At first, he thought it was a large piece of furniture, but on closer inspection it was, in fact, the collected works of Isaac Asimov. He stood dead still in a spreading pool of his own making and pondered the significance of an entire bookshelf dedicated to a single writer. These books, he noticed, were larger and weightier than the books of any other single writer in the bookshop.
Behind him from the near the cashier, he heard hushed whispers, and although he didn’t turn to look, he knew he was again the object of undue attention. He tried to look casual. He ran his fingers through limp hair, which prompted a startled yelp from the woman to whom it belonged.
An explanation was in order. “Asimov,” he said, but as usual, his words didn’t quite encompass the complexity of the situation. The woman, now clutching books close to her chest, retreated to the cashier and joined the small cluster of customers who furiously ignored his presence.
He returned his gaze to the bookshelf. Hello, Isaac.
Had he said that aloud? Maybe he did, but he couldn’t tell.
Asimov was there. All of him, in twenty thick-bound, faux-leather volumes. If this was Asimov, he considered, where was Atwood? Shouldn’t she and he sit side-by-side?
As he thought, a tune crept into his consciousness and eventually began to escape his lips. Bolero, maybe, but the words seemed to be about shrimp cocktail, which didn’t seem right.
No, he decided finally. No, Atwood would not sit with Asimov. Atwood belonged with the high-brow clique of the Literature shelves. Asimov belonged with the space ships and unicorns, which seemed to him a terrible place for the man to end up, after a long and industrious career. Here was a great science and science-fiction writer, banished to the company of unicorns, goblins, and three-headed space aliens.
Perhaps he’d grow large sideburns. Yes. Yes, sideburns would be the correct thing to do.
With these thoughts settled, he turned away from the Asimovian edifice and made a trail of wet footprints to the door. As the shop’s door closed behind him, he noticed the bell.
All clear, he thought. All clear. And he turned right at a perfect ninety-degree angle and started uphill to the the library.