“Looking for a gift for a guy?” I asked.
Her eyes widened. I had startled her. She was sixteen or so and unattractive, chubby, shod in old dirty tennis shoes, and she had pink hair and a bolt in her nose. Her girlfriend, whose hair had gone blue and whose earlobes were mounts for what looked like chrome lug nuts, was about the same age but noticeably even more hardened. Her attitude screamed that she had neither time nor patience for anyone not tattooed, studded or otherwise festooned, especially not anyone as old as me. She had the coldest steel-blue eyes that I have ever seen. She could have stopped armies with those eyes…frozen them dead in their tracks…I swear.
We were in the aviation section of Powell’s Bookstore in downtown Portland, Oregon. Powell’s claims to be the largest independent new and used bookstore in the world. Any corner of any floor of Powell’s holds about a zillion more words than a brace of Oxford Unabridged Dictionaries. The place covers floors and floors and a city block. Just in case that’s not enough to accommodate everything that anyone would ever want to read, more floors are planned. I suspected that these two had been in Powell’s before. I was almost certain that they had never been in the aviation section.
Ignoring Blue Hair’s death rays, I stepped nearer and removed a book from the shelf. “Let me show you one of the best books that I’ve ever read,” I said, offering it to the one with pink hair. Her eyes had returned to their sockets. Perhaps she was considering that I wasn’t The Devil.
“It’s about two brothers who were about your ages. One was fifteen and the other seventeen. They spent a winter rebuilding an old worn-out Piper Cub airplane in their father’s garage. Then in the summer, against their father’s wishes, they flew it across America. Just the two of them. They navigated using a gas station roadmap. They didn’t have the money even for a radio, and they slept under its wings a lot of the time. Almost got killed a couple of times. Learned a lot about themselves and each other and their family and about what it’s like to be free and to take risks and to flick their finger at the world. It’s a true story. It happened in 1960. It’s so good, even people who don’t like to read, like reading it. I’ve read it twice. The New York Times and USA Today went crazy over it. Almost anyone would, even if they don’t like airplanes; because really, it’s not about airplanes. Your friend would like it, I bet. It’s got a brothel in it, too.”
The one with the pink hair smiled. It was a small, tight, guarded smile, of the kind that someone who’s been around more than she should, gives on the very rare occasion when she smiles at a stranger. Most strangers who want to talk to her don’t want to talk about books, I guessed. Her girlfriend looked jealous. We hadn’t spoken a word to each other and we had already decided that we didn’t like each other and nothing was going to change that.
“Thank you.”
I don’t know how she could stand to speak with that slug of steel poking through her nose. I would have thought it would hurt like the dickens. But she didn’t seem to mind. There was a soft, sweet vulnerability to her voice that was very appealing. Maybe in another time, among other friends, she would pursue a less metallic life.
“You’re welcome,” I said. She had opened the book now and was examining the writing with what seemed like genuine interest.
I turned and walked away. I had done my deed for the day. I hoped that she liked FLIGHT OF PASSAGE: A TRUE STORY, by Rinker Buck. If she did, I was pretty sure that her guy friend would, too. It was, after all, really a book about going one’s own way to find one’s path through life. That’s what pink hair and nose bolts are all about. I know that, even if I am on the downhill side of sixty.