Hello, here are two points of interest to preface the meat of this post:
- In all my thirty years, I have had very limited experience with libraries. Sure, I loved library days in elementary school when Miss Dittoro would read us some book while we all sat on the carpet. And in high school, someone coaxed me to sign up to be a student librarian so I could spend my study halls bullshitting with friends in lieu of inhaling stale “food” fumes in the cafeteria, where most study halls were held. (Little did I know that when we had some lame school award ceremony, my name would get called among all the student librarians, wherein I had to walk down the auditorium aisle, take the stage and stand there while everyone in the crowd pretended to applaud but were really mocking all of us book dorks.)
- Last weekend, a local lady on Twitter alerted me to the fact that not only is there some Facebook fanpage for people who grew up in my town, someone had written on the wall ABOUT MY BLOG. They listed the exact address and urged everyone to peruse a certain category where they could find photos I’ve taken and stories I’ve written about “characters they all know and love.” Hello, panic attack. My blog experienced a stat-spike the likes of which it hadn’t seen the Great LiveJournal-Oh Honestly Erin flame war of 2008. Sunday night I went to the gas station down the street from me to buy the paper (which I’ve never done before and you can ask Alisha, I was so confused) and literally hesitated on the threshold because I was afraid someone would know I was Oh Honestly, Erin and subsequently lynch me.
There, you have been properly educated and can now advance to the rest of this post.
Henry is a card-carrying member of the Carnegie Library. There’s one on Brookline Blvd, right by the laundromat he and Chooch go to, so while the washing machines are sterilyzing our wardrobe of cat urine, he and Chooch will get all cozy in the library. Sometimes they even check books out.
Now, I usually will just buy books, or trade with friends. But, embarrassingly, I have been reading the House of Night series and haven’t been able to justify buying the next book in line since Christmas is so close and I have that child-thing that I should be spending my money on. It’s been killing me, not knowing what’s going to happen to that whore Zoey and her lame friends who think they are twins and say things like, “That boy is so fiiiiiiiine” and I’m like, “STFU who do you think you are, SWV?” So Henry, having all the answers as usual, goes, “Why don’t you check the library’s website?”
This is how I learned that I can sign up for a membership online AND THEY WILL RESERVE BOOKS FOR ME WTF. Yes, it’s practically 2010 and I’m just learning about LIBRARIES while everyone and their pastor is walking into people, squinting at their Kindles.
Yesterday, I got an email saying that my book is in and they put it on some super special shelf for me. I wanted Henry to get it for me, but then remembered that my membership is only temporary and I have to get the actual card when I go in.
“Can’t I just give you my ID and you can tell them that I’m retarded and can’t make it in?” I pleaded, because libraries are SCARY.
“Even retards go to the library,” Henry spat, insinuating that I’m a cause much greater lost.
I checked the website and it said they were open on Christmas Eve until 3pm. I didn’t want to wait any longer for this book to be in my (teenaged) hands, so I made Henry and Chooch get bundled and we set off up the street. Because god forbid I should go to the scary library alone, even after Henry practically drew me an Army-regulation map of what to do once I walked through the automatic doors. I have to bring my flock with me. Safety in numbers and all that.
A block away, I started to get anxious. “Oh my god, I’m so scared,” I repeated several times, mostly to myself but just loud enough for Henry to hear and take great pity on me. You should have seen me, clutching the email printout of my library membership to my chest and doing the I-Have-To-Pee jig. Jesus probably had more composure walking with the goddamn cross.
“What you SHOULD be scared of is being recognized on this street,” Henry challenged. I let that sink in for a second, and then quickly smoothed my hair closer to my face as a shield.
I risked my life walking down that street only to find that the library was closed. Those motherfuckers.
I’ll probably just go back to scamming Doubleday.