dating back to the very dawn of photography. A couple were of this rock-star looking guy from the 70s that I should probably have recognized, but there were authors and landscapes and stuff, too. There was even an old tintype portrait of Oscar freaking Wilde, sitting in this very shop with a guy that I would ACTUALLY SWEAR was the clerk from before. Like, I know my family all has the same nose, but this guy had the same everything.
After approximately one year of waiting, the clerk came back out to the desk. By now Iâve realized that heâs too bad at his job to be anything but the owner of the shop.
âI saw your snake,â I told him.
âDid you? Was he behaving himself?â
âYes, he enjoys that.â
âDoes he just stay out in the open like that? What if he gets out?â
He shrugged and smiled. âHe always comes home again, the dear boy.â
Right, a homing snake. Thatâs totally normal.
Then he cleared his throat and asked, in a weirdly reluctant voice, if I was going to buy the Whitman.
âYes, please,â I told him. âI saw it on a shelf by the snake, and it was just too tempting.â
He sighed. âOh, yes, I expect it was.â
When I started to hand him my card, he went all fluttery and said that they didnât take cards.
All right, fine. I had some cash on me, but I told him that heâd sell a lot more books if he got a Square or something.
He got this scandalized look on his face and went, âWhy would I want to do that?â
Oookay. I handed over the cash and he popped open the ancient till and started making change.
In shillings. Shillings! I swear to god I saw Queen Anneâs face on one of them. The silver value of the coins was probably as much as I paid for the book.
But I had to have proof that this happenedâat that point, all I had was a book in a plain brown wrapper, not appreciably different from what I bought next door. So I asked him for a receipt.
He looked delighted and wrote one up for me.
And thatâs the story of how I met a bookseller cryptid and his pet snake.
theartofmadeline
gracieabrams
stormborns
germansingergirl
