Yesterday afternoon, I was enjoying a cup of tea, a turkey sandwich and the pleasure of reading a novel by one of my favorite writers.
Somedays, you can't even sit quietly minding your own business without the mad world intruding.
Two women came into the tea shop and chose the table next to me.
One woman was Caucasian, in her fifties, with dyed blond hair. The other was Chinese (I believe Cantonese, Hong Kong, or born in Canada.) and in her thirties.
"Oh, you're reading Philip Roth," the Chinese woman said in an almost dismissive manner.
"Yes. Why do you remark about that?" I thought maybe she was a writer or professor of literature and that might result in an amiable conversation.
"Well, nobody reads him now!"
Of course, I read Philip Roth now, so guess where that puts me.
"No, that's not true," I said. "Last year I read his new book, "Everyman," and now I'm reading this new book, so his publishers must feel that people are reading him. And, in fact, as of last year, he is now the only living writer to have most of his works published in a collection by the Library of America."
She approached my table, with he hand out.
"Let me see it," she demanded.
The truth is I feel that books are very personal, and I am mean and possessive about my books. I don't like to "lend" them out. I'll happily pay for your vacation to Palm Springs, buy you a new set of clothes and treat you to an expensive dinner, rather than share my books with you. It's silly and unattractive, I know, but that's how I am, and I'm not working on changing this peculiarity.
I gave her my book.
She spent a full three minutes reading all of the jacket information and handed it back to me with this summary, "It's very short!"
Not, "Thank you," or "Enjoy your reading."
She sat down. And that was that.
May I tell you that, although I did manage to enjoy the turkey sandwich immensely (It had some rare extra goodies and tastes hidden within.) and the African tea and, more importantly, the book, I was enraged.
I wanted so much to tower above this harridan, this hag, this shrew, and ask of her, "Do you have any idea of your own presentation of self to the world, you stupid bitch? Rude, passive-aggressive, man-hating. No doubt you belong to that class of lesbians who automatically hate all men and who will look for opportunities to attack."
Of course, I did nothing of the sort.
Soon, a dear old friend appeared, flush with the excitement of just having seen a matinee performance of "Hecuba" at The Cultch. Then, her daughter who is now living in Brighton joined us.
When I got up to leave and hugged my fiend and kissed her on the cheek, the two witches stopped their conversation cold to observe.
What was the issue? They were jealous of one person's natural affection for another? They hate the idea of men (Ugh!) defiling women with a kiss?
I was glad when I hit the street that the air was fresh and bracing and that the shop windows' lights played off the dark streets in the early evening.
