A Little Literary Turbulence|(Open) INACTIVE

[ediedie]

It was a marvelous day. The air was sweet—as sweet as air can get in a metropolis like New York—from the absolutely intoxicating smell of the flowers blooming and bursting forth in grand displays of colour. If there were clouds, they were of the acceptably large, white, and puffy variety; they enhanced, rather then obscured, the crisp blue sky. People dreamily wandered the streets, the giggle of children seemed to be omnipresent, and the young man in the bookshop couldn’t be happier to be inside.

The majority of his coworkers had called in sick, though he was certain a significant portion, if not all of them, had taken the day off under false pretenses. Not Edward. The breeze alone had been enough to nauseate him this morning, perfumed as it was with the sickly scent of blossoms, and a surplus of beautiful weather only ever led to a surplus of people. And certainly, he enjoyed his constitutional as well as the next fellow, so long as the next fellow wasn’t trying to strike up a conversation with him. No, thank you: on a day like today, he’d much rather take his chances with the regular stupidity of customers then the inconceivable amount of discomfort he could receive from strangers. Least in here there were words to keep him company.

He moved purposefully through the rows of shelves that required restocking, dragging behind him the squeaky-wheeled cart of books that just so happened to serve such a purpose. Yes, he’d always gotten along better with paperbacks and hard covers then he did with people, hadn’t he? There’s young Leeford, he’d overhear the school teachers say to one another, in that way teachers do when they don’t realize their students can hear them rather clearly. He’s built himself a veritable fort out of books again. So much for going out to recess today, eh? Though it was more then plausible his memory was failing him, and he’d inserted his own adjectives. It was very doubtful, very doubtful indeed, that Missus Prion of the Math department or Miss Foley the Science teacher knew the word ‘veritable’.

The young man paused suddenly. Now why, he asked himself, why were the melancholy and beautiful eyes pictured in the cover illustration of The Great Gatsby looking up at him from the floor, when there was a specific[/i] place the novel belonged, that was not[/i] where some idiotic[/i] creature could potentially step on it? Slowly, he bent down to retrieve it, only to notice a copy of The Grapes of Wrath in the same position, too close for coincidence. Then Strange Pilgrims. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

Biting the inside of his mouth, Monks picked up the pile of literature and cradled them, with a tenderness shockingly at odds with the dangerous glint in his eyes. Then noticed a potential patron of the shop in the aisle along with him. He inhaled deeply, before asking sardonically, “Are you finding everything that you hope to acquire in your searches today?”

[RICHARD PLANTAGENET]

For once the weather was rather pleasant, at least it would seem that way to most people. But to Richard the weather today was to be regarded with the atmost disdain. The stifling, sickening perfume of flowers, the incessant twittering of birdsong and the laughter of youngsters...it was enough to make his skin crawl.

He sought solace in a nearby bookshop, the door slamming shut behind him as he entered. Having muttered something uncouth to satisfy his displeasure at the architecture of the place, Richard began to browse the shelves. He was a great admirer of works from bygone years, classic novels as well as works of nonfiction, and as such soon found himself in that particular aisle of the shop. A book had just sprung into his mind which he found himself seized with the stong desire to purchase, amazed that he hadn't thought to buy or even read it before.

Eventually he found it and, with a nasty little grin, he used his good hand to tug it from it's place on the shelf.

The Prince, by Niccolò Machiavelli.

It was just as he was about to turn and head for the counter when he found himself confronted with what could only be one of the bookshop's clerks, judging by his appearance and the question he had posed.

“Are you finding everything that you hope to acquire in your searches today?”

The speaker didn't seem to ask the question cheerfully, in fact he seemed almost scornful. Richard could have grinned; it seemed he wasn't the only one at odds with the world today, but decided against it since the mocking tone had clearly been directed at him and not the songbirds outside.

"As a matter of fact, I am," Richard replied, giving the speaker a critical once over from beneath his aviators. A bit scruffy. "How much would you like for this particular book?"

