=altered book cover=

I wake up from a dream I can't remember. I retain only a single clue about the subject of this dream. It's this thought, which keeps repeating itself as I lie quietly, staring at the ceiling: I need to read Oblomov.

Later, at breakfast, my husband sips his coffee and says, apropos of nothing that came beforehand, "Maybe we'll take a drive to the German deli today. I'll pick up some more bacon. Then I'll take you over to Topos. Would you like that?"

"Yes. I always like going there."

Topos is a used bookstore/cafe located on the corner of Woodward and Putnam in a residential section of Ridgewood, Queens. I know, from past visits that they have a well-preserved used copy of the Yale University edition of Oblomov on sale for seven dollars. I can see its exact place on the wall of shelves as clearly as I can see the coffee pot sitting before me at the center of the table.

(view from the windshield heading towards Topos Bookstore)

The section of Ridgewood where both the German deli and Topos Bookstore/Cafe are located is always a busy area. Today, it seems even more busy than usual. We've already gotten the bacon and now we're on Woodward Avenue. We're circling and circling the block looking for a place to park. "It's okay," I say, "we can come back a different time." My husband is annoyed but determined. On our third pass around the block, he swoops into a tight, illegal spot right beside a fire hydrant. "You go in. I'll wait here. I don't need any more books right now anyway. I've got plenty to read. But you take your time. No rush." "I won't be long," I say. 

I stop briefly inside the door of the bookstore; it's where they keep the poetry. I scan the titles but really I'm just getting my bearings. Then, as if I'd just risen from bed, as if my bed were in this very bookshop and I was stumbling out of it under direction of the first thought of the day, I head straight to the place on the shelf in the fiction section where I know I'll find it: Oblomov. 

I don't question, as I've done on past visits, whether I should buy the book or not. I bring it to the counter where a woman prepares the sale. At the same time, a tall man steps up with his own purchase. He points to the copy of Oblomov on the counter and says to the bookseller, including me in his enthusiasm, "Hey, that's the copy I sold you guys a few months ago." There is a moment of silence during which we all marvel at this coincidence. No one seems to know what else to say. I think of two things I might say: 

1. (jokingly) Now I'll know who to blame for any stains I find inside.

2. (only half-jokingly) Hey you should sign your name inside.

Fortunately, I don't say either of these things. I don't say anything at all. I just continue to stand there, smiling, as we all do, until the woman behind the counter asks me if I need a bag. "No thank you," I say. In fact, its one of those rare instances where everyone has the good judgment not to say anything further. A perfect moment of synchronicity is thereby preserved, instead of it being turned into just another stupid and awkward social moment. 


Excerpt from Oblomov:

(1 pound of Blackforest bacon purchased the same day.)