Lunch Money, 1976.

Every few weeks, I'd make up my mind that middle school sucked beyond endurance. In addition, I'd revisit the crushing realization that my 14-year-old life was actually being wasted. Furthermore, I'd face the grim fact that three more years of being flushed out of the stacks in the school library and being forced to attend pep rallies was a permanent part of my pathetic landscape.

It was powerfully daunting crap to take stock of, but about the time I felt completely mired, something good would happen! The English teacher (her class always a tiny island of respite) would pass out the new Scholastic book order forms!

These order forms were (are?) only two thin sheets printed front and back with selections from the Scholastic Book Club, but to their credit, they made every little bit of space count, listing books that students could order, complete with a stamp-sized photo of each book cover and a tiny synopses artfully written to tickle the interest of even the most indifferent reader. Of course for me, the tickle was like a sledgehammer blow.

Everything -- English, Math, General Science, Vocal Music, Citizenship, Oklahoma History -- fell away as I studied my order form. Only threats of confiscation by some unreasonably irate teacher made me put it away to peruse later on the bus. I couldn't understand how some of the other students' order forms fell to the classroom floor and ended up torn and footprinted.

At home, I sprawled on my bed to study the list of books with the proper attention, gravity and reverence it deserved. My math phobia dissolved like mist as I scratched columns of figures on notebook paper like the most seasoned accountant, re-checked my choices, and scowled at the wadded dollar bills and assorted change I'd dumped on the pillow.

Heavy sigh. As usual, I wanted more than my allowance covered. This time, it was way more. Was Scholastic Books having some sort of brief literary renaissance, or was the recent onset of puberty the catalyst that set off the voice in my brain that intoned nonstop: "The books. The books. The books! The BOOKS! THE BOOKS!" a refrain that persists right to this very moment?

I would have to ask my mother and father for some money. I hated to ask them because they were non-readers. Both of them. They wouldn't get it. Oh sure, they bought me books, but they didn't understand the compulsion to have piles and piles.

I approached them in the living room at a moment they seemed to be relaxed and in a good mood. "I was wondering if I could have an advance on my allowance up through March." My allowance was $2.00 a week.

"No," said my mother automatically. I waited a minute. "Why?" she asked.

"I want to buy some books," I said.

"How many?"

I held up the Scholastic book order form. "This one, that one, and that other one." I pointed. "I have enough for these three, but I don't have enough for the other seven."

"You don't need ten books," said my mother.

Yes, I do. I need them. I thought.

"You've got books," my father chimed in. "There's books stacked up in that room I'd bet you've never looked at."

You'd bet wrong.

"When do they need the money?" asked my mother.

"Friday."

"This is not a good week to ask. Just get those three. That's enough for now."

No use arguing. I took my order form and headed back down the hall. "Well, hell." I muttered.

"What'd I hear?" My father called out.

"Nothing."

Back in my room, my mood continued to darken, and the prospect of school resumed its usual dreary proportions.

The next morning I rose reluctantly and trudged to the breakfast table. There by my cereal bowl lay two dollars and fifty cents!

"Don't forget your lunch money," my mother said.

I grabbed it and held it in my left hand as I spooned cereal into my mouth with my right. "Don't worry, I won't."

I could hardly wait to get out of the house. More scratched figures in the notebook. Two-fifty! One week of lunches! Lousy lunches that inevitably featured a meat dish that tasted like soggy cardboard covered in gravy. Boring vegetable medleys. The tiniest smidgen of dessert. All washed down with milk, which I loathed. To hell with that. I was going to get at least three more books. That would make six. Six was a far cry from the ten I craved, but I knew I couldn't be happy with only three.

For the rest of the week, I hung out in the library during lunch. That Friday, I turned in my order form and money, and 4-6 weeks later, I brought my nice fat package of books home.

"How did you get all those books?" my mother asked.

Since there was nothing she could do now, I told her about saving up my lunch money. She was appalled. "You went hungry so you could buy a damn book?" She shook her head. "Don't do that again."

"OK," I said.

Of course I did it again.  And again.  Over the years, I've saved hundreds in lunch and grocery money and staggered bill payments to afford books. It'll never end. In my mind, I look ahead, many years down the road. I envision a long Barnes & Noble receipt taped to my gravestone.

The Nonreading Boyfriend, 1977.