[ediedie]

Edward raised an eyebrow, his glasses concealing the brunt of his condescendingly amused expression. What an utterly trivial question the older gentleman had chosen to pose. The last time he had taken the time to note their surroundings, they had not been in an ancient Roman marketplace; consequentially, there would be no haggling over the price of ‘this particular book’, as it were.

Yet as much as he would enjoy chuckling in this customer’s face, he would have to keep his emotions in check. There was the matter of retaining his employment, after all, which had recently become a vague struggle due to the…moment with Cara. It would blow over, definitely, but for the moment he’d have to tread carefully. And besides: he was tentatively positive that this man was a well known public figure, since his less-then-perfect physique seemed particularly familiar, in the way the photos of movie stars and their ilk are familiar. His manager would permanently bid him adieu if he offended anyone important. God awful for business, that.

So the young man examined the back of ‘this particular book’ for its particular price sticker. Very well, he’d admit it: this man was a politician, a philosopher, or one who had aspirations to be either of the two. It was of little consequence which one was true, since his wish to purchase the Machiavelli gave him the smallest sliver of Edward’s respect. If the first was true—and it certainly seemed the most logical option, since philosophers were so infrequently covered by the media—then it would be best to proceed with some semblance of reference.

“I believe we’re proposing a price of eight dollars for this particular edition,” Leeford replied, handing the book back. “If sir is ready to proceed with his purchase, sir can find our check out to be located towards the front of the shop.”

He gave a sharp nod of his head, before going to resume shelving and track down whoever had been so juvenile in their treatment of the literature. Didn’t seem to be an action of the older gentleman: while he couldn’t vouch for any of the man’s policies, he did seem to have decent cultural tastes. He could be running the city into the ground, and Edward wouldn’t have felt anything more then a mild interest to be in the presence of such aptly titled evil. Ah, the benefits of general antagonism and apathy!

He knew he shouldn’t do it. But the book was right there on the shelf, begging to be picked up and cause some mischief; when had he ever denied books any sway over him. The young man turned back, and inquired with mock brightness, “If sir is interested in the Machiavelli, perhaps sir might enjoy a related volume?”

Edward held out The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. His benign smile betrayed nothing of the fact one Prince was a classical dissertation of civics, and the other was a French tale of surprising depth that ultimately was considered a children’s tale.

[RICHARD PLANTAGENET]

ooc: Hahaha! XD Edward's little bit of mischief made me laugh aloud! Let's see how Richard will react, shall we?

bic: “I believe we’re proposing a price of eight dollars for this particular edition. If sir is ready to proceed with his purchase, sir can find our check out to be located towards the front of the shop.”

Richard held back a grimace. Where had the 'sir's come from all of a sudden? Doubtless the young man must have recognized him, probably from the newspapers. It was difficult for Richard to decide whether the man was taking a jibe at him or not; he didn't seem to be acting in a particullarly obsequious manner as was usual with those of lower classes when the came in contact with him, yet there was something about his voice that sounded somewhat akin to that...was there, perhaps, the slightest shred of respect in that tone he'd used?

Richard guessed he'd imagined it. Despite his status, he didn't really have all that much respect. Probably because he scared everyone with a single command, rather than treating them with respect and therefore earning theirs.

He took the book back from the young man, pleased at the price. Edward was always complaining about how expensive books were and used it as an excuse not to spend his time reading any more but that was because he liked to be picky and order mint editions and import them from other states or even overseas.

Richard was just about to make his slow progress over to the counrer when the young man turned back to him, another book in his hand.

“If sir is interested in the Machiavelli, perhaps sir might enjoy a related volume?”

Richard could barely hold back a splutter of indignant laughter. The Little Prince...a related volume? And there he was thinking the man might have been treating him with a little deference. It now seemed he was one of those people who assumed all celebrities were complete dunderheads who only cared about how much money they had and how to show themselves in their best light.

Despite his renewed sense of disdain for the man before him, Richard had to admit his little gag was rather clever. Any ordinary person off the street (from what he knew and guessed of such people) would have doubtlessly thanked the man heartily and bought the pair of books without hesitation.

But not Richard. He liked to claim he knew his literature.

"I believe I have already read that one," he said, in an attempt at offhanded casualness. "When I was about seven years old."

