THE FIFTEENTH PAGE

The coffin on 106th Street became more crowded as cartons of my paperback library were dispatched from the homeland by my parents. New books purchased at the Doubleday employee’s discount began to fill the tiny room. Older hardcovers, the beginning of my modern firsts collection, came from stores selling reviewers’ copies.

Washing dishes and the body in the same facility didn’t bother me, but the risk of splashing water on my books terrified me and I had to find a way of protecting them. Gathering boards from the streets, I hammered them together as shelving for the fiction and carefully lodged the books alphabetically. The few non-fiction titles had to make do on the floor space.

Even the non-fiction, which I consider a loathsome sub-category of literature, didn’t deserve the floor where it was often under attack by mice and rats. Happily, for the books, there were more rats than mice in the apartment and it is well known that mice--as well as cockroaches-- have a greater affinity for the printed word than rats.

The fiction titles filled shelving beyond my reach, so a bit of redecoration had to be done. The coffin no longer could hold my books and the bed, so the bed had to go.