Be Careful What You Book For

Jerry considered himself more of a dessert reader. 

No serious literature. No nonfiction. Whatever fantastic escapist thing he could get his hands on, he devoured. Shelves of paperbacks and hardbacks wrapped the living room of his one-bedroom apartment. Books sat on end tables. Books propped up his computer monitors. Books took up any space not already occupied by something else. 

He even kept one or two in his green nylon backpack, just in case he had time to read during the day. Sure, he could’ve bought one of those e-readers and saved money and space, but then he wouldn’t get to smell the books. To inhale the scent of paper and ink right into his bones. 

It wasn’t just the smell, obviously. 

He liked to get lost in the stories. Reading was an out-of-body experience, a religious experience to him. Because Jerry’s truth, the one deep down in his chest, locked away in a box behind his heart, was that he didn’t want to be here. 

Not dead, mind you. But not here. On earth. Now.  

Because it was so boring. And horrifying. In the real world, he had to talk to people. To interact.  

“What’re you reading, Jerry?” 

Jerry looked up from his book, Neverwhere, one of Gaiman’s best. It was Mitch, the assistant director of his department. Mitch and his perfect hair and perfect posture. One of those extroverts. “Oh, nothing.” 

Mitch nodded. “What’re you doing for Halloween this year? Monday, right? Going to any parties this weekend?” 

Jerry shook his head. Oh, right, Halloween. He’d always loved Halloween as a kid. The Raven. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. It used to be his favorite holiday, getting to pretend to be something else. 

“Jerry, bro? Earth to Jerry.” 

Jerry blinked, came back to the breakroom. He met Mitch’s eyes for a moment, averted to the windows. The sky bore the promise of a storm, big dark clouds a backdrop for fast moving wispy white ones. He imagined the wind through the trees. Jerry noted in the background the sounds of Mitch making coffee in the Keurig, which made Jerry imagine a robot being squeezed of its fluids. And then his mind slipped back to London Below.  

“Well, hey, have a good weekend if I don’t talk to you.” And then Mitch was blessedly gone.  

Jerry sighed, looked at his watch. Not enough time to get back into the story before the end of lunch hour, so he thumbed on his phone, doom scrolled a bit of Facebook, tried to ignore the ads for underwear and colon cleansers.  

And then one caught his eye. An ad, not a colon cleanser. It was a hand-drawn picture of a book, the effect made to emulate an early 20th century newspaper ad, black lines, serifed words and brown-tinted newsprint. 

Book Your Escape

Tired of your boring life? Ever wanted to be in a story? 
Now you can. You imagine it, the Book makes it happen. 
$69.99. Click to order. Fast delivery. 

Jerry clicked. His phone auto-filled the blanks fast enough he barely registered going through the order process. He sighed when he finished, checked his watch. Back to work. 

*** 

He ordered pizza that night for dinner. Delivered no-contact to his apartment door. As usual, Jerry stretched out on his faux leather couch, the arm of the reading lamp holding its yellow light above the pages. The pizza sat within easy reach on the glass coffee table, a stainless-steel tumbler on the floor full of Dr. Pepper and ice. He followed the exploits of Richard and Door as they maneuvered through the plot-driven challenges thrown at them by Neil, careful not to get pizza grease on any of the pages. He had a moment of sadness at the end as Richard got what Jerry had always craved. He closed the book, sat it on his chest. 

The front door rattled with a knock. Jerry flinched. The book flew from his body, bounced off the edge of the pizza box, and fell, knocking over the soda. He snatched it up, but brown liquid dripped from the pages.  

He swore. A lot. In his head. And some aloud. He dropped the book on the pizza box lid, retrieved paper and cleanser wipes from the kitchen and methodically mopped up the spill. 

Another knock at the door. 

Jerry froze like a prey animal. Had they heard him moving? Who could it be? Was it one of the neighbors? He waited for them to say something, counted to 100 in his head. Then he stood up slowly, joints popping, and creeped his way to the front door. He peered through the peephole. No one.  

He opened the door, glanced up and down the hall, and finally, to the ground where he noticed a small brown box. Jerry bent down, picked it up. The box bore his name and address in perfect black block letters written right on the surface. Other than that, the box was blank. 

He closed the door, walked back to the couch and sat down, turning the box over and over in his hands. He tried to cut through the tape sealing the ends with his thumbnail, which didn’t work. As usual. Another trip to the kitchen. A serrated steak knife. An open box. 

A book slid out into his hand, its soft black leather cover wrapped with a sheet of paper. Jerry unfolded the paper:  

Instructions:  
Place the Book under your pillow. Sleep well.  
Tomorrow your adventure begins!

Jerry checked his watch. Sighed. Decided it was as good a time as any to go to sleep. He headed for his bedroom, tossed the book onto the unmade bed then conducted his pre-sleep bathroom ritual as he had every other night for however long.  

