The Book Ban

The draft below was prompted by remembering driving to Chattahoochee every week one semester, so it really is related to the prompt Car Stories.

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Okay, I’ve done enough for one day, I told myself as I shut down my laptop and pushed away the scores of texts surrounding me. During that semester I had exiled myself to Chattahoochee, FL, during the week to work on a book, driving back to Valdosta every weekend to see my husband. I checked the clock: 7:30 p.m. Turning on the television, I realized reception was worse than usual.

What will I do tonight? I wondered, needing a break from the research. I decided to drive into the small town to find a novel to read. I rushed downstairs, worried that stores would close in the small town of Chattahoochee before I got there. Just across the bridge from Chattahoochee was a slightly bigger town, Sneads, with a much bigger grocery story, so I headed there.

Walking quickly through the story, I found a few magazines but no books. I walked up to the cashier. “Do y’all sell novels?” I asked politely.

“Novels?” she asked, her mouth dropped open in disbelief. “This is a grocery store.”

I urged myself to stay calm. “I know, but lots of grocery stores sell books as well.”

“Books?” she repeated, a mixture of disdain and confusion on her face.

“Um, okay. If you don’t sell books, can you tell me where I might find them in Sneads?” I asked.

“You cain’t buy no books in Sneads!” she insisted as if I were asking for Playboy and Hustler.

Now my face displayed confusion—and perhaps a bit of fear. What kind of town doesn’t sell books? I headed back to the truck and drove to Chattahoochee, where I finally found a small selection of novels in a drug store. But now every time I pass a sign for Sneads, I think of it as the place you cain’t buy no books.