(Yankee) Hoarding - Part Seven - "Promised Land"

(Yankee) Hoarding

Part Seven

"Promised Land"

            Summarial Hoard... and I.

            Hope that it has been useful to open and expand the vantage of hoard and carry that expansion over to hoarding and hoarder.  And... carrying this too... to the hoardettes’ finger pointing and witch hunting hoard precept... to demonstrate THAT hoard view... without even a slight suggestion that one alters this last (hoardette view) hoard

Vision plight.  Too.

            No I do not want an adopted crowd forming at now recognized to be vital and/or mature hoard sites especially foisting an “I know” aura upon that site.

            No.

            No.  Just stay in the tacky world of finger pointing at hoard horror.  Drop the ‘Yankee’.  Move out West (west of the Hudson River corridor).  Clean the garage.  Out.  (There is nothing in there that is ‘good’).  Then go away.  I will promise to personally professionally be ‘one of hoard’ in your behalf.  One... is done.

            Go.

            What if a (Yankee) hoard hoarded ‘old clocks’ (“timepieces”)?  Would that?  No.  It would not.  If their alarms all went bong, bong, bong at once would that?  No.  A stupid dance like the car going beep, beep, beep when the key is turned.  If one found fifty-seven old timepieces gathered by one old man quietly over a very fifty-seven years with each stored in its own crude protective box to preserve each timepiece in its ‘as found’ state for the only reason that it assured the hoard that each component of the hoard was carefully included; fairly included; ‘equal to the others’.  This would be a problem right from a ‘get-go’:  “What do ... DO with them”.  A ‘this hoard’?  And one would not think of calling on anyone who would know.  Anyway.  “WHAT is there to THINK ABOUT?  Cleaning up a MESS?”

            That is okay

            As long as one goes

            Away.

            I get to a (all) hoard before the ‘you do’.  I know hoard.  Good hoard.  “Well”.  I get there first.  All the time.  “Boxes of clocks”.  That is an accurate hoard description presented by a hoardette who hastens to ‘clean out’.  “Them” she called... them:  To clean out them, a physical action based on mental evaluation... of a hoard.  “Fine”.  If the whole had been neatly ‘fixed-up’ (restored) and wall hung tick-tocking.  Bonging.  In the front hall, living room, dining room and... the other rooms of responsible (sterile) domestic management, let me say... ‘a different story’.  Yes.  Just nod.  “Yes”.

            These boxed clocks were “stored” (stuffed) all over the outer borderlands of the property.  Each box shut up tight; a ‘put in’ ‘old clock’ and ‘never looked at again’.  I found it a very exciting

            Hoard.

            I did not count the boxes of boxed up old clocks until I stored the full hoard in a section of a warehouse and... sort of had the time to do that to ‘them’.  Before that was too hectic.  Fussy... the family was about ‘getting the house ready’.  For what?  Who cares what idiots do.  Right?  Just nod.  I had to “do” the rest of the hoard too.  What?  You think there was only one hoard in there?  Do you see (understand)?  It is going to be a while before you can do hoard well... too.  I don’t expect you to show up.  I do expect you to be ‘cleaning out’ badly for the rest of your life.  Bricklaying?

            Sort of.  Right?  Hoard is a sort of bricklaying.  You know:  Like making a patio.  With this including “good job” and... “bad job”.

            The vast majority of hoard never makes it to ‘bad job’ or ... ‘good job’ “clean out”.  In most cases good... very good and “GREAT” hoard is not identified as, even, being hoard.  For example, on property ‘walk through’ tours, I am often shown a “collection”.  In most cases this would pass toward ‘accumulation’ and never come near a ‘collection’.  Behind ‘accumulation’ is the safer... border land:  Hoard.  What ever it is (‘old clocks in boxes’, for example)... it is... actually.... hoard.  Is it good hoard... or bad hoard?  Grand hoard or piss poor hoard?  Yes... girls... skip rope and... skip rope with the girls?  Boys?  This is why one is not there.  To be of ‘go away’ is the easiest hoard solution.  Yes; “cool” and “pretty much of a problem” isn’t it; ‘hoard’?

            Have I gummed this all up for you?  Or have I suggested and shown that (Yankee) hoard is one of the grand treasures; alternative asset allocations, of old New England?  And do I care what you ‘think’... about (Yankee) hoard.