He hopped under the sheets, pulled up the covers, and snatched up the book. He opened it, flipped through the blank pages.  

“Ridiculous.” 

Still, Jerry stuck the book beneath his pillow, pulled the metal chain on his bedside lamp, and went to sleep.  

*** 

Jerry awoke to the keening, deafening screech of a storm klaxon. He thrashed the covers off himself, flipped to his belly, and dove to the floor. He blinked in the wan light, eyes adjusting. Was it a tornado? Had there been extreme weather in the forecast? He army crawled to the window, pulled himself to his knees and peered out. 

A tall man in a dark, billowing cloak stood in the middle of the parking lot. He clutched a staff in both hands, its end planted into the shiny black surface of the parking lot as though to keep the man in place. Wind howled. Water pelted the window. Lightning flashed, and Jerry watched as the bolt crashed into a shimmering globe around the tall man.  

The man raised a fist at the sky and yelled. The fist glowed from within, and Jerry swore he could see the man’s bones silhouetted in the blinding white. The man drew back his arm, then hurled it forward as if pitching a baseball. A ball of white flame blasted into the night.  Jerry heard a crash from the end of the block. The walls rattled around him. He may have screamed.  

The man’s head whipped in Jerry’s direction. Their eyes met. The man reached toward Jerry with the same hand he had just used to throw fire. He made a grasping motion, and Jerry felt pressure around his body, and then he was pulled through the wall, glass and siding shattering all around him. He flew through the air, landed in a heap on the grass next to the sidewalk. His ribs hurt. He couldn’t feel his left hand. Something gummed up his left eye, and he thought it was probably blood.  

A roar from the storm answered the man’s challenge. 

A boot appeared in front of his face. “Are you all right?” 

Jerry groaned. 

The man reached down, grabbed Jerry through the armpits, and stood him on his feet.  

“You cannot remain here.” 

Jerry nodded at the understatement, even as the rest of his brain tried to make sense of what was happening. He tried a shortcut. “What is happening?” 

The man opened his mouth to respond, and then the lightning struck. Jerry screamed, tried to blink away the blindness. When he could see, all that remained of the man was a charred stick and pile of black debris.  

Jerry did the only sensible thing. He ran. When he stopped running and regained some bit of sense, he was beneath an overpass. The wind roared around him. The rain pummeled the road, steady enough to sound like white noise. His wet clothes clung to his body and he wrapped his arms around his knees, knees to his chest, and whimpered until fatigue claimed him. 

*** 

Jerry woke to the bleating of his alarm, which he didn’t set on weekends. He opened his eyes, saw the white popcorned ceiling of his bedroom. He looked at his watch, which said, 7:01 a.m., Oct. 31, 2022.  

“What the …” 

He sat up, reached under the pillow and pulled out the book. He flipped it open, and read from the first page. 

Jerry considered himself more of a dessert reader.

“No serious literature. No nonfiction. Whatever fantastic escapist thing he could get his hands on, he devoured. Shelves of paperbacks and hardbacks wrapped the living room of his one-bedroom apartment. Books sat on end tables. Books propped up his computer monitors. Books took up any space not already occupied by something else.

He even kept one or two in his green nylon backpack, just in case he had time to read during the day. Sure, he could’ve bought one of those e-readers and saved money and space, but then he wouldn’t get to smell the books. To inhale the scent of paper and ink right into his bones.

It wasn’t just the smell, obviously.

He liked to get lost in the stories. Reading was an out-of-body experience, a religious experience to him. Because Jerry’s truth, the one deep down in his chest, locked away in a box behind his heart, was that he didn’t want to be here.

Not dead, mind you. But here. On earth. Now. 

Because it was so boring. And horrifying. In the real world, he had to talk to people. To interact. 

“What’re you reading, Jerry?”

Jerry stopped reading. He dressed in jeans, a Tool concert shirt, and his black Chucks. He packed his green backpack with a change of clothes, a couple of books, his meds, and a handful of Clif bars. He pulled on his hooded black leather jacket, grabbed his keys, his wallet, the Book, a box of wooden matches and the small bottle of lighter fluid he kept for using the community grill. 

He left his apartment without locking the door. He ran down the stairs two, three at a time, and out to the sidewalk. He tossed the Book on the ground, sprayed it with the lighter fluid, and lit a match, which he watched melodramatically flare to life. 

He dropped it toward the Book.  

It blew out. 

He rolled his eyes at himself, squatted next to the Book, and lit another match. He held the flame to the exposed pages until it caught alight. He nodded, then walked to his car. He tossed his backpack into the passenger seat, started the car and turned on the radio. 

A radio voice said, “It looks like it’s going to be an unseasonably warm Halloween. Kiddos might not even need their jackets. And Jerry. Do us a favor. Don’t try to burn the Book again. We just want you to have the best story possible. After all, you didn’t want to be there, did you?” 

Jerry looked down, and in the passenger seat, next to his bag, sat the Book.