At the end of summer 2001, I practiced law a few blocks from Chandra Levy’s apartment building. The front page of every newspaper was filled with accusations against then-U.S. Representative Gary Condit, linking him to her and speculating that he had something to do with her disappearance. As I made my daily walk from the Metro station to my office, flyers and posters with Chandra’s picture were posted everywhere.
On two separate occasions, people stopped me on the street. Their eyes filled with a glimmer of hope, telling me I looked like “that missing woman.” I suppose the confusion was understandable. I, too, had long, dark curls and a Semitic look. I had to shatter the optimistic Samaritans by admitting, I was not Chandra Levy, but I, too, wished the police would find her soon. To me, it seemed like the worst thing I could imagine happening to a young woman.
However, by the end of the summer, something would happen that would shatter my wildest nightmares of “worsts.”
September 11.
After 9-11, nobody ever asked me again whether I was Chandra Levy. Instead of searching for her, commuters and residents in the neighborhood were in a daze, walking from the Metro past tanks and armed soldiers in the street, smoke still rising form the Pentagon in the distance. The skyways eerily still but for an occasional helicopter or fighter jet patrolling the area.
This was a time of one colossal tragedy overshadowing a personal one.
Quiet at the library? Since I left my law practice and started writing fiction, at least twice each week, the public library is my office. I like getting away from the nose and distractions of my telephone, e-mail, and, oh yes… the dreaded refrigerator.
Most of the time, my hours at the library are quite productive. I crank out a first draft of a chapter, or meticulously polish the language of a few choice paragraphs. Sometimes I brainstorm and add to my short story idea log.
However, during my last trip to the library, I realized I have a skewed expectation that the quiet room in the library should be, well… quiet. One guy, with baggy jeans, sprawled in a chair in the corner. He had an open book in his lap, flipping through the pages. This was fine and appropriate. But then his cell phone blasted some hip hop tune. While he talked to his friend on the telephone with no regard to his volume, he pulled out from his bag, not one, but TWO huge boxes of Cap’n Crunch (I’m not kidding!). He munched on it by the handful. They call it Cap’n CRUNCH for a reason.
The librarian came over and asked him to get off the telephone. He politely obliged.
Ah…quiet, at last. I regained my concentration. I was in the zone. Words were flying from my brain to the laptop keyboard. My book was practically writing itself—until I heard the noise. It started at first as an occasions clack. Then it was followed by a clackety-clack, pause, clackety-clackety-clack, pause. There was no pattern to it. It was a noise I hadn’t heard often since college.
I surveyed the area, and to my surprise, glasses and grey flannel sat nearby using a portable, electric typewriter. Ugh! I’m pretty sure typewriters weren’t allowed in the quiet rooms of libraries even before computers… I think I saw a similar relic at an antique shop up in Maine a couple summers ago.
If she were a speed typist, whose fingers flew on the keys at an even, fast, rhythm, perhaps I might have tuned out the noise. But the hunt and peck, slow, uneven banging on the keys with an occasional bell signaling the end of the line, followed by the clatter and thunk of the carriage return were just too much for my silence-seeking-psyche.
At my request, the librarian asked the typist to move to another part of the library with her typewriter. Glasses and grey flannel refused, instead opting to pick up pen and paper. At that moment, Cap’n Crunch, over in the corner, who by now had put on his headphones and i-pod, started moaning out a song in a high-pitched falsetto that rivaled moose calls during mating season.
That’s when I called it quits for the day.
The headlines are all over the news about the salmonella outbreaks linked to peanuts from my home state, Virginia. I have visions of that beloved Mr. Peanut trading in his tuxedo and formal attire for an orange jumpsuit with his inmate number printed on the front.
This morning, the Washington Post reports that the Peanut Corporation of America (PCA) has filed for bankruptcy protection. The photo of Stewart Parnell, PCA’s CEO, is plastered right there on the front page for all to see. Only to my surprise, Mr. Peanut does not wear a top hat and a monocle. The photo of the CEO oflooks nothing like I expected. He looks, well . . . how do I put this? He looks more human than peanut. Not only is Mr. Peanut producing a product that is tainted, he’s a fraud!
I have been trying to eat more heart-healthy foods lately, and eat fewer sweets. So why does this news impact me? For some reason, now that I know these peanut buttery treats are off limits, I want them even more! I have peanuts on the brain! I am going through serious Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup withdrawal.
Today’s weather is sunny and clear, and already a few crocus bulbs are popping through the soil. That means that spring is on its way, and summer won’t be far behind. With summer, the jingle of the Good Humor truck fills the air on my street each evening. (Yes, that still happens where I live!) I am fearful that this year, my favorite treat from the Good Humor Man will go from being a “Nutty Buddy” to just a plain Buddy, I don’t know what I’ll do!
Why? Mr. Peanut, why?
I have a confession. For years I’ve been a notorious eavesdropper. I’ve listened to others’ conversations while commuting to and from work on the metro, sitting in restaurants when there is lull in my own conversation, and now, when I sit at a coffee shop with my laptop.
Sometimes what I overhear is ordinary, everyday stuff—the kind of mundane greetings and introductions that would get cut from the first draft of a written scene in order to get to the action. Sometimes more is communicated by what is NOT said than what IS said. Occasionally, my imagination fills in a story around a few choice words I overhear. Sometimes I get a spark of an idea to create a quirky character or ideas about how I might capture a unique voice in dialogue.
But other times, like the one I’m about to share, what I hear really makes me feel out of touch with the younger generation. That is, in a hysterical kind of way.
On a recent family ski trip, my husband and I rode the chairlift with two college-aged guys. One had a scrape on his cheek.
The one with the cut said, “It’s really bothering me.”
His friend leaned in to get a better look. “You have to take care of it?”
“I’ll go get a band-aid or something.”
His friend grimaced. “No, dude. It looks infected.”
“What do I do for it, then?”
“You know, take care of it with Neosporin, like you do when you get a tattoo.”
The synagogue my family attends is just beginning a long awaited renovation. It is very exciting. When I drove my carpool yesterday, the property looked completely different. At the entrance, the entire space was stripped of lumber. As I drove up the long drive to the entrance, I passed by mountains of huge tree trunks stacked and ready to be hauled away by the construction workers.
I’m not sure how many of my blog readers will understand the irony and dark humor I find in the timing of this tremendous sight, so I will explain. This coming Sunday evening begins TuB’Shevat, the new year of the trees. In Israel it is the end of rainy season and the first buds are appearing. Usually, we celebrate by eating various fruits and nuts that are grown in Israel, and donate money to plant forests. It is one of the holidays that link Judaism with environmentalism in a major way.
Chopping down trees on TuB’Shevat? . . . (shielding eyes and grimacing) A-W-K-W-A-R-D. . .