Hole In The Wall

There is a book store on Sunset Blvd. It's squeezed between a closed down laundromat and a Check-into-Cash.

The guy behind the register wore thick black glasses and his gaze bore a hole in the wall. He couldn't care less who came in.

Instead, I was greeted by aged paper musk. This was no Barnes & Noble. Bookshelves as high as the ceiling were bursting with Bukowski to Vonnegut. Books were stacked on top of each other. Some were read and some were crisp. Alphabetical order? What order? 

Literary gems were found by scanning and picking a title that stuck out. 

     These Days Are Ours - Michelle Haimoff

I flipped to a random page and took a glimpse into another world. Something about 9/11, ghosts, and space. I put it back and scanned on. Each step squished a squeak out of the wooden floorboards. 

     JD Salinger. Squeak.
     Stephen King. Squeak.
     Oscar Wilde. Squeak.

The back of the store held a small cafe with a few tables. A man in purple slacks and Doc Martins was writing out his genius.

"What can I get you?"

The girl in front of the espresso machine smiled. Her blue eyes beamed behind leopard print glasses and a Pabst Blue Ribbon bandana kept her scattered blond hair out of her face. She had on a bright yellow shirt from the World Cup couple weeks ago. It matched the high-waisted jean shorts.

"I'll have a small coffee. Thanks."

It tasted like library books but I kept on sipping. 

Works from local artists formed a mosaic on the red brick wall. 

Kaleidoscope acid trips
People watching
LA sketches

The man writing in the corner looked up for a second, tapped his pen on his lips twice then went back to scribbling. 

This was a place where legends were born.

This was a place where they came to die. 

A hole in the wall littered with letters.

SS