Books Borrowed from My Ex-Husband #5, Interlude Essay #1
The Mini Modern reviews and the circumstances of my life grow stranger, loopy even. Maybe it is the intense content in the little books. Maybe I’m just prone to loopiness.
Weirdly, I run an errand as a favor for my Ex-Husband. We arranged a meeting: I give him something he requested, he gives me a stack of Minis. That’s how this is going to go.
I travel unusually to accomplish the task, Friday afternoon and the traffic heavy. I sit and wait through red light after red light, unable to make it through intersections.
He calls me.
“Did you get it?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“Well, where are you? I am already downtown.”
“This traffic is god awful. I hope you brought good books.”
“I’ll meet you at Colonial Photo and Hobby, okay?”
“Okay. I will be at least ten minutes. I will call you when I’m almost there.”
“Fine.”
To distract myself from my irritation at the traffic I scan the radio stations relentlessly, always thinking the next song is going to be the only one I really want to hear. It normally isn’t, but this is what I do.
I drive down Mills to get to Colonial Photo and Hobby. I don’t look backwards, and I don’t dwell, but I find myself thinking about when I was married, and things went wrong. I think about the trouble I found on Mills in the bar that rhymes with its street address. There’s no use thinking about this.
I look at the Minis already read, sitting next to me, and think of those, instead.
I’m trying to be a better writer. You do that by being a better reader. Kind of like a chemist figuring out the formula, not to replicate, but to understand the molecular level of any given substance.
What are the connections, the lessons to learn in this project, so far? I look at them as a whole, wondering why Penguin included this work over that, this writer of that one. What are they trying to do in this set? I can’t yet decide, though it already has a feel. A couple of books in and it is a stark collection, but not barren. Bracingly effective in waves. It reads like Icelandic music sounds, like Bjork mournfully crashing the sonic equivalent of dandelion seeds into glaciers. Maybe this is what it means to be modern. I can’t say, because I’m not done with the 50.
I kind of feel modern, but I don’t know what that means. I just ran an implausible errand. I don’t want to think about any of this. I’d rather have some wine. I keep fiddling with the radio. Nerves.
I pull into the parking lot. I see him sitting in his car.
Life isn’t what you expect. That’s what I know. Living and writing, both are unexpected.
Before I can gather all the books and the bag of stuff I have for the Ex Husband, it starts to pour. The sky dissolves. I look ten cars across the parking lot to where he is, grab my stuff, and go; hopping through puddles. My foot’s sole slides against the leather of the sandal. Clutching the books, I make it to his car and he opens the door. This is a different car than when we were married. He used to drive a Mini Cooper. We apparently have a great legacy of love for all things Mini.
The first thing I notice is the stack of books waiting for me, sitting on his dash. The second thing I notice is his pants.
“You are wearing purple pants.” It’s more than an observation. I have a tone, and I sort of regret the tone instantly, but it doesn’t stop me.
“Yeah.” He says. “They aren’t purple. They’re ox blood.”
“Ah.” We exchange the Minis, the bag I brought him safely tucked and dry inside the Robert Coover Mini. “They look kind of gay.” I note, when the new Minis are in my hand.
“No they don’t. People love these pants.”
“Dudes.” I say, laughing. “Dudes probably love those pants.” I don’t mean anything malicious by it. Gay men often wear great pants, another truth I can add to my list of stuff I know.
I run back to my car, fistful of books to read. Thoughts of the daunting nature of the task at hand overwhelm me for a second, to not only read and write reviews about the works, but to do my own work. My own body of work, manuscripts I’ve labored over now for years. I feel a moment of panic, thinking about how fast it goes, and how far away accomplishing all I hope to feels.
I have no idea what this project means to me as a writer, except I’ll learn something. Be the lesson unexpected, I’ll be unsurprised.
The rain eases. The traffic clears. I read the next books. And so on.