To Read or Not to Read

as Günter von Strauss stood at the end of a hallway on the other side of the store. Three doors lined the wall, and he stood in front of the farthest. He knocked softly, and then jiggled the handle. Another few seconds and he gently opened the door to a room.

  At this angle, Shelby could not see what was inside. Strauss entered the room for a moment, and she could hear soft words, although not what was said. Eventually, Strauss came back down the hallway, and Shelby’s eyes flashed back to the book in her hand.

  “I’m terribly sorry about the interruption,” he commented as he approached.

  “It’s okay,” she responded, setting down the book. She followed the row with her eyes, spotting the paperbacks at the far end of the shelf. She neared, reaching down, grabbing another familiar author. She then took a final sip of her tea, and began walking toward Strauss. They met at the counter.

  She handed him the glass, saying, “Thank you. That was wonderful tea.”

  “Would you care for another cup?”

  “Oh, no thank you. I must be going soon.”

  He nodded, but said nothing.

  She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Strauss was a nice enough man, and most likely his store saw little business. Shelby felt sorry for the old man, and knew a few bucks spent on a book would make her feel good about herself.

  She twisted her wrist, looking down at it.

  “How much for this one?” she asked, flashing it his way.

  But Strauss did not look at her selection. Instead, he stared straight into her eyes, saying, “Oh, these books are not for sale.”

  “They aren’t?”

  He chuckled. “Oh, heavens no!”

  Shelby looked at him oddly. She figured this must be a joke. Any moment he would laugh at her. Any moment, they would have one last chuckle, she would spend eight dollars, and be on her way.

  Any time now.

  But it was no joke. It was not of Herr Strauss’ nature to tease anyone, especially a customer. He was a gentleman, and would never do such a thing.

  Tilting her head, a humorous look on her face, Shelby asked, “Then what is this place? A library of some sort?”

  “You’re allowed to take the books home at a library, but not here. I rent time for people to read, Frau McClain. Time for people who have no time to spare.” Strauss’ eyes twinkled.

  “I don’t follow. People . . . read here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s a wondrous concept.”

  The door chingled, and Herr Strauss excused himself once more, this time to greet a customer entering his store.

  It was good timing, because Shelby could not help herself, and giggled uncontrollably. She covered her mouth quickly; the thought of renting time was as odd as anything she had ever heard.

  A large woman came through the door. She was in her fifties, and walked in from the cold, stomping her feet at the doorway.

  “Hello, Frau Huddleston,” Strauss bowed flamboyantly.

  “Herr Strauss,” she said loudly. There was no bashfulness to this woman, Shelby could tell.

  “Would you care for some tea? I just made some,” he asked.

  “I would, thank you.”

  As he scurried back to the kitchen, the woman asked, “Do you have any new ones in yet?”

  “Far shelf. Top right,” he responded from the kitchen.

  Shelby had already decided to make her exit. She looked at the book in her hand, and thought of leaving it on the counter and making a quick getaway. But Mister Strauss—or Herr Strauss, as he had introduced himself—was much too nice for such an act of cowardice. He might have been slightly odd, but that did not warrant such an insult.

  She turned back to the shelf, meaning to return the book in her hand to its rightful place. She would thank him again for the tea and go back to the skating rink.

  Shelby looked at her watch. Twenty-nine minutes.

  The thought of the newest breed of pop music blaring on loudspeakers, and fifty kids skating in circles under annoying lights, did not sound at all appealing. Still, she felt awkward in this store, and was ready to leave.

  The woman, Marge Huddleston, neared a moment later, looking at the same shelf of new releases. Shelby gave her a brief nod, and then continued searching for the place she had gotten the book.

  “Watcha reading?” Mrs. Huddleston asked.

  “Huh? Oh, nothing really.”

  “Let me see,” said the woman. She was much larger than Shelby, who had worked hard at maintaining her figure. The woman didn’t allow her much choice, extending her hand out and turning the book in Shelby’s hand.

  “Michael Crichton?” asked the woman curiously.

  “Yeah,” said Shelby.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Oh, well he’s quite good. This is one of his best. It’s about cloning technology and . . .” Shelby trailed off. She could tell by the look on the woman’s face that she was uninterested, perhaps even confused. Shelby quickly said, “It’s just something I’ve read before. What are you buying?”

