I went to the library to find the Betsy-Tacy books that transport Kymm's life with joy. The catalog computers were down, and I didn't remember the author's name and nor did the children's librarian, but someone had just been in the other day wanting the one book of the series she learned she hadn't read (another Kymm devotée? I wonder) and so all the books were still on the cart waiting to go back downstairs (to the dungeon, where they keep those books few have the taste to read anymore, like Carry On, Mr. Bowditch). Of the eight books he brought out, six were the first six. We spoke animatedly of these books and of Carry On, Mr. Bowditch, and I asked after the raccoon. "The last I saw of him today," said the librarian, "a little boy was dragging him around by the ear." Well, the raccoon probably enjoyed that; even Pooh liked to go downstairs bouncing on the back of his head being dangled by a hind paw if that was the only way to travel. I guessed that this man had given the raccoon Rascal, and that guess was correct. He wore a Cat-in-the-Hat tie, and when three other librarians (from the Deckers branch) came up talking about Harry Potter's owl, they were pleased that I knew Hedwig's name. Like I'm the only adult in the U.S. who's read Harry Potter.
Then he put the inevitable question to me: "But what do you do?"
I hate that question, answered it shortly and pursued the topic of owls some more--besides Hedwig, the librarians were also talking about Wol ('cause that's how Pooh's friend spells his own name). What I hate about the question is that he clearly thought I should have been sitting at the desk beside him exhorting, in my usual irresistible and age-appropriate way, children into reading and books, and I have no good reason not to be there.
Then I went into the adult stacks and found John Fowles's The Maggot, whoever's The Life of God as Told by Himself, and Nabokov's Pale Fire (again) and went to the circulation desk to pick up Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose and Stephen Fry's Making History, which were on hold for me. I gave the clerk a ten to pay $1.90 in fines and she said, apologetically, "I'll have to give you all ones." "That's okay," I told her. "You could give me my change in dimes and you couldn't mar my mood" [a little Godspell quote] "but please don't."
I walked back to work with a stack of eleven books and my DayRunner and Betsy-Tacy open on top. Two of my readingest coworkers looked appreciatively at the stack and talked books. I admitted to the likelihood of reading only the Lovelace. But having Eco and Nabokov makes me feel virtuous for at least trying.
I remained in a giddy mood (as I had been since the morning, actually) until late in the afternoon when someone who rarely speaks to anyone and barely to me came over to my cube--a special trip, no less--and after establishing that I had seen the movie in question told me, probably not with malicious intent, that Heather in "The Blair Witch Project" reminded her of me.
For the second time in as many days (though the first time was not inspired by this topic), my only reaction was "Jesus fucking Christ." I do like to have my own way, and HAO pointed out that we both never shut up, and these are true similarities, but fuck me, that stung.
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Last modified 31 October 1999
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