Something about the liberry seems to encourage existential rumination, which always gets my attention.
This old gal's mouth gets my attention even before she says a word, though, because of the large quantity of azalea-colored lipstick she's wearing--expertly applied with a brush, very Arlene Dahl. She's a bit bent and feeble-looking, and her grey hair's a mess, but she still exudes . . . what is it? . . . ah, I know! It's glamour. Even all rickety, she's glamourous.
She dumps a pile of returns on the counter, cocks an eyebrow right at me, and croaks, "Ya got anything good, Honey? I'm desperate."
I look all around to make sure nobody's paying attention. I whisper, "What do you like?"
"Mysteries! Novels! Any good novels!" She cackles, " I'll read anything."
"Martha Grimes?"
"Never hearda her. Show me!"
"OK, but you can't tell anybody I did this because I'm just a page, and I'm not supposed to--"
"Yeah, yeah, no sweat, Kid, I won't rat you out, we're not even having this conversation. Now get a move on! I'm tired!"
So I take her over to the mystery shelves, load her up with Martha. She already has six other books, so by the time I have her checked out, she has two full bookbags. And doesn't look quite strong enough to carry them out to her car.
"May I take these out for you? That's a page's job, you know!" I offer, brightly.
"Yeah, thanks, that'd be great." Then, "I don't even know what I'm doing here."
"At the library?"
"No, on earth. Dumb old broad, 76--what'm I doing, still kicking around? How did this happen?"
I have no answer for this, of course. We're walking out the door, and she lets me take her hand. (My 83-year-old mother won't even do this.)
What made me say it as we toddled along, I'll never know. Maybe her long, long legs, even longer than mine. "You a dancer?" I ask.
Blink of surprise. "Howdja know?"
"Just a wild guess." I draw back, still holding her hand, and look her up and down. She straightens and gives me look for look. I ask, "Were you a Rockette?"
"Nope. Vegas."
"Wow! A chorus girl?"
Draws herself up, indignant: "A SHOWgirl."
"No sh--no kidding! REALLY?" Visions of bizarre head-dresses fan themselves in my head.
"Yup. In the old days, the 50s--"
"Ah, the real Vegas! The Rat Pack Vegas! All those guys in the snaky Italian suits! I remember it well."
"Not as well as I do! I knew 'em all, I did it all--"
"You ever write about it?" I'm stuffing bookbags into the trunk of her ancient, battered Volvo.
"Yeah, I started, but I need somebody to help me with it, get it organized--"
"I can do that. Wait right here. I'll get you my card." I scamper back into the liberry and am back in a flash.
"I even have a title for it," she beams. "You ready?"
"I think so."
"Whatever Happened to Me."
At first, I assume there's a question mark at the end. "Oh, but that's so sad!" I protest. She looks disappointed in me.
Then I get it. "Oh, Lorraine, that's fabulous! What a book this will be! Will you call me?"
"You bet I will, Honey."
And she did. I wasn't here; I was tutoring at the college, but I'll call her back tomorrow. And we will get the show on the road!
You can spot 'em. When Peter walked into my class on writing memoir, he was radiant like an angel; ordinary as hell in every other way, but some light shown all about him. That where I got involved in helping him tell his story. They're out there. Keep us updated on this, would ya?
Posted by: Tom Montag | February 11, 2005 at 07:22 AM
Well crimminy, kiddo. Things happnin. Enjoy the ride!
Posted by: fred1st | February 12, 2005 at 01:10 PM
Fabulous. Meant to be. You'll be a great team - can't wait for the next installment. And those lips - I had a great-aunt like that. God.
Posted by: beth | February 14, 2005 at 02:55 PM