When I was 15, I had a boyfriend. That was the main thing back then, to have a boyfriend that you could drop into conversations like so much disposable currency. Since I was rather new at this sort of thing, I didn't really do research before signing up to "go steady" with him. We'd been going out for a few days when I found out that he didn't like to read. In fact, he hated reading!

Not only did this guy hate reading, he hated to see anyone reading. On several occasions, when he saw me reading, he'd come up and knock the book out of my hands and across the room! The first time he did this, I was so deep into the novel (INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE) that he scared the crap out of me and I screamed. For some stupid reason, I recovered when I saw that it was dear darling Boyfriend and quickly decided that he was so happy to see me that he couldn't control his exhuberance, which of course was charming and flattering.

After a few more books went sailing across the room, I became less enchanted with his unique way of saying hello. The final straw came when I was reading an older paperback novel (CATCHER IN THE RYE) and the glue on the spine was old and crumbly. As the book flew across the room, it fell apart and loose pages fluttered down.

I forgot about my secret vow to always be The Nicest, Sweetest Girlfriend In The Whole Wide World.

"Fucking asshole!" I sputtered, scrambling to gather the pages and shove them back in the book in the correct order.

"What's your problem?" Boyfriend was genuinely bewildered.

"Well, it's just that...." I paused and tried to remember exactly how last month's SEVENTEEN magazine had said to handle tense situations with tact and grace.

Ah, to hell with it.

"You broke my fucking book!" Broke. Too childish. Sounded like I was talking about a toy. Also, I had that broken-toy whine in my voice. I tried for some dignity. "You destroyed my book. Demolished it."

In another minute, Boyfriend was going to need to put his finger up his nose to keep his brain from rattling around like the last dried bean in a maraca. "What you tallkin like a dictionary for? You think you're so smart, sitting around with your goddamn books all the time, trying to act like you're hot shit!"

"I am not!" Really, I didn't think I was that smart. And I would have never in a million years thought of using books as a way to establish my hot-shitness to the world. Farrah hair? Yes. Knee-high lace-up boots? Yes. Books? No.

"You just can't do that to a book," I pointed out to Boyfriend (?), or tried to.

"Why?" Boyfriend (?) sneered. "Does the ittle book have feelings? Is it gonna cry?"

I personally thought that the book had feelings, but didn't say so aloud. In private though, I had already apologized to INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE, A PROLOGUE TO LOVE and GO ASK ALICE for being assaulted. I apologized and made explanations. ("He doesn't like to read but it's because he hasn't found his perfect book yet. It's up to me to find it for him.")

"Reading's stupid," Boyfriend (?) announced. "And you're stupid for reading so much," he added. "That's why you got them glasses. If you quit reading, you wouldn't need to wear glasses, and you know what? You'd look a HELL of a lot better."

I finished gathering all the pages. "I have to go," I said, my voice wobbling.

I went into the bathroom to cry, to comfort my book, and to meditate on my revenge. I wondered if the American Library Association put out contracts on stupid fucking asshole bastard nonreaders! I imagined myself beating him up, then tying him to a chair, then gluing his eyes open and forcing him to read every minute of every day! That'd fix his stupid fucking ignorant nonreading ass! What would I make him read? I smiled through my tears, thinking of the many possibilities.

I wiped my runny eye makeup and blew my nose. "I still have you," I whispered to CATCHER IN THE RYE, hugging it tightly.

Damn, it was going to be such a drag, waiting around for another boyfriend! Oh well, maybe there was a likely candidate in the school library. If not, I could check out a book to cheer myself up.

Rodney

While riding the train one evening, I met a woman who used to be a high school English teacher back in the U.S. During the course of our conversation, I asked her if she likes to read. She said she did, then she mentioned a former co-worker named Rodney. She said that he has more than 200 books at his workplace, and that people come and borrow them all the time.

200 books? All in one place? That made me smile. Of course, a shadow of doubt crossed my mind, as it always does. What if it's all crap? I shook my head resolutely, and decided that in a pile of 200 books, there would have to be a gem or two...or twenty. Right?

This woman told me where she used to work, where Rodney works. I saw the place the other day, coming home on the bus. Yee haw! Now, I've just got to meet Rodney. I'm bound to run into him in some sort of social setting. Can I control my book lust enough to keep me from barging into his workplace with a hearty smile and a good-sized empty bookbag? Stay tuned.