My Library Part 2

During my seminary days at Duke (back then I spelled it "Dook" and didn't know any better) I met another graduate student in an Aramaic class taught by Dr. Orville Wintermute (B.A., M.A., D.D. Ph. Lit. Ph. D, etc.) named Bob. There were only three of us in the class, and Bob arrived each day with books wrapped in cellophane, their spines marked with Dewey Decimal system numbers.

One day I asked Bob why he was always checking out library books and he informed me that these were not library books, but his own. "I inscribe all of my books by Dewey Decimal, bind them in permanent cellophane, and keep a card file catalogue in my home of all my books so I can locate them easily." Bob informed me of this with all of the bravado of an opera singer and, while Dr. Wintermute droned on about conjugating Aramaic verbs, I couldn't help but think to myself, "Bob, you are such a nerd!"

Thank God I have not become Bob. Bob likely lives today in a small shack surrounded by books and kitchen knives and may (or may not) have two dissected human bodies in his freezer alongside the ground chuck. Me, on the other hand, I've gone on to an illustrious career purchasing books on Amazon.com and sleeping inside the freezer on hot summer days in order to stay cool. Same difference, perhaps . . . but at least I'm not a nerd.

While Bob catalogues all of his library books, I stack mine reverently in neat, orderly piles, somewhat categorized by subject matter (biography in one section, history, business/leadership, theology/Bible, science fiction, westerns, etc). Well, I used to. But now my library is a hodgepodge. I've blended decaf with caffeine, nonfiction with fiction and so forth to the point now where I have difficulty locating some books when I need them.

But I repeat . . . at least I am not a nerd. Please . . . compare me to Bob, who keeps a card file, a tiny catalogue in his house alongside his bloody steak knives. I don't have the knives. And I only have a tiny card file to keep track of my many stories, proposals, essays, and submissions to the editors. I know where my children are. I know who might adopt them.

And as for Bob . . . I have a feeling he's still back there at Dook, studying up for his second post-doc in Syriac or ancient Ethiopic. He's not married like me and living a full life with a 1991 Chevy Caprice wagon with two hub caps and $2.88 remaining on his $10 Starbucks gift card. He's not having great sex twice a year, or mowing two and half acres of lawn, or sitting on his back deck in the evenings in a tattered pair of Ralph Lauren underwear while writing love poetry to his old lady. Bob probably drinks tea . . . and gets his ice cubs from the freezer.