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Fiction, non-fiction, psychology, historical, the kid’s section – small-statured though he may be, none of these were the right category. Feitan’s dark eyes scanned the signs carefully as he walked.
He’d been to this bookstore once or twice before, but it was a pretty good distance from his apartment, and he didn’t get to this side of town often. Today was an exception because he was looking for something specific. None of the other shops carried this particular book, and he’d traveled far beyond the call of duty for something he could probably pirate online, but what could he say – he liked reading physical novels.
The other two books in his hands were just supplements to a growing collection in his living room. The Symbolism of Spinach in Kitchen-Witchcraft, with its detailed and slightly bizarre cover, would make a perfect conversation piece on the coffee table, and Contemporary Discourse on Blood-Oaths was for some light reading before bed. Coupled with his entirely black outfit of the day (not at all unusual, for him), he was probably giving off some deadly aura, and people ducked behind bookshelves to avoid him.
He supposed it was better than the time a sales associate had approached him with a box of puzzles, asking if he wanted to wait with her until his mother came back. Feitan did happen to like jigsaws; just not 100-piece pictures of cartoon horses.
Self-improvement, technology, finances, journaling, and finally – finally – cooking. He stopped to admire the colorful displays with cakes and comfort foods and international meals. It was in one of the biggest aisles in the store, so he wasn’t sure how he’d missed it the first time, but that hardly mattered now. Setting his two books down on a shelf, he started browsing, looking for the familiar cover and title amongst the hundreds of other candidates.
The books weren’t alphabetized by any stretch of the imagination. Not by title, not by author, and not using any type of subject-central cataloguing system. It was pretty much a free-for-all. How annoying. Were he the type to complain, he’d write a letter to the management about just how annoying it was, but that would take time and involve interacting with someone on a level he didn’t care to pursue. He had blood-oaths to study.
After a few minutes of perusing, he saw it: A Cookie Dough Cookbook – and Other Sweet Treats. Not only was he a fan of cookies ‘n cream in pretty much anything, the book had sections on traditional Chinese 餅 (flaky pastry) desserts. He found himself homesick for some of the harder-to-find dessert items from home, and had decided he could try his hand at baking to make them himself.
Unfortunately, for the immediate future, he would not be able to read about moon cakes or sun cakes; the book was on the top shelf, far out of his reach. He stood on the tips of his toes just to check. There was at least a eight inch distance between his fingertips and the spine. Jumping reduced the distance to five inches.
Feitan glared up at it.
He did some math in his head. If he weighed only 99 pounds, and a standard bookshelf could hold maybe a thousand pounds altogether, and he divided that by the number of shelves and the books on the bookshelf took up maybe five hundred pounds…
It should hold him?
Feitan reached an arm up to grab the tallest shelf he could reach, bracing his foot on another shelf, and starting to hoist himself up. The bookshelf didn’t tip over, so if he could find another foothold, then –
“Are you sure you want to be doing that?” The voice was loud and none-too-humble. A tall man in a tracksuit had his arms crossed and his substantial brow was furrowed as he watched the (admittedly pathetic) display. Feitan’s face didn’t change, except perhaps for a slight narrowing of the eyes. “Get down, it’s not safe.”
“Fuck off.” Feitan returned his attention to climbing, taking another step higher as he reached for the book, stretching his back as far as it would allow. The bookshelf wobbled.
“Okay, if you want to die here, today, go ahead. But that’s pretty stupid.” The man uncrossed his arms and started off in another direction. Feitan grappled with his options, raising a foot to take the last step, and promptly jumping to the ground when the bookshelf teetered dangerously.
“Fine.” He said sourly, thin eyebrows knit together.
“Fine, what?” The man said, at the end of the aisle. He heaved a sigh when Feitan only stared in response. “Which book? I can get it for you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“You don’t even work here.”
“Do I need to work here to be able to grab a book?”
They glowered at each other for a moment. Finally, annoyed with how much time out of a Friday he’d taken trying to find one book, Feitan pointed. “That one.”
“Finally.” The man grumbled. He retrieved the book, glancing at the cover for a moment. “Cookie dough? A cookbook about cookie dough?”
Feitan tried to grab it from him, but he held the book over his head – a considerably taller height than the bookshelf – and grinned.
“You’ve got to be kidding! Some small-fry dressed like he’s going to a funeral in an art museum’s gonna buy a cookbook for pastries? What a nerd!” His laugh was booming.
Feitan didn’t waste a second, using all of his body’s strength to shove the man into a tall book display. Non-fiction bestsellers rained down on the man and his tracksuit. The noise was incredible; who knew an avalanche of books could be loud enough to summon all the store clerks in the building?
Well, he supposed that seemed like a basic principle of bookstore operation, after giving it some thought.
An hour later, after an embarrassing lecture from a manager who was red in the face, they were booted out of the store with permanent bans on ever returning.
Feitan looked down at his hands. He hadn’t even gotten his new coffee table book. Now he’d have to have Foucalt’s Discipline and Punish sitting there for another month, until he found time to visit another book store. What a drag.
“You could’ve mentioned it was for home cooking.” The man, Phinks, he’d learned after their meeting with the manager, said gruffly as he looked out on the parking lot.
“Fuck off.”