An Unlikely Friendship

Got myself a new library peep recently and, I must say, I feel pretty good about it. Not because we have a lot in common, either, which is usually the reason people like to snag themselves a new peep. No, Liz is a rough, on-the-edge teenager--I'm guessing 15 or 16--who wandered into the library during lunch one day and pretty much demanded that I find her a good book.

Not just any good book, mind you. It had to be a hardcover one. And not too tall or thick, either. For Liz, then, the contents seemed to be less important than the container itself.

Apparently, she'd had some bad luck with the softbound variety and didn't want The Man (or The Woman, as the case may be) to pin blame upon her for dog-eared pages and tattered covers.

Now, I've got a list of books I've read, dating back about 16 years, in which I write down the titles, authors and genres. But, somehow, my personal database overlooks cover materials. I created this list when I found myself calling son Eric "Rasta" more than "Eric." Rasta was our most excellent family canine at the time, but "most excellent canine" does not equate "borne of thy womb" anymore than "Bo Pelini" equates "Miami football coach." And so, I decided I'd better start recording some basic information not only about my child but also about the books I'd been reading, lest I forget them.

I still forget the titles and characters' names of most of the books I read--usually within hours of closing the books once and for all,--all too often resorting to such vague descriptions as "It's a big, colorful cover and inside are all these, like, really interesting people who are doing amazing things. I think. Or maybe the cover is kind of dark and depressing. . . " But I've got my backup band, nonetheless.

It wasn't a whole lot of help with Liz, though, since I couldn't recall if they were softbound or hardbound. And so, we roamed the shelves a bit, my list in hand, in case a title came up that sounded vaguely familiar to me. Within a few minutes, I found a book I thought she'd love. It was about an African-American teenaged couple in New York who found out they were going to be parents. And how the dad eventually became the sole parent in his child's life. Gritty, raw, and starring a compassionate male character, I figured I'd found a winner for Liz. Oh, and it was hardbound, too.

"Oh, yeah. That's a great book. It's the last book I've read," she said, "when I was in jail last year," she added.

On so many levels, I am a lacking librarian. I'm a slow reader, I can't seem to remember book titles, I have never had a sexual dream about John Dewey, . . . In short, Liz may very well have been a victim of time and circumstance. Had she only wandered into the library a half hour later, after Roxi was back from lunch, she would have been swimming in wonderful options, each a literary haute couture, designed and written exclusively for her. And in hardback!

But she muddled her way through with me, giving me patient, if not encouraging feedback, until we finally settled on a title.

Imagine my surprise and delight when she wandered back into the library just a few days later, book in hand, and a hungry look in her eyes.

"I need another."

Oh, Lord. I'd failed her.

"I loved it. Give me another."

And so, our precarious literary friendship blossomed. Every few days, she returns to the library, each time, slightly more emboldened to ween herself from my recommendations and wander the shelves herself. I miss making suggestions, but I'm thrilled she's found herself a set of operational--and apparently, pretty successful--book-finding skills. She even told me that her mom was reading the books she was bringing home.

And so, I wrote her mom a little letter. Told her about Liz's new-found appetite for books, her new-found ability to eat them up like a thirsty animal laps up water. Mentioned that Liz has even been able to check out a few hardcover books, returning them in admirable shape.

Liz appreciated the note, one not written by a probation officer or school administrator, but rather by a mediocre librarian who just happened to be lucky enough to be at the desk when her daughter wandered in, hungry for a good read.