backforthmenu Book Worm. At the info counter in the local jumbo corporate book store, there are two employees, both on phones. “B’s Books and Music. Can I be of assistance? Oh, hi Phil... it’s Sandy.” A girl. She’s new. Young and green, friendly. A 20-something night student at the local community college—creative writer (I’m guessing, of course) in little round glasses and frizzy smog-colored hair barely contained by a purple scrunchy thing. “Let’s see...” she flips through a clipboard. “Julianna will be in on Friday morning, you can call her then. Uh-huh, you’re welcome, Phil. Bye!” On the second information phone is the senior employee, Sandy’s superior. A man. Older. A veteran of the Sacred Order of Book Information, in all black—faded cotton long-sleeve shirt tucked into tight jeans which force years worth of meatball sandwiches and inactivity to bulge over his wide leather belt. He is eaves dropping on Sandy as he too answers a phone customer’s question; “Don Delilo’s most recent? You’re looking for ‘Underworld’, sir... yes... yes... Oh, then you’ve read ‘Americana’? No? A tremendous first novel. Well, ‘Underworld’ is a far more substantial work, but...” Working around, selling, reading reviews of and flipping through books, has caused entire texts to somehow seep in through this man’s fingertips and automatically recreate themselves in his head, giving him the courage to claim having actually read them. “You’d like to order ‘Americana’? Good choice. Let’s see...” he tickles the computer. “The paperback edition is actually in-store now. Yes. You are welcome, sir.” He hangs up the phone very lightly without taking his eyes off Sandy, the girl, who is still looking over the schedule clipboard. “Ahem... Sandy?” Before she looks over, he averts his gaze to the small computer monitor before him. “Yeah?” “For future reference,” he pauses for effect and types something. “Don’t give out the employee schedules.” He hits return to punctuate his statement. The girl gets visibly nervous. “Oh... ah... I...” She is new. The pudgy veteran now turns his head up to catch her widening eyes, and he adds with a whisper, “We’ve had stalkers.” She has no idea how to respond. An “oh my,” escapes her lips. She thinks a second or so more, then gazes away, the implications of what she’s done clicking away in her smog covered head. “Oh... oh my God. I’m so sorry... I didn’t...” “It’s okay.” A superior grin. “Future reference.” 10/3/98