I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 3: Giant Library)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Who is your favorite Ghostbuster? Chime in after today's post! - Erin

(Continued from yesterday's post.)

Friday, July 15, 2005

11:13 a.m.

I made it! Despite temptations on every block of downtown Chicago -- coffee shops! records stores! places that sell chips and salsa! -- I am finally here at the Harold Washington Library. It is a glorious, 10-story behemoth of truth, literature, and having your backpack inspected on the way out. So far I have sniffed around floors 2, 1, 9, 8, 7, and 6, in that order, and am sitting at a desk which was chosen because it has a power outlet for my laptop and because the previous user left behind books titled Prayer and Understanding Marijuana. I figure I may need both if I'm going to successfully impersonate a teenager today.

Unfortunately, my new desk has the glaring drawback of being built for Bull from Night Court. I'm having to strain something fierce to sit up tall enough to type. My neck would like to say, Hey, you up there on top of me, with the brain! I was just wondering when you're going to clamp some of those gold rings around me like the African tribal types do. I mean, I assume that's why you're stretching and craning me like this. Because, otherwise, why? What do you think we are, a giraffe? Are the legs down there really too lazy to get up and find us all a more suitable table?

And my legs would say, Shut up, neck! Yes, we are!

11:42 p.m.

The man behind me just belched. In the library. Gross. If there is no smoking in the library, there should also be no belching. And no making weird whistling noises trying to suck food out from between your teeth, which is almost definitely what he's doing now. I think what we have here is a classic case of the Homeless Library Patron. This man is why most people who like books and have any money whatsoever are across the street at Barnes and Noble. They can't handle the homeless, and Barnes and Noble knows that. Why else would they build a book store right across the street from the gothic wonder that is the Harold Washington Library?

But the joke's on them. If I've learned one thing from the Corporate Saboteur it's that shiny floors, stupidly named beverages, and narcolesy inducing music are no shield against encounters with undesirables.

Anyway, the Belching Guy has every right to be here -- but he's also very distracting. Right now he has moved on from belching to alternately yawning and sniffing, with emphasis on the sniffing. I never knew anyone could sniff with such force. What is he sniffing for? Isn't he used to the way he smells? Aren't we all used to our own smells? Isn't it me who should be sniffing thanks to him? Or wait! Maybe he smells smoke! Is the Harold Washington on fire?! If so, I will be very disappointed. I haven't even seen floors 3 through 5 yet, and if I don't go to this book discussion, I'll always wonder if I could have pulled off all the bold-faced lying. Plus, considering how long it'll take security to inspect backpacks when we're all trying to flee the flames at once, chances are everyone from the second floor up will be toast.

12:50 p.m.

The discussion is 2 hours and 40 minutes off. I'm wondering if I should get there early, right on time, or late. If memory serves, teenagers are always late, or tardy, as they call it in high school. I wonder, too, about how many people will be there. If it's just me, I hope I melt into the ground from embarrassment before there's time for shame to set in. Hmmm. Will I accidentally burst out laughing at the first trite, teenagery thing that's said? Will they all talk like they know everything and they've had such big life experiences already, like everyone did at 16. Who will lead this discussion -- an adult, a kid, a librarian? Hmmm, maybe this isn't such a good idea. I hate it when librarians get mad and shush you. I can't imagine getting kicked out of the library for impersonating an adolescent. Is there a felony for that, like impersonating a police officer? Is it possible I haven't fully thought this through?

OK, my neck is killing me! I've got to move!

12:55 p.m.

I've found a new home on the back wall of the sixth floor, by a window. It's not a big or particularly picturesque view, but it's something. I've also found several books I want to read (the first chapter at least), including Teen Aganst? Naaah . . . A Quasi-Autobiography and Avoiding Prison and Other Noble Vacation Goals. Perhaps these books will offer some valuable insight into today's mission.

Speaking of finding things: I never did spot a street rubber band, thank god. Clearly, we're all better off (me, for the obvious reason that I don't have street rubber band in my hair, and everyone else for the reason that it would be impossible to respect someone with a street rubber band in her hair and nobody wants to read the writing of someone they don't respect). But now I have to rely on the kindness of librarians to find one. Aside from Megan Owen's mom and Bart from the Twin Oaks Austin branch, those ladies kinda scare me. I just checked over my shoulder, inadvertently, to make sure none of them were watching me type this -- as if they have such good hearing from working in a quiet library that they can somehow make out the different keys I'm typing and mentally spell along, reading my every word. Who knows what powers librarians possess, really? They've read a lot of books, and their brains were trained on the magical minutae of the Dewey Decimal System. Plus, now that the check-out system is computerized, you just know they're dying to find other uses for those weird old gadgets that once stamped the due dates in library books. Yes, I'm sure of it now. Screw library security -- the librarians are truly the ones to be feared today. No way am I going to jail covered head to toe in smeared, blue-black ink splotches that say July 15, 2005. I'll get my own tattoos in prison, thank you very much.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Perhaps if I find a ponytail holder, I can still pull off this ruse and avoid incarceration all together (at least for today). I've got a good spy outfit: yellow and black Reef flipflops, shorts from Old Navy, a red tank top with stars on it, and a darker red zip-up hoodie with embroidered flowers (from the teencentric Delia's catalog). Also, no makeup. Today, the freckles rule the face with an iron fist (as my dad used to say)! I didn't even try very hard to cover any zits (for once adult acne is useful). Most importantly, I moved my wedding and engagement rings to my right hand. If anyone asks, they are promise rings from my high school sweetheart. Not a lie, per se.

1:01 p.m.

As cool as the Harold Washington Library is, I like to imagine I'm actually in the main library in New York City. That's where the opening scene takes place in Ghostbusters. God, I love that movie: when the Ghostbusters walk past the stack of books in the basement and Venkman says, "No human being would stack books like that" . . . when Ray hushes them with, "Listen! Do you smell something?" . . . when Venkman asks the freaked-out old librarian, "Are you, Alice, menstruating?" Someday I hope to work up the nerve to say that to a librarian and just see what happens.

(To be continued . . . Join me tomorrow when I explore the library further and make some very big noise breaking one of its biggest rules!)