  “I ain’t buying nothing,” the woman said with a short grunt. “You don’t buy books here. You rent time to read them.”

  “Oh, yes. Mister Strauss—”

  “Herr Strauss,” Mrs. Huddleston corrected.

  Shelby rolled her eyes. “I mean, Herr Strauss. He said you don’t buy books here, but I don’t know what that means. What’s the point of a bookstore if you can’t buy any books?”

  “Ah, I see. You’ve never been here,” said the woman, finally turning her attention fully to Shelby. “Okay, let me explain. First, very few people know of this place. Those who do know, either come back often, or never come back at all. Either way, we don’t talk about it.”

  “Why not?” Shelby asked.

  “Because if we did, all the rooms would be taken. I hardly have any time to spare as it is, and I appreciate not having to wait in line.”

  Shelby was beyond confused. “What do you mean, wait in line?”

  “You see those rooms?” Mrs. Huddleston said, pointing. “There are only three reading rooms. This place won’t hold more.”

  “I see. How much do you pay to . . . read?”

  “Ten bucks. I usually stay for ten minutes. A bargain if you ask me.”

  “What?” Shelby said. “Are you serious?”

  “I am.”

  “So, you pay a dollar a minute—”

  “Yup. That’s exactly right.”

  “But I can buy this book at the store for seven,” said Shelby, perplexed. She laughed at the absurd nature of renting books—especially at such prices.

  “You won’t need more than five minutes your first time,” assured Mrs. Huddleston. “Five bucks should be enough. It took me months to get up to ten minutes. It’s a good thing, though. My old man hardly misses ten bucks from time to time. He’s at the lumber store right this moment. God knows what he’s building. I promised I’d drive him to town if he’d let me stop by here for twenty minutes. Ten to sip tea and talk with Herr Strauss. Ten to read.”

  Shelby shook her head. “You’d be lucky to read a chapter or two in ten minutes.”

  “Pardon me, am I interrupting?” questioned the accented voice from behind them. Both women turned, and Strauss was standing in the middle of the room.

  “Herr Strauss, you have confused this young lady,” said Mrs. Huddleston with a grin. “She doesn’t understand your store policy.”

  He turned to Shelby, an apologetic look on his face. “I am truly sorry, Frau McClain. At my age, I tend to forget things. It’s happening more often lately, I’m afraid. I thought I explained.”

  “It doesn’t matter, though. I really must get going,” Shelby insisted.

  “Give Herr Strauss a moment to explain. Trust me, this is the greatest bookstore ever! The books here are magical!” Mrs. Huddleston exclaimed.

  Shelby smiled, but it was weak. She was feeling pressured. But, she remained polite, as was her nature, and listened as Strauss spoke.

  “I sto
ck only the best novels. I hand select them myself. I personally read each and every one to make sure they are safe for my patrons.”

  “Safe?” asked Shelby.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t want any mishaps. I stock only books that are appropriate—ones that will not endanger those who read them. Some books have limited dangers, so I usually rip out the pages. I’d hate to take away from the beauty of a story because of one scene.”

  “You rip out the pages?” Shelby asked.

  “Let me give you an example,” replied Herr Strauss. He walked to a nearby shelf, took a moment, and then made a selection. He flipped the book open, showing it to her. “See. Moby Dick. A wonderful novel if you haven’t read it.”

  “Perhaps in high school. I don’t remember.”

  “Well, no matter. It’s an elegant story. One that will capture your imagination. There are only a few parts that are dangerous. I’d hate for one of my patrons to be eaten by a whale, or God forbid, fall overboard in a storm. So, I took the liberty of tearing out those sections. See?” he asked, showing her the missing pages.

  “I see,” she muttered. Shelby was most definitely uncomfortable, and she had no clue what Herr Strauss was talking about. The fact that he took the liberty to censor books did not sit well with her. But, before she could respond, the door to the room down the hallway opened. Herr Strauss turned as an elderly woman exited.

  “Ah, Frau Tinkleton. I presume your reading went well?” asked Strauss, approaching the woman.

  She was elderly, probably in her seventies, as well. She had silver hair and used too much hair spray. She was one of Strauss’ regulars, visiting three days a week. Her selection was usually poetry, or one of the classics.

  “It did,” she replied, her