THE SEVENTEENTH PAGE

Yes, I had begun to lose sleep, as my remaining sole addiction seemed to be spurred by the absence of the other. I needed more money; the newfound cigarette money was not enough.

First editions of the moment no longer met my needs. I began to collect older firsts--like five years old. Some were cheaper than new books. These purchases came from the Fourth Avenue dealers not far from what was to be my second Manhattan home. They were cheaper than my discounted store purchases, yes, but acquired in vaster quantities.

I began to work by night as well as day in the other Manhattan Doubleday shops, floating from one to another to replace the night workers who called in sick.

Night work brought out a different crowd. It was paler, better clothed, richer, prettier, older. Think Dracula.

Night work was a respite from the day denizens. The out-of-view mail order operations in the basements were safe havens for the precious sons too good for “trade” but not good enough for any other employment, for the maiden sisters with uncontrollable giggles, and for the divorcee just out of the clinic. And there were we, the new-to-the-city with uncontrollable urges to possess books, who worked the floors above by day and night.