The Flamethrowers

A month or two ago, I spent an afternoon drifting from small bookstore to bookstore looking to do something about the gender disparity among modern authors in my collection. A few books came highly recommended, including How Should a Person Be? by Sheila Heti, which no one had in stock. I settled on professional Miranda July-impersonator, Miranda July's short story collection, No One Belongs Here More Than You. The book, it turns out, has a sort of charm or curse on it and has gotten me into a number of weird situations that just don't seem to happen when it's not around.

But before I walked out of Myopic with July's book, I played with a heavier tome called The Flamethrowers by Rachel Kushner. I wanted this one pretty bad. It wore an edibly attractive red and cream jacket bearing a close up of a woman's face, war-paint streaks under her eyes and two strips of tape crossing out her mouth. I wanted it bad, but fiscal concerns won out in the end: the price of July's gently used paperback—$7; the price of Kushner's new hardcover—a staggering $26.99.

That was that, at least until yesterday. Now, like everyone, I always go into a Goodwill looking for a deal. I expect to find something. I just wasn't expecting this.

This is an untouched hardcover of The Flamethrowers by Rachel Kushner purchased—rescued—from the bookshelves of the West town Goodwill. It's price: $1.75. All hardcovers were priced $1.75, all of those copies of the lesser works of John Grisham, Margaret Atwood, Dan Brown, Tom Clancy, except those marked with a special tag. This was not marked with a special tag. This was simply one of "All Hardcovers." This book, which would cost you 30 bucks across the street, was not special: not to a Goodwill serving an upscale neighborhood; not to its first owner.

With sorrow, I can only imagine that The Flamethrowers had been received as an unwanted gift from one thoughtful friend to another thoughtless one, who doubtlessly doesn't really read. It was not returned. It was not re-gifted. It was not even taken alone to a bookstore, where the thoughtless friend would have received some compensation while removing the damned nuisance from his life. It was simply given away, probably in a black Hefty bag with the rest of his unwanted junk. 

My goals for the week:

I will not take nice things for granted.
I will not be late for work.
I will send emails and texts and place phone calls just remind the people that love me that I love them back.
I will wash dishes no later than one hour after I have finished using them.
I will wash some of my dirty clothes at some point.
I will finish writing this chapter that has been killing me.
I will cut my girlfriend a lot of slack: the pressures she's under are not only legitimate, but familiar.
And instead of spending my free time on facebook, I will read the ever-loving shit out of The Flamethrowers by Rachel Kushner.




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