Books

 The  garbage room in my condo holds more than trash bins. Next to the bin designated for paper a six-foot-tall bookcase sits flush to the wall. People put the books they no longer want on the bookshelf. Most books cycle through and find a home.  Few books stay here forever with the possible exception of Bill Clinton’s memoir My Life. So last week I was astonished to find an old hardcover book stuffed inside a trash bin. It was unthinkable that anyone would throw away a book. 

I remember being 16 and needing no other beauty accoutrement than a dab of gloss on my flesh-colored lips. I also remember creepy old men stalking me because I was young, pretty and wearing a high school uniform. Filthy old fools. They were everywhere: in the subway, in alleys, standing by bus stops or on the street in front of hotels as fancy as the Pierre and museums as old as the MET.