It is likely that to conjure up a more interesting story, I imagined that I would need to leave very early to catch a glimpse of the Swan Man. It is also likely that I overestimated the popularity of the Swan Man, expecting lines to be wrapped around Skylight Books...when there were no lines. None at all. Of course, I arrived very early. Painfully early. 5:26pm to be exact. The reading was to begin at 7:30pm. Although Skylight books has a lovely selection of reading material to peruse, there is no subtle way to loiter in 600 square feet of books for over two hours without arousing suspicion of petty theft or worse. I persevered, despite evil glances and a few not-too-subtle trails from staff members as I wandered about the store. I watched the Skylight books staff dust off and drag up the heavy lectern. Test the light. On. Off. Back on. As I pretended to read a rather large book on Bohemian Modern living in Silver Lake, I saw them wheel out stacks of chairs. Arrange. Re-arrange. Move a row up. Move a row back. Funny how unglamorous the setup is. But I guess that's like anything. All props and mirrors and effects until the main act shows up.
I spent a considerable amount of time wondering when it would be appropriate for me to take a seat. Surely I couldn't stand about forever. Especially with empty chairs spread before me and Kate Atkinson's Case Histories hanging unfinished in my bag & due back to the library in the morning. It was tough to gauge exactly. There were other book browsers who seemed unaware of the reading. Others seemed to be there expressly for the reading, yet they were also...hovering. It was unlcear who might make the first move.
After tiring of my modern bohemian behemoth of a book, I set it aside in favor of Kate Braverman's Frantic Transmissions to and from Los Angeles (apropos) and Meghan Daum's My Misspent Youth. I snapped these up and the latest Poets & Writers. I know, I know. Library. Free books and all that. But sometimes, you just have to buy what you can no longer wait for (I'm #55 & #22 on the library wait list for these books, respectively.) I'm writing a memoir-esque piece (in tone, not in content) and I think they will help guide me.
As soon as I finished my transaction, I noticed that someone had taken the plunge. A sweater-coat was draped over the back of a chair, and in the seat were two overstuffed bags, a purse, a scarf and a hat. Not only had she taken the plunge, she had moved in! And if she could move in, surely I could just sit down and get back to Case Histories, no? I snatched a seat in one of the last rows, but dead center so I could see The Swan Man when he stood at the lectern. If he stood at the lectern. I read. I waited. I read some more.
It was not long before three about-to-graduate college seniors sat down next to and behind me. One girl next to me, another girl with her already-graduated boyfriend, behind me. At first, I had no trouble tuning them out and focusing on my book. They were talking about grants and scholarship and grade point averages. Who made Phi Beta Kappa and who didn't. Blah, blah, blah. Part of me wanted to shake them about and say "Don't you get it! You are about to enter the real world -- no grades! You must stand on your own two feet now without the confines of a teacher handing you your worth in the form of a letter." But, alas. They were talking grad school. Hardly real world. I bit my tongue. I read. I waited.
I noticed others trickling in, all buying the requisite Black Swan Green book...a few even sitting down to start reading it. Right there. Before the reading. A first for me, this speed-read-it before he gets here approach. I'm not sure I like it. There were others of course, who pulled their Black Swan Greens out of their bags and set them on their laps. All smug and aren't I smart and fancy pants? I've already read this and I brought my own copy with me. I hate those people. There is no other way to say it. This is a reading. About a writer. A writer whose work, I would hope, you admire. This is not about you. It is about him. So please, stop acting like you are somehow better than the rest of us, because guess what sir, we've read it too and we aren't bragging about it!
I digress.
I was getting restless. Shifting about in my very hard seat. Admiring the 16ft. tall tree that was inside the store right next to me. Lovely. But a little creepy. And the cat. The reddish cat roaming the store with no tail. Less lovely. More creepy. Repeatedly, I tried to focus my attention on Case Histories, yet I could not stop listening to the college conversation. Why? Somewhere between what to wear to graduation and when the final thesis was due, they started talking about quail camp. That's right. You heard me. Q-U-A-I-L C-A-M-P. The girl next to me (some sort of quasi history/poli sci major) excitedly explained that while she very much wanted to go to marine biology camp every summer when she was a young girl, instead her parents sent her to, yes, quail camp.
Now. As a writer, I am prone to observation -- to paying particular attention to overheard conversation (some would call this blatant eavesdropping on my part, and they would be right). But that's a writer's job, is it not? Listen. Use. Embellish. Listen some more. Embellish some more. That's what we do. So you can safely assume that I've gotten quite good at the subtle art of eavesdropping without being noticed. This usually involves stern warnings to self about not turning around while the eavesdropee is talking, not staring at them if they are across the room and most importantly, not reacting to the funny stuff they are saying. Out loud laughter and a rocking back and forth of your shoulders tends to tip them off. So you must remain still. Still as if you are reading the book you are feigning to read and not at all listening to the madness that is spewing forth out of their mouth(s).
My point is this: Quail camp is funny. Not a little bit funny. A lot funny. I maintained my composure as well as I could, but when the member of the Bobwhite Brigade (that's right, that's what they call 'em in Texas) mentioned that while at quail camp she studied both quail conservation and quail hunting (ironic that this is in Texas?), a chuckle escaped me. She whipped her head in my direction. I was able to flip Case Histories pages quickly and loudly enough that it seemed, I hoped, like a noise my book had made. She turned back. She continued on.
She spoke of quail drawings, quail anatomy, quail habitat studies. She talked of the awards bestowed upon those most deserving at the end of camp. I began to see that others seated in front of me were leaning their heads back, slightly, to be sure they didn't miss a beat of her quail tale. The already-graduated-guy was incredulous about such a camp and asked "How long was quail camp?" At this point, even she laughed. Laughed so loud everyone seated turned and looked at her. Four weeks! He replied, "What on earth can you study about a quail and only a quail for a month when you are ten years old? It's crazy!" I know. I know, she said. And here's the worst part. The last week was devoted to firearms. We were ten and learning about quail and where they live and how they mate & then, you know, how to kill them. (Texas? Anyone?)
All sense of my writerly eavesdropping composure was lost. I laughed out loud and the rest of those seated did too. A sea of chuckling shoulders moved up and down, forward and back before me. Quail girl looked around the room and for the first time, realized she had an audience. I couldn't tell whether we were all laughing in earnest, in horror, or in relief at having been uncovered as eavesdroppers and so could now eavesdrop openly, without fear of being caught. Whatever it was, we were so busy with ourselves and our relief and our laughter, that we failed to notice the man standing up at the podium. Waiting.