            Well... for the last I don’t.  My ‘nose’ for hoard has me scampering around the (Yankee) borderlands perpetually (an inexhaustible supply of hoard).  And, simply, no one is there except the those-of-one-with-hoard and

            The confused... hands thrown up in despair... maelstrom trapped hoard swirl ‘victims’ of ‘hoard’.  Yes:  There we go... ‘victims’ of ‘hoard’.  In Yankee New England.  That makes everyone feel better about (Yankee) hoarding:  Victims.

            If this force has its way... all of the old worn ‘wide board’ pine floors of (Yankee) New England... will be sanded.

            Varnished.

            And shown off.

            All after “THE PLACE” is “CLEANED OUT” (“You wouldn’t BELIEVE what it was LIKE in there.”).  It was a good thing I moved all of those fifty-seven boxed up old clocks out of that ‘place’.  I, removing hoard, rescued ...victims.  The place was cleaned out.  The floors have been sanded

            Varnished

            And shown off.

            I was invited on a ‘house tour’ “TO SEE”.

            I didn’t go.

            I have written... in this blog... two long stories about hoard... with these stories never mentioning hoard or I... ever saying ‘hoard’.  They are both vast stories recording singular work (antiques dealing / rare book dealing) events that I actually did AND consider these to be... representative enough... to make a point of

            Being worthy to be told?

            Did I make a mistake doing that; recording the tales?  Not really

            I guess.  Who cares?  Right?

            This last is particularly adroit when one such as I confounds that this (Yankee) hoarding will never be ‘made out’ anyway.  Your in-battle (hoard battle) will never take place.  You will attend no hoard war.  No fight on the front line of a ‘big one’ (a Yankee warship of multiple layered hoard).  You will not be the ‘broom clean’ at the ‘empty’ end.

            In the first story; “The Crows Nest” (44 chapters/posts), the hoard is antiques with multiple hoard... multiple hoard locations, settings and ... multiple hoard ‘alternative asset allocation’ managers.  (Yankee) hoard interweaves with (Yankee) hoard.  It lives, it moves, in (Yankee) New England.  The story is about very large moving hoards; almost too big to be discerned as hoard.  But that is what all of ...it... is; hoards.

            The second story; “Can B. Worth” (37 chapters/posts), is a ‘rare book’ story that is an ‘inside hoard’ vantage.  “He dies in his hoard”.  For real.  It is a story about hoard and it’s fight against the ‘sanded floor’ people... from the inside hoard vantage.  Again this tale is, too, ‘almost to big to be discerned as hoard’.  But it is that: (Yankee) hoard.

            At first contact with the hoards of these tales, and through my whole relationship, I understood these ‘tales’ are (Yankee) hoard.  By the time I arrived at the hoards in the tales... I knew hoard very well.  For an example of my formative exposure to hoard, I suggest the much less cumbersome story; “The Codman Place” (7 chapters/posts).  That is a splendid story of how I came to hoard; the many hoards ‘in there’ and the nuance of each hoard... from when I was very young at this (Yankee) hoard.   Too.

            For the final closure, it should be obvious... but I must speak of it:  Yes I am a hoarder.  That is... I am ‘of hoard’.  Particularly... ‘of (Yankee) hoard’.  And I am very good at it.  Well practiced.  So well practiced that one would ‘never know’.  And that is the way it is supposed to be; the way (Yankee) hoarding... is.  I live in hoard.  I will die in hoard.  The ‘sanded floor’ people are the enemy.  They are of little consequence... except to themselves, of course.  That ‘they’ have closed out ‘hoard’.  Themselves.  “Sterile” visions is a ‘their best’.  No fifteen years of old seed packages for they have no (messy-self made) garden.  No hoard of shoes because the... accumulation... of their shoes are ‘too cheap’ (of quality and cost... in addition to, too, NOT being ‘Yankee footwear’) to be worthy of the title ‘hoard’.  It is a sad omen when one cannot even accomplish a hoard of shoes.  But that is the way those (“new New England”) people like it; sand the floors then varnish them.

            Admire them.

Worn Collars - Part Thirteen - "Tattle-Tail (Tale)"

Worn Collars

Part Thirteen

"Tattle-Tail (Tale)"

            Ugly is the day to day intercourse among the rare book men?  Actually not... at all.  Rare book proof and its pudding are held in the hand and... generally from a discerned distance... the discernment... tale... is tattle-...tailed... ‘by the book’.   This is not a popular resolution.  That ‘not a popular’... continues to a concerned

            Discernment

            That one’s tattled tale may actually be “embarrassing”.  That last “pitiful” is self protected by the “I didn’t know (realize) that ...that... could... would... and IS being done

            To an “I”

            And “my”

            (Old) “RARE” “BOOKS”.

