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>Book Nightmares

>My dreams have been uneasy lately, but they’ve also been bookish.

Book Nightmare #1: I traveled to Itaewon to visit What The Book? When I finally got to near the top of “Hooker Hill”, I saw that it had closed its doors for good, and a seedy-looking bar was in its place. In shock and not knowing what to do, I went in and sat at the bar and drank a couple of beers and ate some anju.

For some reason, my Korean comprehension was perfect in this nightmare, and I overheard some whores sitting near me, talking about how they were just as glad that What The Book? was gone because the guys who had come out of that bookstore were always loaded down with heavy books and had never seemed really interested in what the whores had to sell. “This place better, because guys here want satisfy! No reading!” I wildly looked around at the male clientele. None of them seemed like they’d be a bit interested in joining BOOKLEAVES. Damn.

Book Nightmare #2: I was Jane Eyre. Mr. Rochester and I had just gotten married. His eyesight was fine again, but he’d picked up a nasty gambling habit. He spent all of our income at every gaming-house he passed. When I realized how bad things were, I started hiding a few pounds from him so we’d have enough for grocery money. Also, I was about 6 months pregnant.

Mr. Rochester discovered my hiding places, then he’d reproach me for hiding money from him: “Ah, Jane! You thought to hide money from me because you trust me not. How could you think, so little Jane? I thought you loved your Edward!”

“I do love you,” I told him. “But we must have something for victuals.”

“And you thought I’d gamble away our money for sustenance? Jane, I would not do so. Give me the money. I promise I’ll bring home a feast.”

Long story short, he gambled away the grocery money, then complained about his reused teabag and stale bread with no butter.

I got a job as a substitute teacher in a middle school, and all the students were hellions. Most of the time, I was able to reason them into halfway decent behavior. One of the male students resembled both in looks and actions my unfortunate cousin John Reed. He didn’t like the idea of detention, so he hit me across the stomach.

I was mightily sick of all this unpleasantness and began to wonder: “What would Bertha do? What would Bertha do? WWBD?” I wished that my predecessor were alive again and could attack all these troublesome people. Maybe she’d escaped the fire after all. One could hope.

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