There are others more iconic, more well-known but for me it will always be Spenser.
I could reread the books but I don’t think I will. I don’t think I want to take the chance that my memories will be tarnished.
I will stick, instead, to what I remember.
I remember their ratted covers lined up, stout and true, on a bookcase in the attic. They were all there, a whole universe over so many volumes, just waiting to dive into. Don’t you adore a series? If you like the first one, my god, the promise in all the rest of the ones on the shelf. More Spenser, Hawk and Susan? More tough-guy antics in New England environs? Why yes, thank you, I will!
I remember my father sitting in their four poster bed reading one of the books. My mother would read it next, or maybe she had already read it. I was intrigued and delighted by any book that they would both read.
I remember the feeling I had when I read books that my parents had read. So grown up. So wise.
I remember what I learned about relationships from those books. About being a tough, cool, sarcastic, loyal Bostonian. About running. About beer-drinking. About violence. The books you read when you’re young do something to you. They change your chemistry a little bit because those reactions are still happening. And because I read them when I did and because my dad died when he did and because they were both from Boston, the images of my dad and Spenser overlap sometimes in my mind. Kind of ridiculous and no, I do not want to pull apart that psychology but thanks so much anyway.
The TV series was pretty good too.
I don’t really want to talk books with somebody who is too good for a book you can buy on the rack at an airport kiosk. I freaking love shopping at those things. You feel more free to buy something that is fun and entertaining because you’re going to be on a plane. We call it guilty pleasure reading. Beach reading. Plane reading. As if something that is easy for us to read is somehow less and we need an excuse for it. Whatever. I don’t have time for those distinctions. Life is too short. Let’s just read good books. And if it’s going to deliver a kick-ass mystery with some fistfights or racy love scenes – why the frick would I be mad at that?
Books that teach us that the hardest two miles of any run are the first and the last. That your friends are the ones who will go to battle for you. That sarcasm is an art form. That loyalty matters. That Boston is a fun place to walk the high-brow/low-brow line. That understated is cool. That coffee and beer are the only two drinks. And to keep one eye on your moral compass at all times.