            Simply, if one ‘shows off’ an ‘I say’ it is a “rare book”, I (this writer) may not see it that way and do that from a ‘safe distance’.  How can one taste this bibliodemon’s liquor?  I feel one should START by knowing that a simple shelf of spine ends ‘lined up’ do, as Arlington advised the woman about her father’s books (Part Twelve)...; “Show... what the man really knew”.  “Knows”.  “Is”.  And falsely claims to be... by their... spine... ends... sitting in a row for the whole world to see.

            It is not a glance I use.  No... I use a rake... of my eyes... from ‘a discerned distance’ and... as that is, in fact, “usually enough” for the “your old books”, I go back to hunting for a ...painting... or such “of such”.  It’s ok:  You don’t need to speak up a point out... “No, please”.  Leave them; your old books... “PLEASE NO”.  Really:  I do not want them, to look at them, touch them and... have you... discourse your discernments (“ON THE INTERNET THEY”).  These ‘your books’ shelved have already tattle-tailed about

            JUST HOW LITERATE YOU REALLY ARE.

            That is the big lie of all of this ‘rare book chat’.  They, with grace of their hand as companion gesture... assure ME how much THEY “READ”.  They will tell me this when ...from five feet... I may discern in their shelved clutch... their college sociology ‘intro’... course books... that they didn’t read then... and that they STILL shelve ‘spine ends out’ TO THIS DAY “I JUST TURNED FIFTY”.  It is time to shelve books like a grownup?

            “But my old college books are all... the books... I have?”

            “And you have never bought and read a rare book in your entire life?”

            “No... I have not.  But... I LOVE old books”.  Probably... you shouldn’t say that (anything)... for as history proves... Titanics... sink... “spine ends out”.

            While you ‘crunch the numbers’ I notice two:  Most (people with their spine ends out) ‘are that way’ so the company kept is ‘well established’; the ‘dominance’... with this including the delusional ‘home décor’ shelf showoff of ‘my books’ “ah....”:  It actually gets ‘creepy’; this people showing their ‘spine ends out.  It’s a sort of ‘standing there

 In they’s... underwear.

Second... should one... when one... and being one that knows... comes upon this ‘spine ends out’ that are a ‘this is a real (personal) library’... it does take away my bibliolater (book worshiper) breath.  Dizzy... I become at the ‘discerned distance’ ‘rake’ of a “this is a real library”

            A real

            Deal

(Private library; collection).

            Usually... they are dead... the curator of the ‘this collection’.  NOT that I didn’t living-visit Arlington in his rare book room for a ...near... half century.  But I do like the surprise discoveries best; the ‘in the field’ message to self “CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS GUY” ...was in here all alone forever and ‘shelved’ all this...; that “message”... is to self.  I keep my God damn mouth shut.  NO ONE (of the non-biblio) IS GOING TO KNOW (a ‘good one’; a rare book man’s hoard). It’s “just so many of his books he never threw anything out”.

            Ever?

            “NO NEVER ANY I NEVER WAS ALLOWED TO EVEN clean IN HERE.”

            Isn’t this a wonderful setting?  One gathers rare books, in bibliomaniac fever, for ‘one’s lifetime’, dies and the maid opens the door and lets me in.  I, dizzy, purchase (purloin) the whole contents of the hoard and... flee.  I.  Me.  Not you.  You fumbled the ball when you defined:  “What is anyone going to do with this?”

            “Mess”.

            Your word.  And your right:  It is mess.  (Bibliocharylodis):**  Frantic lifelong obsessive compulsive door closed never look up from a ‘the damn book’ died in there “I” am a bibliomaniac who has left all of my in-this-world (non book living) to see my world of I be in behind this desk and before my shelves and ...I am happily...yes... dead... so take me (my book body) away to the bibliobibuli (readers of ‘too much’).”

