A most unusual man with a most unusual preoccupation, aside from selling books, frequented the store for much of its existence. He had a rather unique manner of dressing himself. What set him apart from the other book dealers were the three pairs of eyeglasses he wore at once, including a pair of those yellow shooting glasses that hunters wear to increase contrast. One pair had no lenses. The third helped him see better. He also had a cast-iron frying pan attached to his back, and one affixed to his chest. Topping it all off was a blue construction hard hat, lined with aluminum foil.
His name was Raymond, and was a self-described veteran of the Russian Weather Wars of the 1980s. Daily he donned his battlefield outfit to keep the aliens, who were allied with the Soviets, from reading his thoughts and controlling his heart through radio transmissions. He told me that he spent sleepless nights on reconnaissance duties at nearby lakes outside the city, monitoring the UFOs which sucked up water to generate inclement weather elsewhere on the planet.
Perhaps he was on to something. Let's have a listen to what prominent Russian politician Vladimir Zhirinovsky has to say about the weather in 2011...
It was obvious to me, and to the staff, that Raymond was suffering from undiagnosed psychological issues. The one thing that remained a constant with him, was his friendly demeanour. Soft-spoken and earnest, he would have poignant moments of lucidity, and he revealed to me that he had an estranged son, who was a popular national television personality. He made it clear that he was proud of his son's accomplishments and spoke of him often, yet I detected some pain related to the distance between them. They hadn't seen each other in years.
Inevitably, the clarity in his conversations would quickly evaporate and he would be back to talking about space aliens and Area 51. According to him, he'd been there, observing the Americans and their experimental aircraft. Undoubtedly a big fan of those late-night call-in radio programs, I used to wonder if Raymond had Art Bell [the former voice of "Coast-to-Coast" - the overnight show on the paranormal], on speed-dial.
Late one evening, I was walking over to the local supermarket a block away from my apartment to grab a few groceries. As I walked past a dark lane with the neighbours' cars safely tucked away in their driveways and parking stalls, I noticed one very peculiar vehicle. It was a mid-sized 1970s Chevy Nova filled to the brim, save for the driver's seat, with old copies of Time magazine, clothing, and other odds and ends. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light, and I finally realized there was a person sprawled over the top of the whole mess in the back seat, sleeping. Quickly recognizing that it was, in fact, Raymond, I beat a hasty retreat, not wanting to violate what little privacy the vehicle afforded. As I walked away, I turned for one final look, and saw a beautiful polished chrome sphere, about the size of a basketball, attached to the top of the car's radio antenna. No doubt, I thought to myself, installed to ward off those testy Russians.
I had to remind him repeatedly over the years that we did not buy Big Juggs, Mayfair, or any other pornographic magazines. Nevertheless, every week he showed up with a new batch, each smelling of a musty garage floor. He always acted surprised when I put them back in his box but, luckily for both of us, he also brought in good paperbacks and the odd desirable hardcover.
His name was Raymond, and was a self-described veteran of the Russian Weather Wars of the 1980s. Daily he donned his battlefield outfit to keep the aliens, who were allied with the Soviets, from reading his thoughts and controlling his heart through radio transmissions. He told me that he spent sleepless nights on reconnaissance duties at nearby lakes outside the city, monitoring the UFOs which sucked up water to generate inclement weather elsewhere on the planet.
Perhaps he was on to something. Let's have a listen to what prominent Russian politician Vladimir Zhirinovsky has to say about the weather in 2011...
It was obvious to me, and to the staff, that Raymond was suffering from undiagnosed psychological issues. The one thing that remained a constant with him, was his friendly demeanour. Soft-spoken and earnest, he would have poignant moments of lucidity, and he revealed to me that he had an estranged son, who was a popular national television personality. He made it clear that he was proud of his son's accomplishments and spoke of him often, yet I detected some pain related to the distance between them. They hadn't seen each other in years.
Inevitably, the clarity in his conversations would quickly evaporate and he would be back to talking about space aliens and Area 51. According to him, he'd been there, observing the Americans and their experimental aircraft. Undoubtedly a big fan of those late-night call-in radio programs, I used to wonder if Raymond had Art Bell [the former voice of "Coast-to-Coast" - the overnight show on the paranormal], on speed-dial.
Late one evening, I was walking over to the local supermarket a block away from my apartment to grab a few groceries. As I walked past a dark lane with the neighbours' cars safely tucked away in their driveways and parking stalls, I noticed one very peculiar vehicle. It was a mid-sized 1970s Chevy Nova filled to the brim, save for the driver's seat, with old copies of Time magazine, clothing, and other odds and ends. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light, and I finally realized there was a person sprawled over the top of the whole mess in the back seat, sleeping. Quickly recognizing that it was, in fact, Raymond, I beat a hasty retreat, not wanting to violate what little privacy the vehicle afforded. As I walked away, I turned for one final look, and saw a beautiful polished chrome sphere, about the size of a basketball, attached to the top of the car's radio antenna. No doubt, I thought to myself, installed to ward off those testy Russians.
I had to remind him repeatedly over the years that we did not buy Big Juggs, Mayfair, or any other pornographic magazines. Nevertheless, every week he showed up with a new batch, each smelling of a musty garage floor. He always acted surprised when I put them back in his box but, luckily for both of us, he also brought in good paperbacks and the odd desirable hardcover.
