Borrow Me
We line up just like they taught us to do. It varies depending on the territory you’re working that day. Sometimes we line up by name, or sometimes it’s by specialty, but the veterans among us know that it doesn’t really matter what order we’re in. We’ll be found when we need to be found.
The young one next to me is nervous; I can feel its rigidity pressed up against my own worn shell. It must sense that I’ve been through it all.
“Does...does it hurt?”
I’m surprised by the question. The young ones are usually so eager to please that the pain of being used for the first time is the furthest thing from their minds.
“I ain’t gonna lie to you kid, it’s not fun. But it really depends on who gets first crack at you.”
The young one starts rambling in fear. “They didn’t tell me it would be this scary. They said that I would be going to the nice part of town, where all of them were kind and gentle and would appreciate the fine specimen that I am.”
I let out a bitter laugh. I had seen a few of this kind before; their handlers pushing and promoting them to the highest of society, only to be ignored and then thrown to the savages that were willing to take whatever was in front of them.
“Ah...you’re one of the flashy ones. I can see that now. With a cover like that, I’m sure you’ll be picked up by a real nice piece of work.”
I shift my stance a bit, hoping to catch the eye of a potential patron with a lot of time on their hands. The young one stands perfectly still, hoping to be as invisible as possible. The irony is that I know I’ll be ignored when someone spots my new, shiny friend. Still, I try.
The young one notices my actions and realizes what I’m saying. “Oh my god, I don’t want that. I don’t want to be picked up! That’s not how I was made! I’m so fucking scared I don’t know where I am or what I’m going to do...”
I jab the young one sharply but silently, as not to draw the wrong kind of attention. We want the eyes of our patrons, not our captors.
“Shut up! You do want someone to pick you up! Do you know what happens to you if you don’t?” I can tell by the silence that the young one is shocked that anything could be worse than this. Before I can continue I make eye contact with the patron walking by. They hesitate, but keep moving. The young one is too scared to be relieved.
“Wha- what happens?”
“They keep a record of every time you go home with someone. If that number gets too low, you’re put on probation. Sometimes, if you used to be popular, they’ll put you on display to promote you. You know, to drive up more business. If that doesn’t work, you’ll be stripped and discarded.”
“Discarded? What does that mean?!”
“You either end up being sold out of the basement, or...well, I don’t want to scare you kid but it involves the dumpster.”
“THE FUCKING DUMPSTER?!”
Our captors eyes glanced over to us and I jab the young one again.
“You need to get a goddamned grip. It’s the way the business works. This is your life now. So look sharp and start pulling your weight.”
The young one is sobbing quietly, and while I feel bad for being harsh, there are patrons close to us and my numbers have been down recently. I once again stand tall and move ever so slightly closer to the edge. I’m ignored and they chose a new piece, one that came in last week.
“How have you survived so long? How can you possibly do this day after day?”
“You get used to it, kid. When you think about the alternatives it makes things a little easier.”
I want to tell the young one the truth. That eventually, you even start to like it. You start to enjoy the feeling of all different kinds of hands on you, of hands in you. Sometimes they’re gentle; lovingly spreading you open to reveal your secrets. Other times they’re rough; cracking you in two, tossing you on the bed or on the floor like the used up creature you have become. Deep down, you eventually discover that every bruise, every crease, every wrinkle is a testament to the fact that you held the power. You had something every patron needed. And honestly, a library book can get used to that. Unfortunately, I don’t think the young one is ready for that kind of reality.
The shelver comes by and places a few of my friends back in their places on the shelf below me. They look tired and a little more worn than the last time I saw them, but that’s all part of the game. The young one has been silent for some time.
Finally, it sighs. “So...what do I do?”
“You do what you were made to do; you were made to be read. You’re lucky, too, because as someone famous once said, ‘With a cover like that, they’re gonna wanna know what’s inside the book.’”