I do that (this).  It is a blast:  “JUST how (biblio) crazy was this guy COME ON go for the gold in here EVERY ... THING (rare book related) you ever touched is... to my dizzy eye... spine ends out “I”... your tattle-tale and “I” will never.. tattle-tail

You do not have to worry about a thing.  My lips are sealed

Now most of you have never even seen ‘from a safe distance’ a ‘that kind of library’ (bibliocharylodis)... let alone run amuck in one on to let alone ...buy one and ‘get it out’ (bibliolestes; one who plunders/steals books)... of

            It’s little (old) rare book room.  I will stay off of the ‘making such’ (a bibliomaniac rare book room lifetime library) (to die in) yourself ...for yourself.  That’s asking too much and, anyway, you have already wasted a lot of time so may only get a

            Late start

            “Now.”***

---

**   A dangerous whirlpool of books possibly ‘drowning’ an ‘unwary’.

*** Just to alarm the reader, I treated the discovery and purloinments of just such a rare book library hoard as this ‘let alone buy one and get it out’  in a ...thirty-six post... tale titled “Can B. Worth” that by exploring that title as a blog post ‘label’ one may find it all there to read.  Again; it is a thirty-six posts long tale ‘about this’.

            Let me review and summarize these ‘underestimate’.  It is easy now, a few paragraphs ahead to understand the premise of the concept that one’s shelves of old books with their spine ends out are to... the knowing rare book eye... a chance for that eye to... from a safe distance... see you in your underwear... of your ‘old books’ “I shelved them over there”.   Considered as an actual weapon of insult, I demonstrated Arlington St. John’s (that ‘rotten man’) skillful deployment of denoting to that shelf showoff that this does... show what the ... “I know”.  As factual truth... this... ‘it does’.  A review of one’s shelved books in one shelved home... may be in order?  An internal ‘audit’ or ‘policing’ of one’s tawdry ‘old books’ ‘spine ends out’.  Why not just reverse the horror show to ...spine ends “in”?

            After this... call it what you will... private eye insight... I startled the shelves by saying that there are actual true ‘real libraries’ and that I delight in unexpectedly coming upon them, discern them very... very promptly... accept the LIVING personal library but am ‘dizzy’ from the discovery by chance of a... dead man’s... old book room... library... “BEST” and

            There, then... when

            I say nothing at all about this to anyone ever as a protective

Gesture of solidarity to

            A DEAD MAN.

            Who was a living bibliomaniac; a wretched zombie of obsession of books.

            And I... ‘get it out’

            Eventually... I was alone in Arlington St. John’s ‘rare book room’ with just

            His ‘housekeeper’.

            That is where this tale... a tattle-tail... began (Part One).

"Can" B. Worth - Feeding the Birds - Part Twelve - Hiding Books - Part Three - The End

"Can" B. Worth

Feeding the Birds - Part Twelve

Hiding Books - Part Three

The End

            Inclusive of my foibles, after awhile, Dead Can and I …parted.  This happens in all “estates”.  “Estates” means here the whole package viewed from the antiquarian and rare book DEALER vantage.  Dealer horizon line?.  Whatever; in the end with each and every “estate”… “we” “part”.  “Estate” means, again, the whole package; the “stuff”, the purchase, the setting, the characters, the …usually dead…  original owner(s), the professional and personal ….relationship… the dealer develops with ALL of this, the then going the distance with this “ALL of this”… until “everyone” (the dealer) gets “done”, “tired” and “bored”.  And “drops it” (the estate fades into the dealer’s background of “yeah; that deal”) AS “the next one” (“new one”) (estate) takes its place… with this repetitive procedure spread over a forty year time span of “doing this”… so leaves ME now, after writing down the tale by chapter after chapter for all readers, “done”.  Right?

            That’s what happens; the “this estate” …fades away because I am… “done with it, tired of it and… bored by it”.  That’s where I get to and got here TOO inclusive of old Dead Can’s wedding ring intrigues.  This “parting” just doesn’t happen like a line in the sand.  In most cases I don’t notice the parting until “its been a while” has set in and I’m off …in some other house, in some other bedroom, in some other …old dresser drawer filled with… someone’s old underwear… looking for THAT “dead person’s” …wedding ring.

            Here, I feel… and have felt throughout… that I was doing a good job of walking and talking through what is a splendid “interesting estate” with its boxes of rare books, the ever more developed character of the original owner, the musing onstage view of the estate setting and “gee pretty neat” logic that it is true that the STORY of the estate is MORE INTERESTING than “the (actual) stuff”.  In the end.  That’s right; for I the dealer, the PROSCESS is it with the HOPE that this process is a …fruit laden tree with its branches bent low from the weight of its treasure… too.