He looked from The Little Prince to the clerks' face again, one eyebrow raised behind his glasses. Truth be told he was feeling quite pleased with that comeback. So pleased he thought, due to his unusual good humor, he might just buy the book after all and give it to George. It seemed like his sort of thing.

[JOHN "DOOLITTLE" MOREAU]

John walked into the bookshop. As usual Polynesia was perched on his shoulder. and also as usual she was complaining about his reclusive habits. "But you don't need more books you have plenty at home."
"Polynesia, show some respect and shut your beak if you will. And I may find a book that might prove helpful in my studies. Like this book for instance." He reached up and grabbed a book, luckily for him it was A Field Guide To Bird Songs of the Eastern and Central United States
Doolittle smirked.

Then he spotted an employee and some one who seemed to look important. Since he saw no one else in the shop he headed over to them. On his way he spotted and snatched a copy of the National Geographic Complete Birds of the World. As he approached the two, Polynesia addressed the employee in her usual manner. "Excuse me. Do you know where any self help books are. You see the Doctor here needs to discover a social life."
Doolittle turned to the parrot, "Quiet Polynesia. I'm doing quite fine and you know it. Humans don't flock twenty four seven and you have to get used to it."

[ediedie]

He nodded slowly, as if pondering the older gentleman’s statement, layered as it was with the possibility that juvenile novels could potentially be considered different from—or even lesser than—grown up works of paper and pen. Truthfully? The rhythmic motion of his head moving up, then down, then up again took just enough effort to keep him from bursting out laughing. Edward didn’t laugh much, but the expression on this politician’s face when presented with The Little Prince was sufficiently humourous to warrant a gleeful chortle, as it were. Yet just as the man had pretend he hadn’t been shocked by the suggestion, so he would need to pretend he had received no pleasure for it. Because a lost sale would be most unfortunate in this higher power forsaken economy.

Though there was the matter of the man realizing he was attempting to make a dunce out of him. Had to give him credit for that. Additionally, he’d managed to maintain his composure, and even produce a suitable retort. Young Leeford firmly believed intelligence was the key to sophisticated humour, and this patron at least appeared to have enough of one to warrant the other. It was so infrequent, so unfortunately sporadic when he was granted a chance to interact with someone witty, that he almost wished he could continue to chat with the man. Almost. There was still the cart to unload of its cargo, and the matter of tracking down the whoreson who had thrown books about so carelessly.

His calm undisturbed, the young man tapped one finger against the side of his mouth, before languidly replying, “I’ll take that as a ‘maybe’ that sir is interested in the book, then. If sir believes sir’s self ready to complete sir’s searching and purchase sir’s selections, sir can find the register near the entrance.” He intentionally stressed the word sir, though not nearly so much as to make it painfully or obviously so. Merely a little over-enunciation, a twinge of tongue-in-cheek courtesy. And why? Because the little reasons he had to be interested in the gentleman could not outweigh his all too self-important wit, despite however moderately keen as he was on this encounter. Or, to phrase it otherwise, when bleeding humanity begged “Why?”, Monks would shrug his shoulders, and retort, “Why not?”.

The clerk raised his hand in a vague salute, and added, “Should sir require any additional assistance, sir need only raise sir’s voice and pose his query, and I will be only too happy to oblige.” Then, having bid the politician farewell, he turned to recommence the task of shelving, only to notice another customer. Smashing. A gorgeous day of the sort people are programmed to enjoy, yet here he was with all of the village seeking his assistance.

Though there was something…different about this man, in comparison to the other. Perhaps it was his relative youthfulness, or how Edward was virtually positive he was not as well known as the politician. Maybe it was the calm fatigue in his eyes that distinguished him from the proud, blue-eyed gentleman. No, no, he knew what it was—it was the bloody parrot sitting on the man’s shoulder, who had just quite articulately inquired about the self help section. His nerves couldn’t stand[/b] this sort of shock. GOD.

