Denise and Van Versus the Bookcase

Days of Innocence

Denise Hinson and Van Hinson Rivas once put together seven bookshelves and were left with, between them, six broken nails, as well as one sore back in need of a heating pad, innovative profanity, and, somehow, extra screws, which they awkwardly stuck in a drawer while side-eyeing the bulky behemoths that squatted on the carpeted floor of the library. These are their stories.

It began when Denise ordered the bookcases online. Within days, they arrived, so heavy that Van, who is useless when it comes to moving furniture, scooted the boxes into the corner of the hallway and called it a day because she wanted tea, but also because she is equally as useless when it comes to putting things together, as she doesn’t know the difference between the three screwdrivers in the house. That night when Denise came home, they counted the seven boxes containing their undoing, staring in grim silence.

Denise and Van put off constructing the bookcases for as long as they could. They agreed that they would hire a handyman or handywoman, then set out calls for assistance from someone with their own drill, almost like two gibbons announcing their territory through song, but no one responded. Resignation set in: They would have to build these shelves themselves since they had waved around money but no handyperson appeared. They stuck the money in the drawer that would soon hold the extra screws that would cause them such anxiety.

Shelf One

It took three hours to put together the first shelf. By the time that horrid experience came to an end, there were splinters gnawing at their fingers and Denise accidentally punched her grapefruit mimosa in the stomach and sent it flying across the library. Van mopped up the mimosa with a gray towel while Denise screamed into the void.

Because the sections of the bookcase were helpfully not labeled, the two of them compared shelves and wooden planks with the pictures on the instruction manual. It was after a protracted period of time that they managed to assemble the correct planks; Denise married them with her power drill, only to discover that the drill was too powerful and caused holes to appear in the top shelf. After a tense standoff between her and the shelf, she agreed with Van that the holes could not be seen by anyone under six-foot-four, which meant that poor Uncle Dean would be the only member of the family who will have to stare at unsightly holes.

Shelf Two

Denise owned a hammer (obviously Van did not), but it went missing, resurfacing only after the last shelf was constructed. The bookcases had a cardboard back to be nailed to the main structure. Absent the hammer, Denise found a crowbar and thumped the back of the bookcase with it until the three thousand little nails were secure and holding the main body of the shelves together. It took two and a half hours.

Shelf Three

Positioning the planks in the right way posed a chronic problem for Denise and Van. Van was in charge of setting the shelves themselves in the right direction Only after smacking herself in the face with a shelf and embedding a splinter in her cheek did she begin to get into the groove (pun intended, naturally) of sliding the two pieces together correctly.

Shelf Four

“These bookcases are too beautiful for ugly books,” Denise announced, running her hand along the recently dusted shelf (Van had taken the feather duster to it because she had to contribute to this enterprise somehow). This made Van nervous, since she was hoping to stick her unsightly textbook on Icelandic grammar, itself artfully autographed by the members of Sigur Ros when she had waited outside their tour bus like a stalker, in one shelf and dreamt of space to rest her copy of the DSM.

Listening to Van whine about her six different Spanish textbooks and book of outdated Mexican slang that she intended to use to embarrass herself, Denise stated that she simply wanted her cases to be filled with books, not photographs or pottery or things that wasted space where a perfectly good book would fit. Van agreed. After all, between the two of them, they had two copies of Frankenstein, four copies of War and Peace, thirty bookmarks in the shape of a Persian rug, and approximately seven hundred twenty-four copies of books they had not read.

Shelf Five

The setting changed, shifting away from the styrofoam-and-packing-peanut-infested library and out into the covid-infested world. Denise and Van were forced to abandon the crowbar and shlep themselves to a Lowes to pick up a new hammer.

Shelf Six

Two men from Best Buy appeared to install the new washing machine and dryer. They were courteous and professional, and the first thing Van asked is if they knew how to build shelves as well as hook up a hose to the washing machine. The two men from Best Buy were more concerned about a black mark on the dryer than the scene of desperation happening across the hallway. As though to nudge them into assistance while not giving herself away, Van asked them if they liked reading. Denise stood behind the glass doors leading into the library, pressing her palms against the pane in silent desperation. The men from Best Buy went their way.

Shelf Seven

A new quandary emerged, rippling the surface of their tense lake of stripped screwheads and miniscule nails scattered everywhere. The problem was mathematical: The library could only fit six shelves. Denise clutched the manual to her chest and feebly began looking around for a corner in which to stick the seventh case. Van reshuffled their playlist so they could listen to Marina’s “Man’s World” on repeat and remind themselves that they were feminists, damn it, and these bookcases would hold feminist tomes and the occasional book on Kermit the Frog.

Epilogue

After timing the building of the last shelf (thirty-one minutes), Denise and Van moved the final shelf into the living room, and filled it will photographs and pottery.