Heavy little bastards
A love letter to books.
It was a dark and stormy night. No, really, it was. It was August 1, 2019, around 9pm. Erin and I had already been slowly acclimating to the humidity in our cross-country road trip, and tonight was the pinnacle of that miserable feeling. New York is muggy in summer, and the rain does not help. While we had arrived around one in the afternoon with a minivan full of our lives and two very upset cats, we were wrapping up our mission of getting everything out of the van and up four flights of stairs (the cats were the first ones to go up).
The van was a rental and was due at JFK at 11pm, with that commute being an hour long, so it was time to hustle. We had a majority of things done, save for some smaller items, clothes hurriedly stuffed in trash bags to fill in gaps in our packing, and my prized possessions neatly tetris’d in two plastic crates: books.
In Reno, my partner and I had already talked about the books. There was no way I would be able to bring my entire collection of novels and diatribes of long-dead philosophical dudes with us, and it was time to pick and choose what would be saved, donated, or sent to my mother for safe keeping. Once the piles were selected, one box was shipped to my mother, one was donated to our local bookstore (they offered me $20 in store credit and I was very tempted to take the offer, but opted for cash instead), and the two aforementioned plastic crates that would be making the 2,400 mile journey.
Already exhausted from unpacking, my plan was for Erin and I to tackle the books together. As anyone who has made a similar move knows, books are heavy little bastards. A crate full of them can be a struggle without wheels to help roll smoothly, and even more so when you’re hiking up very narrow stairs four times. But Erin is famous for her impatience with me and we had to hit the road to JFK soon, so she took it on herself to do it solo. It’s important to state at this point how impressed I was. Through under-the-breath curses and several pauses, she hauled both crates up and left me behind in the dust.
Hours later, we were finally in bed. We had dropped off the van, took the 40 minute train ride home, fed the cats, and built the IKEA bed frame that was begging for us. At this point, I was determined to sleep in my own bed. We had already come this far, so why would I settle to sleep on the floor? I swear to God, when Erin and I finally laid down that night, it was the greatest feeling I have ever felt in my life. Before we finally fell asleep, Erin turned to me and whispered to me the most sweet and sincere threat I’d ever heard, “If you ever make me move books again, I’m burning them. We’re never moving books again. Get a Kindle.”
Actually, I’ve had a Kindle before. I was always fascinated by them as a kid and received a first gen Fire when it came out. It was amazing at the time (and they’re still a brilliant line of tablets). It reminded me of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, described as a digital book that contained the entirety of galactic knowledge, more affordable and portable than the Encyclopedia Galactica and inscribed with large, friendly letters that read “DON’T PANIC”. It was that device, and I loved it. But despite having it and filling it with e-books, I still kept physical books on my bookshelf or bag. Including two copies of The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
See, I’ve tried time and time again to consolidate my personal library into a digital device. Even now, long after my Kindle Fire days, I use my iPad nearly every day as a digital magazine and bookshelf. But I keep finding myself lugging along a physical book. It’s the one thing on this planet that I’m very anti-tech about. There’s something unique and special about having a physical copy of words, bound by aromatic ketones and string. They can’t be changed. They can be held. You don’t have to be gentle and hold them by their edges. You can drop a book and not worry about having a warranty that’s about to expire. You can take it on the subway without looking like a dork (that’s coming from a dork, mind you).
Erin and I have already decided we’re not moving until we can afford movers. So we’re staying put for a while. But even when that day comes, I don’t think I can get rid of my books. I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s a ball and chain that I don’t mind dragging around with me wherever I end up next. I’m not interested in the value they might one day generate, nor am I going to pretentiously keep them as an ironic shock-and-awe showpiece. I love those heavy little bastards.
Joe Staples is a copywriter, content creator and bookworm based in Brooklyn, NY. When he’s not writing or reading, he’s either deep into The Outer Worlds or watching Cake Wars. You can follow his nonsense on Twitter or you can email him. @joeisastaple | joeisastaple@gmail.com