He could hardly comprehend the newcomer’s apology for his bird, since Monks was preoccupied with clapping a hand to his mouth, to slightly conceal the self-mutilation of his lips by his teeth. There was nothing calm or proud about him, unlike the men he was quite reluctant to call his companions: only fury and frustration, as usual, which soon passed, as usual. He slowly removed his hand, and examined the blood with dead eyes. Least he had a handkerchief, which he produced, and began to dab at his injuries.

“If you should chose to take your animal’s advice and find the self help section,” he commented without looking at the man, “it is located next to the biographies, auto and otherwise. If there is something else I could assist you in locating, then do not hesitate in asking.”

[RICHARD PLANTAGENET]

At Richard's comment the younger man nodded and then tapped his finger against the side of his mouth before making a reply. Richard had detected a hint of a smile playing about the other's lips, as if he found the situation amusing. But maybe he'd imagined it. The man's reply was quite calm and didn't seem to convey much amusement.

“I’ll take that as a ‘maybe’ that sir is interested in the book, then. If sir believes sir’s self ready to complete sir’s searching and purchase sir’s selections, sir can find the register near the entrance.”

Richard nodded and was about to do just that when the man spoke again. Before he did so however the clerk gave Richard what certainly looked like a sort of salute. Richard couldn't help a small smile; his disdain for the man diminishing somewhat at the gesture.

“Should sir require any additional assistance, sir need only raise sir’s voice and pose his query, and I will be only too happy to oblige.”

"Thank you," Richard replied, not at all coldly as he was usually prone to address those lower than him on the social ladder. "If the need arises I shall do so. But it appears you have work to get on with and I shall not detain you any longer."

With that he nodded again as the man moved away and proceeded towards the aforementioned checkout. What the hell, he'd buy The Little Prince for George. The man could do with broadening his horizons. And he hadn't riled his temper all week. He deserved some sort of reward for that.

[belladonna]

Like any woman in any century, Belladonna had an infallible remedy for cheering herself up. She read a book. By economizing on her expense account she found it possible to afford a tiny luxury now and then, and struck down with yet another unwholesome sickness, a biting horror was what she needed. After a modest meal, she thought it maybe time to return the last book she loaned from a little library she vaguely knew, and exchange for something fresh and just as bloodcurdling. She indulged in The Amitvylle Horror one more time as she slowly trudged up the street, long and ropethick hair trying to lift in the wind. But its gravity only let it gently tremble.

Hoping they'll have something new in, She thought with a hoping glint in her eye. I don't know if I wanna go for another Anne Rice this week.

Her delicate brows drew together as she pushed open the shop door with a little white hand, and without further word or look, she walked quietly in and let it close behind her. Pulling herself along in steady strokes that seemed resolute from boots that must have been at least half her own weight, the little woman darted away between two of the first bookcases as swiftly as a skimming swallow out on shimmering water. Hugging her last book to her chest, Belladonna turned her pale, pearl-like face around the directions of the Horror-genre aisle. Searching for the next thrill that would get her through the last of her latest malady.

[JOHN "DOOLITTLE" MOREAU]

"No I'll stick with these two. Polynesia thinks I spend to much time in my studies."
"And I'm right."
"But I should probably take my books up to the register and purchase them."

John knew he wasn't cut out for the social life. The only problem was that he couldn't get that idea across to Polynesia. Sometimes he wondered if subjecting her to the intelligence increasing procedure was a bigger mistake than his experiments on the island. The of course he usually shuddered and tried to forget the memories that came up with that mental association.

As he made his way to the counter he spotted a vaguely familiar book. "Evaluating Elevation and Evolution: A theoretical treatise on ascending beasts into men and men into gods" Then he noticed the picture on the cover and the text on the bottom of the cover. "By John Moreau PHD."
It was his face on the cover. John grew pale. When did he write that? It must have been during his last days at Oxford.

He almost passed out right then. But he regained his composure and swallowing a couple of times, turned back to Polynesia. "You know what maybe we should go to the self help section, or at least the biography section."
"You know the man on the cover of that book looks just like you."
"It must be coincidence." John cut off the parrot before she could finish her statement. He hoped no one else noticed the similarity between John Doolittle PHD and John Moreau PHD, author of that book on the shelf.