Virgins

A couple of weeks ago I received a rather large box filled with used books. Many of these came from libraries around the country, where they had been stamped "out of circulation." Most were first editions and in pristine condition, which surprised me.

One book, John Updike's More Matter, is a massive collection of his assorted prose (his last of four such collections) and I noted last night, pasted next to the back cover, that this particular book had once been a proud member of the Houston Public Library. The old-school "check out" grid, where the librarians used to stamp a date, was still intact.

Much to my surprise, I noted that I was the first person to read this particular book, the first, likely, to open its pages. Other tell-tale signs also elicited evidence that this was a virgin book and I was giving it its maiden voyage.

Of course, generally speaking, I like new, untainted things. That's why, for example, I married Becky. She was unsoiled when I got her (or so she tells me) and I've used her sparingly throughout the years to preserve as much of the new marriage smell as possible. The last time I used her was about a year ago, when I asked her to clean out my sock drawer and locate the singles in exchange for a good-night kiss and a peek at me as I walked away in my underwear.

My children were new at one time, but their circuitry is haywire now. Of course, as a parent, I expect to see this tendency as natural wear-and-tear of the young grinding against my superior fathering skills and the perpetual "NO!"

And as preferred, I do enjoy new books. I love the smell of the binding and the gentle "crack" when I pop open the pages of a hardback that's been sitting in a New Jersey warehouse for months.

There are some things, of course, that I have never enjoyed new: like cars. All of our cars, through the years, have been as used as a fifty-five-year-old hooker. Same applies to the houses we've lived in, mostly parsonages of questionable moral fiber and sagging drywall. But I'm not complaining about these things . . . I've learned to live with them.

Now, I'd have the perfect day if I could read a great book and then convince Becky to reprise her role as virgin bride and play act our honeymoon. As I recall, nothing happened. And I got a good night's sleep.