The Schenectady County New York Public Library Sale. Part Two

"Rudeness is the weak man's imitation of strength." Eric Hoffer.

Sometimes I swear I'll never go to another book sale again, especially the Schenectady County Public Library sale here in New York State. At one sale, I was tenth in a line of around thirty people waiting for the sale to begin when I noticed a man sidle up to the front of the line with a whack of plastic bags hanging out of his back pocket. He didn't really cut in front of anyone. He just stood off to the side, nonchalantly, hoping no one would notice. I noticed.

When the doors opened, he rushed inside. Other people behind me rushed also, knocking down the yellow police barriers that had been erected to hold them back. One woman fell face first on the floor in her rush to get inside. I began to feel like I was in a starving, third-world country that had just received a shipment of food.

By the time I went through the doors, I was number 25th or 30th, not tenth. I headed straight for the sci-fi books. I spotted Arthur C. Clarke's Space Odyssey trilogy, picked up one volume, then closed my hand around volume two, only to have it ripped right out of my hand.

I looked up to see the man who had sidled up to the front of the line earlier. I wanted to punch him, but when the day comes that I have to fight another dealer or collector for a book, then that's the day I get out of the business. Besides, even if I had taken time to yell at him, I would have lost out on more books.

Last Saturday, I arrived more than a half hour early at the annual Fall sale held by the same library and was again about tenth in line. A man who entered the line behind me recognized a woman in front of me. They began talking to one another. He then told me had to leave for a minute, indicating that he wanted me to hold his place. "Okay," I said.

When he came back, however, instead of entering the line behind me, he got in front of me and continued talking to his friend, oblivious to having cut in front of me. Again just before the sale began, two or three latecomers sidled up near the front of the line so they could rush the door.

My wife and son were on the other side of the building, near the children's books, and afterward told me that conditions weren't much better there. The children's books are always outdoors and are laid out in such a way that you can get an idea of what is there before the sale begins, although you are prevented from getting to the books by barriers.

On the other side of the barriers, there were three boxes of Nancy Drew books. A woman spied them and sweet-talked a library volunteer into stacking them so when the sale began she could scoop them all up at once. What she didn't know was that other people wanted those books as well. When one of the volunteers announced that the sale was open, another lady dove under the barricade and grabbed all three boxes. The woman who had asked the volunteer to stack the boxes darkened the already gray sky with clouds of vulgarity and profanity. Apparently, she had instructed her son to go under the barricade and claim the boxes, because she began to berate him in front of everyone, for not having done it.

John Milton once wrote that to be a poet you must first become a poem. The same is true of bibliophiles. If you want to be a true book lover, then you must first become a book. You must have the integrity of a well-researched history, the wisdom of a classic, and the beauty and grace of the most exquisitely bound book--like one couple I saw while waiting for my wife, near the children's books at last Saturday's sale.

Like Milton, she was blind. He held her hand, leading her gently between the tables. As they went along, he read every title to her so she could decide whether or not she wanted it. They were both patient, undisturbed by the swirling mass of people around them. Observing the gentleness and patience of these two book lovers helped me to forget the rudeness I had encountered earlier and left me with an image I will never forget.