Checking out

My New York public library visits tend to come in two flavors: thrilling and successful, or depressing and creepy. During the former, I show up armed with a list, pluck everything on the list easily from the shelves, and stumble across a few gems I'd forgotten I wanted to read, or never even heard of. The high I get from these visits is not unlike the one that accompanies a great shopping trip at a discount retailer (my sister, observing me in one such frenzy at the Seattle Nordstrom Rack, said my "shopping face" can be a bit unnerving -- OK, "scary" was her word).

I remember this acquisition-high from going to the library as a child -- I never got over the thrill of realizing that all this stuff you want is yours for the taking. Sure, you have to give it back eventually, but at the rate I plowed through books as a lonely kid, the book's purpose was served and spent after the last page was turned, and I was eager to send it back for a fresh batch. Anyway, the NYPL, while fraught with disappointments such as the cruel Sunday/Monday closings and some really down-at-heel facilities, often can be relied on to produce a pretty satisfying haul.

Then there are those sadder visits, such as the one I had today, on a quick lunchtime jaunt to the little downtown branch nearest my office. The "New Amsterdam" name has a certain charm to it, and while the branch is in sore need of an upgrade, I've smelled worse in the Manhattan system. On my way up Murray Street, clutching my list optimistically in my pocket, I passed a short man who gave me a cheery "hello." I replied with the cordial-yet-noncommittal nod and slight quickening of pace required in these situations.

Once inside, my mood was dampened by the orangeish fluorescent lights and the utter mess of some of the tables, but I soldiered on. First book on the list -- no dice. Second -- nope. Third -- this is not your day. Fourth -- give it up, will you? Having struck out entirely, I set out for the Old Reliables, those authors with a vast body of work I haven't yet plumbed the depths of, but who can usually be counted on to produce something satisfying. The Graham Greene section was bare. Approaching the TC Boyle section required maneuvering around a tall seated man who seemed occupied with nothing but producing a full-body backward stretch from his chair that would bring him into physical contact with passing female patrons. And once I passed this challenge, no Boyle to be found.

Scanning the new nonfiction section for a fresh discovery, my mood turned ever more glum -- will there be a day when I'll need to come to the library in search of that "Coping with Breast Cancer" book? How about "So You Want a Baby and He Doesn't"? And in the fiction new releases -- how is it that I'm fooled, every time, into thinking that a mammoth novel by one STEVE MARTINI is a surprise new release by actor, writer, and art collector Steve Martin? I begin to question my own critical faculties. If you're dim enough to make that kind of mistake, I think, you'll never publish a book -- and what's the point of it all anyway, it'll just end up among these lonely stacks, covered in smudged, yellowing cellophane ... look at the rows, hundreds upon hundreds of phone calls to Mom announcing that the novel's finally been published, all the proud updates to college alumni newsletters ... who are all these people?

I made my way to the alphabetized fiction aisle one last time, scanning quickly, hoping inspiration would strike. Ha Jin! I thought -- he's just what I need now, a writer I love whose work I haven't kept up with. But then the old question -- H or J? Again muttering to myself about my intellectual shortcomings (for this is a question I've been nerdy enough to look up in the past, but forgot the answer to), I struck out in the H section and approached the Js. Just then, a figure materialized to my left -- the same short man who'd greeted me on Murray Street! Standing inappropriately closely, he greeted me with another, more familiar, "hi!" I looked at the shelf directly in front of me, grabbed the first book within reach, and fled with no cordial nod.

Approaching the checkout desk, I glanced down at the hefty (or at least big for Jin -- or is it Ha?) novel in my hand: The Crazed. I'm looking forward to reading it.

UPDATE: Great, now I can add guilt to my library visits! I knew I was missing something. Via Maud

Comments

[miriam's ideas]

You need to look at the library's online catalog. Browsing the shelves is great fun at times--this apparently was not one of the times--but if your branch has dumped all the Graham Greene books but the Bloomingdale branch hasn't, you can request it online. Or in person.

As for the er, troubling patrons, every library has those. Think about it; where else can they go that's warm and has a bathroom? But they are supposed to behave themselves. Let the staff know if they are bothering you.

[cm]

so true, thanks -- I actually do take advantage of the online search and hold; it's pretty slick. Sometimes it requires a bit more planning ahead than I'm capable of (which is not much), though. I think NYorkers are pretty savvy about the reserve thing, which is probably why a lot of the good ones are taken when one attempts to go the spontaneous route!

[Kay]

The only good library in the city is the Donnell library; the Mid-Manhattan is only a distant runner up. All the branch libraries are terrible. But some of the buildings are old so it's worth it to go to them to check out the architecture.