            The final lines in the sand of this estate escapade for me… were… pretty simple.  I concluded that the wholeness of the estate contents laid bare WAS summarized before my eyes at the very start with my “old book” finds on Dead Can’s desk ( Parts Four and Five).  The Lowell / Wakeman copy “AMONG MY BOOKS” opens the door.  The John Neal, Curzon, Dexter and Sam Patch are the “peper and solt it as thay plese”.  Patch’s “Some things may be done as well as others” (Part Seven) becomes the formula of the whole estate’s “work in progress”?  Good enough for me it explains the “why” .  So I stand on THAT DESK as THE KEY to “what I found and… found out.

            As a ceremonial gesture, I, roguish to watch, decided to “not open” that last about seventeen Dead Can’s boxes in the warehouse unit.  I moved them all into another “deep six” unit and “let ‘em sit there a while” meaning a decade.  And this is not very roguish for me at all for… I have DOZENS of similar “pile” of “stuff” remaindered like that from and for “similar”.  No it is NOT a “roguish”.  It was just a sort of “stand down” “fondly remembered” action taken.  I KNOW that “those boxes” are “GOOD” and “DO HAVE SOMETHING” “in them”.  I… just might enjoy opening them “some day”.  And should I not “get to them” ...someone will.

            So there I am… with Dead Can and his rare books faded WAY into my past… standing mid-morning outside the cab of my truck… in the driveway of an estate “clean out” in Lewiston, Mane… after having just finished “setting up” “a deal” with an auctioneer “to sell” the “that stuff” and HE has just scampered away to help HIS CREW load HIS TRUCKS while I …leave. 

            And my cell phone rings.  And it is Mr. Lawyer calling.  So I answer it.  And he says to me:

            “YES that ESTATE.  The school just called me and they’ve found ANOTHER OFFICE full of HIS PAPERS and books”.

            “Another office?  Full of his?”

            “A whole other office FULL.”

            “Of his stuff”

            “Right”

            “They didn’t know about it?”

            “Right.  Actually.  They knew about it but FORGOT about it”.

            “Forgot about a FULL office of his stuff?”

            “THAT’S what they say.”

            “So?”

            “SO WHEN can you COME?”

            “Come to see it?”

            “I gotta go there NOW.”

            “Ok.  I can go”.

            “You can?”

            “Sure”

            “GREAT!  At the school.  How long?”

            “At the school?  Half an hour?”

            “GREAT.  Thanks”.  (Mr. Lawyer’s a pretty nice guy when it’s going his way.)

            I went there.  I assumed Mr. Lawyer was going to the exact same place… building and… OFFCIE?  I mean, like, WHO forgets about a full office?  So… “what’s this about”.  So I went there.

            And he was parked there.  Talking on his cell phone.  We go inside together.  To the same department office with him saying “I DON’T KNOW WHAT THIS IS ABOUT”.  But we found out.

            At the office… one of the office women… who I THOUGHT was the one who moved Dead Can’s can… when I was there long ago… but I wasn’t sure… knew Mr. Lawyer right off and that he was coming so WE (three) left that office in a gooey gush of  “THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR COMING SO QUICKLY” suggesting this all had started a few hours ago… which it had.

            Expecting “OFFICE” “FULL” I followed the heals like a good doggie.  Saying nothing including during my Mr. Lawyer waved his hand toward me – Ms. Department Woman showed no recognition or interest – introduction… I go into “we’re gonna FIND OUT NOW” mode.  I am ready for … OFFICE NUMBER TWO:  FULL.

            So when we turned DOWN the stairs at the center of the building (lobby) and I… recalled that I had been DOWN these stairs because …at the bottom of the stairs right in front of me I FOUND… the “MEN’S ROOM” during my earlier visits.  It is a big and fine Men’s Room with a “new” outside but having a “the old building” INSIDE; especially the four after WW1 era “to the floor” model urinals set in marble.  I recalled it as a “splendid” work station for that kind of work and… truly had not given a thought to the rest of the very modern… ized… rest of that “down there”.  We did not stop at the Men’s Room.

            We turned right to “down the hall” WELL PAST the Men’s Room… to pass by …modern and well lighted locked white door after locked white door  each “off” of the hall’s gray outside/inside usage grade… “carpeting” (or whatever that stuff is).  “Huh.” was my small talk to myself at this point… JUST AS Ms. Department Woman turns to a left side door (“is this right under Dead Can’s old office?”) and… produces a key.  She inserts the key,  turns the key and opens (OUT) the door.  Then reaches inside and …turns on the light

            She and Mr. Lawyer had been chatting but both were silent now.  So was I.  The light showed a… room… that was NOT an office but… looked like an old storage room… with a NEW front door and… old ceiling light that …illuminated… to show that the whole room was packed full of stacked cardboard boxes with… WITH… bags and odd boxes… AND MORE STUFF… on top of all of these boxes… TOO.  So everyone was silent for pretty obvious reasons.

