two men doing something I had heretofore not known to be possible, The Joy of Gay Sex (third edition).
Apprising the situation, I gured some explanation was in order.
“It’s for a paper I’m doing,” I said, my voice rife with fake intel ectual assurance. “On French pianism and its e ects. You’d be amazed at how
far-reaching French pianism is.”
Priya, bless her, looked like she regret ed ever saying my name.
“Are you around for break?” she asked.
If I’d admit ed I was, she might have been forthcoming with an invitation to an eggnog party or a group excursion to the holiday lm Gramma
Got Run Over by a Reindeer, featuring a black comedian playing al of the roles, except for that of a female Rudolph, who was, one assumed, the
love interest. Because I withered under the glare of an actual invitation, I was a rm believer in preventative prevarication—in other words, lying
early in order to free myself later on.
“I leave tomorrow for Sweden,” I replied.
“Sweden?”
I did not (and do not) look in any way Swedish, so a family holiday was out of the question. By way of explanation, I simply said, “I love
Sweden in December. The days are short … the nights are long … and the design completely lacks ornament.”
Priya nodded. “Sounds fun.”
We stood there. I knew that according to the rules of conversation, it was now my turn. But I also knew that refusal to conform to these rules
might result in Priya’s departure, which I very much wanted.
After thirty seconds, she could stand it no longer.
After thirty seconds, she could stand it no longer.
“Wel , I got a go,” she said.
“Happy Hanukkah,” I said. Because I always liked to say the wrong holiday, just to see how the other person would react.
Priya took it in stride. “Have fun in Sweden,” she said. And was gone.
I rearranged my books so the red journal was on top again. I turned to the next page.
The fact that you are wil ing to stand there
in the Strand with The Joy of Gay Sex
bodes wel for our future.
However, if you already own this book
or would nd it useful in your life,
I am afraid our time together
must end here.
This girl can only go boy-girl,
so if you’re into
boy-boy, I completely support that,
but don’t see where I’d t into the picture.
Now, one last book.
4. What the Living Do, by Marie Howe
23/1/8
24/5/9, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15
I headed immediately to the poetry section, completely intrigued. Who was this strange reader of Marie Howe who’d summoned me? It seemed
too convenient that we should both know about the same poet. Real y, most people in my circle didn’t know any poets at al . I tried to remember
talking about Marie Howe with someone—anyone—but came up blank. Only So a, probably, and this wasn’t So a’s handwriting. (Plus, she was in
Spain.)
I checked the Hs. Nothing. I went through the whole poetry section. Nothing. I was about to scream in frustration when I saw it—at the very top
of the bookshelf, at least twelve feet from the oor. A slight corner peeking out—but I knew from its slimness and dark plum color that it was the
book I was looking for. I pul ed over a ladder and made the perilous climb. It was a dusty ascent, the out-of-reach heights clouded with disinterest,
making the air harder to breathe. Final y, I had the volume in my hand. I couldn’t wait—I quickly turned to pages 23 and 24 and found the seven
words I needed.
for the pure thril of unreluctant desire
I nearly fel o the ladder.
Are you going to be playing for the pure thril of unreluctant desire?
I was, to put it mildly, aroused by the phrasing.
Careful y, I stepped back down. When I hit the oor again, I retrieved the red Moleskine and turned the page.
So here we are.
Now it’s up to you,
what we do (or don’t) do.
If you are interested in continuing this conversation,
please choose a book, any book, and
leave a slip of paper with your email address inside of it.
Give it to Mark, at the information desk.
If you ask Mark any questions about me,
he wil not pass on your book.
So no questions.
Once you have given your book to Mark,
please return this book to the shelf
where you found it.
If you do al these things,
you very wel might hear from me.
Thank you.
Lily
Suddenly, for the rst time that I could recal , I was looking forward to winter break, and I was relieved that I was not, in fact, being shipped out
to Sweden the next morning.
I didn’t want to think too hard about which book to leave—if I started to second-guess, it would only lead to third-guessing and fourth-guessing,
and I would never leave the Strand. So I chose a book rather impulsively, and instead of leaving my email address inside, I decided to leave
something else. I gured it would take a lit le time for Mark (my new friend at the information desk) to give the book to Lily, so I would have a
slight head start. I handed it to him without a word; he nodded and put it in a drawer.
I knew the next step was for me to return the red notebook, to give someone else a chance of nding it. Instead, I kept it. And, furthermore, I
moved to the register to buy the copies of French Pianism and Fat Hoochie Prom Queen currently in my hands.
moved to the register to buy the copies of French Pianism and Fat Hoochie Prom Queen currently in my hands.
Two, I decided, could play this game.
two
(Lily)
December 21st
I love Christmas.
I love everything about it: the lights, the cheer, the big family gatherings, the cookies, the presents piled high around the tree, the goodwil to al .
I know it’s technical y goodwil to al men, but in my mind, I drop the men because that feels segregationist/elitist/sexist/general y bad ist.
Goodwil shouldn’t be just for men. It should also apply to women and children, and al animals, even the yucky ones like subway rats. I’d even
extend the goodwil not just to living creatures but to the dearly departed, and if we include them, we might as wel include the undead, those
supposedly mythic beings like vampires, and if they’re in, then so are elves, fairies, and gnomes. Heck, since we’re already being so generous in our
big group hug, why not also embrace those supposedly inanimate objects like dol s and stu ed animals (special shout-out to my Ariel mermaid,
who presides over the shabby chic ower power pil ow on my bed—love you, girl!). I’m sure Santa would agree. Goodwil to al .
I love Christmas so much that this year I’ve organized my own caroling society. Just because I live in the gentri ed bohemia of the East Vil age
does not mean I consider myself too cool and sophisticated for caroling. To the contrary. I feel so strongly about it that when my own family
members chose to disband our caroling group this year because everyone was “traveling” or was “too busy” or “has a life” or “thought you would
have grown out of it by now, Lily,” I did some old-fashioned problem solving. I made my own yer and put it up in cafés around my street.
Hark!
You there, closet caroler!
Care to herald some holiday song?
Real y? Me too! Let’s talk.*
Yours sincerely, Lily
*No creeps need apply; my grandpa knows
everyone in the neighborhood and you wil
incur much shunning should you be anything
less than sincere in your response. **
Thx again, yours most truly, Lily
**Sorry to be so cynical, but this is New York.
That yer was how I formed my Christmas caroling troupe this year. There’s me, Melvin (computer guy), Roberta (retired high school choir