The poor thing looked so lonely, squeezed on both sides by the spy thrillers and bodice rippers whose gaudy covers hogged the floor like a twelfth-runner-up beauty queen on a Vegas bender. But Lord knows how I love a wallflower. A shy, handsome volume of Robert Frost never needed to do the Watusi, the Monkey, or even the Mashed Potato to impress me.
Off we went.
And oh, how we danced.
While there is always something that doesn’t love a wall, there is also always something that does love impeccable penmanship. The notes flowed with grace and control, looping perfect lowercase o’s and curlicuing flawless uppercase T’s completely en pointe inside the narrow margins. Precise inky pirouettes bound Mary and Warren anew to their dying hired man: “Transcending the mundane—earthy, practical—enjoying labor for the sake of labor—LOVE.” The annotations whirled between Frost and me, spinning his road not taken into a delicious, delirious pas de deux of why-the-hell-didn’t-I-take-this-road-sooner.
Inside the front cover, though, a few more faded letters sent my heart straight into a grand jeté: “James Thompson, Rm. 407 Morris Hall.” Below, in blue ballpoint: “Fall Quarter 1963, Prof. Jack Kitson.” The gorgeous cursive melted into small caps, still strong and legible. Why, of course. You may have this dance, too.
I wondered about James Thompson and his corner of Room 407, about the dozens of colleges boasting a Morris Hall men’s dormitory in September 1963. Maybe James, still sporting the summer’s flat-top haircut, arrived right after Labor Day with his clothes, his books, his horn-rimmed glasses, and the expectations of an entire county stuffed into his one graduation-gift suitcase. I saw him listening, scribbling, an eager young man grasping for every insight from professor, from classmates, from roommates. I saw him reviewing his notes, rereading, explaining, analyzing, revising his term paper and himself so he could make good, do good, come home a success. And here, nearly fifty-one years later in the dusty basement of a dusty used bookstore, his painstaking marginalia still danced to the tune of Robert Frost’s selected poems. Sorry, boys, but my dance card is full—for James Thompson.
At the register, I nearly did an arabesque in disbelief. “A dollar-fifty? That’s all?”
“Yep.” The cashier pressed the change into my palm. “We get a lot of estate sales, you know.”
© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)