            Then Mr. Lawyer, after looking over his shoulder at me… says “This is all Professor Worth’s?”

            “Yes this was HIS storage room.  He used it for YEARS.”

            “Years?  All HIS?” questioned Mr. Lawyer.

            “Yes his.  For years.  These are all his teaching supplies.  Books.  Papers.  All his.  HIS ROOM.  He had it for years.”

            “Years.  All his.  How long?”

            “Before I came here.  I don’t know.”

            “Its all his?

            “Yes.  That’s right.  We need to know what will happen now”.

            “Happen now?” Mr. Lawyer said then look over at me and then back into the “office”.  “If its all his; his estate; then we’ll clean it out.  Too.  Just like the first office.  This is more of a storage room isn’t it?  It’s not an office”.

            “Well it is going to be an office.  That’s why we’ve been fixing it up down here:  More offices.  But this room was his for storage.  Until now.  I didn’t even KNOW about it”.

            Turning to me Mr. Lawyer said “Go in there and tell me what you think quick.”  I did; I stepped forward and into the room.  Ms. Department Woman yielded.  I was inside the room.  They were outside in the hall.  Mr. Lawyer was talking to Ms. Department Woman.  I was scanning.  SCANNING.  Fast.

            I open a box.  BOOKS.  I open another box:  BOOKS… with some papers.  I … Mr. Lawyer appears to my right and HE looks in that second box.  He says “Books”.  Then he says to me “You like books don’t you.  Get me something.”

            “A p-o?” I say softly (p-o is purchase offer)

            “Yes.  And cleanout.  WHEN.”

            “But?”

            “Just do it”.

            “Ok”.

            Mr. Lawyer stepped back into the hallway.  “Give us just a few minutes”.

            I scan the room again and… reach for the pen and paper slips in my jacket pocket.  I look at the far wall and see four boxes stacked against that wall going down that wall with more equal stacked boxes.  “TEN” (stacks) I say.  “TIMES FOUR:  Forty.  Another seven; eight, at five.  Five, eight; forty; eighty.”  Then eyeing the back wall:  “Another twenty; one hundred. Plus thirty.  One thirty.  Plus these; at least thirty.  One sixty.  And that rest.  AND that stuff.  Well.  One sixty.  At twenty ($20.00 per box); thirty-two.  Too much.  Back up.  One sixty at ten.  Sixteen.  Plus that stuff.  Eighteen.  Too much .  Minus the work.  Sixteen.  Higher:  SEVENTEEN.  FIFTY.  Seventeen fifty.”

            I write on one slip of paper: “$1750.00” “Noon Tomorrow”.  I hand that to Mr. Lawyer.

            He looks at it and looks at me.  “Good” he says.  Turning to Ms. Department Woman he says “We can have this all cleaned out by noon tomorrow”.

            “Really?  That would be WONDERFUL.” She says.

            “What time will you start?” Mr. Lawyer says to me.

            “Seven”.

            “Seven?”

            “The stairs” I say pointing back up the hall.  “Everything’s got to go up the stairs”.

            “Up the stairs?” say Ms. Department Woman following my finger.  “No.  You can come in at the end of the hall” she says pointing past my finger.  Looking there I see way off at the far opposite end of this hall a red lighted “EXIT” sign.  “You can park right out there and come in.  That’s what it’s there for.”

            Mr. Lawyer looks at me and says “Seven?” again.

            “Seven.  By noon.” I say.

            “If you would give him the key he’ll start at seven and have it done BEFORE noon.”

            “Oh no problem.  That’s WONDERFUL.”

            I stepped into the hall.  Ms. Department Woman turned off the light, closed the door and the lock… clicked.  The three of us walked back up to the lobby.  Mr. Lawyer chatted lightly.  Then we left.  Going out the building’s back door Mr. Lawyer say to me “You’re ok?”

            “Yes.  No problem”.

            “Sure?”

            “Sure”.

            “Turn the key in when your done and call me”.

            “Right.”

            “What do think that stuff is?” He said.

            “Stuff?  The books?”

            “Those books.  What was he doing in there?”

            “Hiding books.”

            “Hiding books?  In there?  Those books aren’t hidden.  If he was hiding books in there he did a really crappy job of it.

            “Looks like he hid ‘em pretty good to me.”

            “Yeah... but you LIKE old books.”

The End