SAD ROBOT: an autobiography of my unfortunate existence

16. THE BOOK AISLE

16. THE BOOK AISLE 

Milo is in the book aisle once again, when a particular book calls to him, begging to be picked up, its cover admired, its pages flipped through and smelled, perhaps even to be read—just an excerpt page or two.

He does this a lot. Picks up a seemingly random book and gives it its moment of attention it so rightfully deserves but never receives. One day, he may even purchase that particular book, free it from its slavery of this department store shelf, and take it home to read in giddy delight. Unfortunately, there are so many books here that it would take him a whole lifetime to read each and every one, and a terribly low percentage of these books will sadly go un-purchased and returned to wherever it is that books go to die.

Taking that dayʼs book which had called to him from that forlorn shelf, Milo opens it to read its first sentence, its first paragraph, its first page—maybe a little more, if nobody is looking. 

He looks around him. Nobody is in immediate sight. He reads on.

Milo has done this many times before. It is risky business. Maybe itʼs the thrill of doing something that is frowned upon. Just look at me; reading while on the job! My rebelliousness knows no bounds.

Heʼs been caught once before and highly wishes to avoid being caught again. But he canʼt stop himself! Those books are like an addiction, a craving one just canʼt quit. Theyʼre the crystal meth to a permanent high.

On the single occasion when Milo had been busted, he was wishing someone would have been kind enough to have informed him that the manager was out for blood that day. A heads-up wouldʼve been nice compared to being completely caught off-guard, caught in the cross-hairs of his deadly rifle-scope eyesight. Even just a few seconds to duck and cover, hide behind a pillar—anything—would probably have changed the outcome of those events.

When he was halfway down the second page, completely lost in an authorʼs gripping opening chapter, Milo had the book snatched out from right under his nose, leaving his hand dumbly open, holding an invisible book.

His manager, the decrepit old thing, was staring across, seemingly trying to choke him with the power of The Force. Not being a Sith Lord, much to his chagrin probably, he had to resort to death stares and the power of belittlement.

"Reading?" he said, as if it were the most horrible offense one could ever imagine, "On the job?"

He does not wish to relive the rest of this incident and would rather wish upon himself Sudden Unexplained Amnesia than have to replay the frightening events that followed. Long story short, the manager was mad and Milo was in trouble. He did not pass GO and he did not collect two hundred dollars.

Back in the present-tense, Milo continues to read this particular book that has piqued his interest, while continuously looking up and over his shoulder like a paranoid schizophrenic. When a customer turns around the corner in front of him, he embarrassingly jumps with surprise and hastily attempts to recover and nonchalantly return the book to the shelf, as if he were only tidying up the display.

The customer notices him but hopefully had missed the display of paranoia, though surely anyone who wasnʼt an employee would not happen to think that picking up a book was such a massive no-no, probably not perceiving that anything at all was even amiss.

"Excuse me," they say. An older woman, who could be anywhere from her late forties to late sixties—heʼs very awful with guessing peopleʼs ages—approaches and, by method of deduction, Milo assumes she probably wants to ask him something.

"What are a few of the best books you have here?" she asks.

Is he hallucinating? Somebody who is interested in books and wants to read them? He never thought heʼd see the day. Oh glory!

"Sure," Milo says, containing his glee, "I can recommend a few of my favorites." 

"Oh great, because thatʼs what really smart people do, right? They read books?" 

"Well, sure, of course. Reading is a sure sign of a broad intelligence, I suppose." 

"Oh good."

He picks out four of his favorites from the lonely selection on the shelf and hand them to her.

"Itʼs good to see there are still people who read out there," he says with a friendly smile, having a small percentage of his faith in humanity restored.

"Oh no, I donʼt actually read them. Nobody reads books anymore! Theyʼre just to make me look smart."

Then she walks away, leaving him completely and utterly dumbfounded.