Another uncharacteristic entry from the folks who bring you "On the nightstand," "Chevalier Noir for the Mind," "Talk to Them," and "The sountrack of our life."The mid-twenties version of me recklessly spent $5 or $8 or even, once or twice, $12 on a bottle of shampoo. In the $5 to $9 range was a bottle of Aveda back in 1992. It smelled good. Very good. I will not forget how good because I left the bottle of pricey shampoo in my sister’s shower caddy during a trip in August of that year. She shipped it back, but — inexplicably — the cap loosened enough to
drip, drip, drip as it traveled from one coast to the other. Hmmm, this smells
so good! I breathed, accepting the box from the mail carrier.
And so it goes.
And yesterday I stood in Target in front of the vast selection of Suave shampoo — the brand middle-aged autodidacts who wear the old coat to buy the new books favor — and thought, not for the first time, either, if only I could have the difference, bottle for bottle, between the shampoo I bought in the eighties and nineties and the shampoo I’ve been buying since becoming a mother of two and then three — what a tidy sum I’d have now to spend on books.
And laundry detergent! The same lament. For years, thinking only Tide or Era would do when Purex, which, for the budget-unconscious, runs $3 to $4.50 less than Tide or Era — cleans my clothes as well. Just as well.
And milk. Well, for our first four years in Chicago, nearly four gallons a week. Another child. Practically a gallon a day. $3.29 a gallon at Jewel-Osco. Another child. More milk. Lumbering through the narrow checkout lane at Osco, one girl on each hip, a strong, young son behind, he hugging one gallon, I dangling one from each mannishly strong index finger.
Plop. Plop. Plop. A ten spot and then some to cover — milk! Outrageous, I confided to the woman scanning my milk. Yes, she replied, softly. That’s why I get my milk at White Hen. White Hen? Yes. Hmmm. We found the Hen. $1.99 a gallon. I wept. $1.30 times several hundred gallons. Oh, the books, the books, the books that could have purchased.
Buy your books used, Kevin chided. He introduced to me to many city treasures — like Powell's. Save your money. But, sadly, many of my “used” companions are the ones I least like to hold. They were cheaper, yes, but some of them also seem cheap. It’s a special person who prefers to cradle someone’s discard. I am not special. I want my marginalia to stand alone, not beside some glib undergrad’s. All right. So I don't usually write in my books. But if I did? And I want my spines uncreased. The pages unbent. The dust jackets clean and pressed. I want my books to smell new. Inhale. Ahhhh! If only Kevin had offered something useful, like, Buy your milk at the White Hen, or, Suave works as well as Aveda. But, Buy used? That was not helpful.
Kevin had talent and intelligence, probably a couple of tablespoons more of each than I. But I had ambition and pride, too. A Type-A to his Type-B. Guess which one of us the vice presidents preferred to work with. Guess which one nearly lost his job half a dozen times. Guess which one didn’t care — not before the crisis (usually a missed deadline that I could have helped him meet — had he only remembered to write it on the production schedule or even just tell me), not during (Are. They. Done. Yet. he once signed to me, as two of the vice presidents argued over which of Kevin’s shortcomings was the most offensive. Why. Am. I. Here. I signed back. They. Like. You. And I liked that.), not after (Don’t worry about it. Okay.). But then guess which one of us decided to stay home with the baby.
Both babies. Ayup. Both of us.
Both of us had girls. Baby girl. Pause. Surprise! Baby girl. Both of us had gorgeous baby girls. In Kevin’s case, this was not surprising: His wife, who had never liked anyone else he had worked with but liked me, was startlingly beautiful. I am, of course, average. My husband is average. Kevin is average. (His previous co-workers were
not average. Heh, heh, heh. And then Kevin married.) The law of averages? Kevin and I both had gorgeous baby girls. This will be harder for him than for me. I wonder what Kevin will say to the young men who arrive on his doorstep in a decade. Why. Are. You. Here. he will sign. Because I like her, they will reply. Oh. Okay.
(My son was in school when I had baby girl, pause, surprise, baby girl. For the record, he is gorgeous, too.)
Kevin read
Journey to the End of the Night on the el. I read
Operating Instructions that night. We talked all day at work. Said nothing on the train ride home until his stop. See ya’ tomorrow. Bye. Never saw him again. Just a handful of short telephone calls (Where is the schedule? On the board. Oh. Yeah. Are you coming back? No, but don’t tell them. I won’t.) and email messages (Your kid is cute. Thanks.) and that was that. A message from a former coworker: Kevin stays home with the kids. His wife works. He left before they could fire him.
Good for him. And so it goes.
I bought Celine’s
Journey to the End of the Night. New. I haven’t read it. I haven’t read a lot of the books on my shelves. And that’s okay. They read me.
Reading is, like writing , a solitary pursuit. You read beside your husband. Sometimes you read to him or he to you. That’s nice. And sometimes, okay, often, you read to the children. And they to you. But the reading — finding the inflection and cadence that are this character’s and the face that is that; arguing with the writer about this premise and nodding to him about that — is, essentially, a loner’s pursuit.
I am a loner.
No comments because I am a loner. That’s what I was thinking the other day when yet another visitor asked why we didn’t enable the comments. It's free, you know. Um, yes. I know. But so is, say, listening to the country music radio station, and I don't do that, either. I sent off the pat answer about controlling the content. The truer answer is this:
I’m reading.
I’m writing.
I’m thinking. And while a few “regulars” (who, like Kevin, probably have a couple of tablespoons (nay,
cups) more talent and intelligence than I (it’s not flattery; it’s the truth; you know who you are — as always, thank you)) make me think, most of the rest do not.
And so it goes.
Enabling comments might result in the sort of idle and small talk I loathe, and I would be obligated to respond because, after all, I
invited the idle and small talk by enabling the comments. Yes, I've commented here and there. Nothing
bad happened. But as a daily exercise? It would suck the life out of the un-blog.
Readers and visitors, I want and expect
nothing from you. Really. If you
want to give, though, give me a recommendation. A challenge. A reminder. A smart chiding. Teach me. Make. Me. Think. But then go away. (And I mean that
nicely. I do.) Go away and do your own reading and writing and thinking. Because the coffee here wasn’t brewed for company, folks.
I don’t like company. Except my sister. Who doesn’t feel or act like company. I was wrong, by the way. If she lived closer, I probably
would see her often. My sister.
She is the sort who would have been able to tell the mid-twenties version of me that most shampoo is created equal, that milk is cheaper at White Hen, and that Purex cleans clothes just as well as Tide or Era. Only I didn’t talk to her much when I was in my mid-twenties.
I have certainly paid for it.
And so it goes.
