Cupid is buried in an unmarked grave in a field beyond Baldwinstown. He was executed by Martin Luther for opposing the Reformation after a vicious knife fight on a burning boat entering Kilmore Quay.
“Where did ya hear this Abe?” I ask him.
He belches loudly, nearly falling off my wall and knocking over his cheap can of larger, and then gives me a look as if to insinuate that I’m the cause of his stomach problems. “It’s common knowledge. All these books you have and still you never knew Cupid was buried a few miles from here!”
A lad comes into the shop looking for a book to give his wife for Valentine's Day. A ‘novel’ gift as he keeps telling me, laughing insanely each time.
“What does she like?”
“Well she loves holidays and she’s fond of cheese.”
“Right. I mean, what sort of books does she like?”
“I haven’t a clue,” he says merrily. “Sure I don’t have time to be reading her books. I’m a busy man. Is that not your job to know what she reads?”
“Well I don’t know your wife in fairness. I have no idea what she reads. Has she ever been in here before?”
He snorts, shaking his head madly. “In here? She wouldn’t be caught dead in this place! She gets all her books new in town. I only came here cause I heard you’re cheaper.”
“Maybe she likes thrillers?”
“I don’t know. She’d like something romantic. Like meself.”
“We could try Nicholas Sparks or maybe Jojo Moynes?”
“Something with a pink cover,” he blurts out. “Women love pink sure.”
I sell him a biography of Herman Goring, with a faded red, almost pink cover. Very romantic.
Stout Trout is broke. He’s spent every penny he has sending Valentine’s Cards to every woman he knows, or knows of. Eighty four Valentine’s Cards sent out in the hope of netting at least one potential partner. Carpet bombing love.
All containing snazzy odes penned when he was high on espresso and pain killers.
Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue,
I have arthritis
but I can still pleasure you!
“Very touching Trout. How is your arthritis by the way?”
“Arthritis is an aphrodisiac Bookman. Women love the early onset of joint stiffness.”
“Mmm, I think you might be mistaking your joints there.”
“If this doesn’t work, I’m leaving the country,” he tells me. “Do you know how much An Post is charging for stamps these days? It’s a disgrace in the current economic climate and half the country on the dole. No wonder the nurses are on strike.”
“It was your decision to send eighty four cards out Trout.”
“Oh that’s right, take their side. That’s why the hospitals are banjaxed and the nurses are on the verge of armed rebellion. They’re able to keep us all divided.”
“What does your Valentines Day cards have to do with the nurses striking anyway?” I ask.
“Everything! Come here, could you lend me a tenner please? I have a few cards left to send still.”
“Trout, why don’t you just go out to one of these singles night’s and try to meet someone real?”
“Have you seen the women at those things?” he cries. “They’re all slobs. Single grannies with pot bellies and missing teeth and walking frames. Jaysus it’s like going into a red cross tent in a third world country when you walk into those nights. And none of them would bid you the time of day. Ignorant women biased against me because of my good background.”
An elderly lady enters the store towards closing time. “I’m looking for a book,” she says.
“Great, we have a few,” I grin.
She doesn’t even smile. “Do you have the one I want?”
“I’m not sure. What book are you looking for?”
“I actually can’t remember the name,” she says, ever so careful to draw her words out, as if that level of sophistication would make up for not knowing the name of the book she’s looking for.
“Ok, who’s the author?”
“The author?”
“The person who wrote the book.”
“I know what an author is,” she snaps. “I’m not an imbecile.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean….”
“I just can’t remember who wrote this particular book,” she continues. “So you can’t remember who wrote the book or the title?”
“Exactly!”
“So what do you want me to do?” I ask.
“Well, do you have it in stock?”
“What?”
“The book I’m looking for!” she spits.
“But I don’t know what the book is that you are looking for. You don’t know what the book is that you are looking for.”
“Good God, I never had this trouble in Easons.”
“Do you know what the book was about?” I say, growing desperate.
“Of course I don’t. If I knew what it was about, why would I be wanting to read it? You’re bloody dreadful.” She heads out, screaming back that she'll be giving me a zero star rate on Facebook.
Locking up, I spot Honest Abe still sitting on the wall, still drinking cans of cheap beer.
“Did ya get any Valentine’s Cards Abe?”
“Of course I did,” he slurs. “They have to take on extra postmen every year on the fourteenth just to deliver all the cards from my admirers.”
“That’s great. At least you’re humble and wouldn’t go around mouthing about it while you’re on the piss all day on someone else’s wall.”
“The only card you’ll get is from the ESB,” he sniggers, staggering around on the wall but somehow defying gravity to keep his perch. “Looking for money off ya.”
“Good night Abe.”
“Hold on! Did I ever tell you about Cupid being buried in an unmarked grave in Baldwinstown?”
“Good night Abe!”
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