by Albert Chen
April 1994
When I’m in a good mood, I like to play classical music in my head. Like sitting in the center of the pit, the music fills my head and envelops me, pulling me into its world. Today I’m playing the Moonlight Sonata in D. The crescendo swells, falls, then fades away, leaving a silence as full as the music recently past. Then, with a pat on the back of satisfaction, I found a place to sit in the dingy drab of the library.
Unlike bookstores, whose shelves ring with brightness and inviting, libraries just seem to withdraw and sleep. Yet despite the dusty crush of the stacks around me, the library seemed to be just the place to be. I had come in to escape the crowded masses of the boutiques and shops not more than a door’s breadth away. A haven from the bustle of city life; From the crowded closure to the desolate quietness, it was satisfying to be alone to take stock of my faculties and booty.
At a dingy antique shop earlier that day, actually it was more a garage sale than an antique shop, I had found a treasure chest of a picnic basket. The wicker shone with the varnish of age, and its sturdiness harkened to an era since past. It was the perfect basket, from its china plates strapped to its lid, to the faded red-checkered cloth that lined the basket within. The worn handles, that had begged for embrace, had called to me; and the wicker exterior had beckoned to the sun to shine, and glowed like amber in its warm rays. I had not seen it upon the table of the outdoor display, when it was mine for a mere six dollars, plates and all.
Upon examination my prize, I found that one of the plates had been cracked in some un-remembered mishap and the handles creaked when they moved. These were sights and sounds of richness and age; and of untold stories and unspoken memories. It was a marvelous basket, and a marvelous day, sunny with a light breeze: A perfect day for a picnic.
Then all of the sudden I felt foolish. Here I was sitting in a library with nary a book, staring at an unwieldy picnic basket. What was I thinking? Victoria and I hadn’t spoken in months. With whom was I supposed to share my share my picnic basket with? Romantic aspirations of cold chicken and white wine, garnished with the glorious blossoms of the wide brimmed sun hats, vanished into a ball of sheepish self-reproach.
My sun slipped behind a cloud and the grayness of the library closed in. I looked up, as if for the first time, to take in my surroundings. The dulled bindings seemed to sit on the shelves in lonely abandonment, as if dreaming for a chance to be read. At the end of the lines of books, almost hidden by the steel shelves was the trailing edge of a black trench coat. It swept from the ground up to some as yet unseen shoulders. The coat seemed so inappropriate for the relatively warm outdoors, yet somehow timeless in the context of the old library. It was only then that I noticed how chilly the library was.
Intrigued, I pressed against my picnic basket and craned first my head, then my body, way to the side to catch a glimpse of who might be so prepared as to have a trench coat ready for the cold of the library.
I had not the time to be self-conscious of the angle of my repose when she leaned back into my field of view with a sigh. With a start, I drew back and realized that I didn’t even have a book to pretend I was reading.
From what I could see of her, she was stunning. Her short dark brown hair curled just to the nape of her neck, a neck that stretched uninterrupted to the collar of her coat. I craned to see more, but she leaned forward again and disappeared from my view.
I felt a sudden interest in contemporary art, as those were the stacks closest to her. Slowly, I made my way along the aisle, walking from the Renaissance to the present, passing Rodan towards Warhol, pausing a moment to meet with Magritte.
I slid along the shelves, at times pressing my body to the bindings, and tried to catch a glimpse of the person within the black trench coat. Her chair shifted, and I turned to books in front of me to find a sudden interest in post-modernist architecture.
Drawing near, I could catch a glimpse of her profile as she took notes on the book she was studying. I couldn’t make out what she was reading, but I assumed it was an art book. An art student perhaps? That was a nice thought; Maybe here was someone who would appreciate a spring outing with an antique picnic basket. From where I stood, I could only barely see her, and yet while the angle masked most of her face, I saw that she was attractive, very attractive.
There are people whom, in a long coat, look sinister or grungy or awkward. Depending on how they dress, and how they carry themselves, these people carry a certain imposed impression about them. She, however, wore her coat as if she belonged in it, like a model in a magazine. She wore black shoes and blue jeans, silver earrings and a sparing application of makeup that enhanced rather than covered. It was nice, attractive, and wholly beautiful. I stood with Lloyd Wright and stole glances over my shoulder.
I waited, alternately looking at organic walls and her sculpted form. In bated breath I waited, hoping that she would look up, or turn, or lean back again. I told myself that if she would turn before I could count to fifty that I would go over and say “hi”. With a slow methodical count, I screwed up my courage, and bolstered my bravery number by number.
One, two… What if she didn’t turn around? Would I just go back and take my basket home? Five, six…. I was staring a hole into the back of her head. Eight, nine… If I never get a chance to meet her, then I would never know if she liked Beethoven, or coffee in the moonlight, or chicken and white wine.
Twelve, thirteen…. What if she did turn around, could I really go up to her, out of the blue, and introduce myself to her? What would I say, that I saw her from across the library and thought she was attractive? Wouldn’t she think I was weird, or worse, psychotic? I looked at the distorted reflection of myself in the fire extinguisher mounted on the post next to me and tried to see if I looked like a maniac. My hair looked as it was standing up on the top, must have been the wind. Taking stock of myself, I began to have doubts about the whole agreement I had made with myself. My clothes weren’t my best by any means, but at least they were clean, at least I thought they were clean…Yes…yes, I did laundry day before yesterday.
Thirty-four, thirty-five!… Had she turned yet? No! Thirty-seven! What if she didn’t like picnics? What if she thought that I was a fool, or that old baskets are just junk? She probably has a boyfriend. No, she’s probably married, or at least engaged. You couldn’t be that gorgeous and not have at least a boyfriend.
Forty-one! Whoever said that when someone is staring at you, that you tend to feel it and turn around, was wacko. Forty-two! She’s not going to turn around is she?
Forty-four…. Okay, sixty, if she turns around by sixty; I’ll go talk to her. Sixty is about right isn’t it?
Sixty-seven, sixty-eight… Seventy and I’ll leave; Seventy and I’ll get my basket and leave. I’m such a fool sitting here like a school boy spying on a pretty girl.
Seventy-four….Wait! She turned! Oh my goodness.
As she turned, I whirled around and smacked into the wall of architectural volumes. I burned with embarrassment, humiliation and remorse. I just stood and stared at the bindings wishing that I might disappear or that she would leave before I had to face her again… but curiosity got the better of me. Was she laughing at me? Did she even notice? She’s probably disgusted at what a fool I am. After that, she must know that I was staring at her…Yet I had to turn around. After all, one does not become a tree in a library, even if they are standing in architecture and landscaping.
I turned with a self-conscious nonchalance and felt crushed to find that she had left her seat. Only her trench coat and books remained. I walked over to her table and looked over her things, as if I could find her in her possessions. Chekov, not art, but just as pleasant. My brain was still wondering. I must have been lost in thought, because I jumped when I felt the tap on my shoulder.
I turned to find myself staring into her eyes, and as I started to drown. She asked me about … something; I wasn’t paying attention.
“Pardon me?”, I asked.
“Is that your picnic basket?” She asked.
“Uh.. yes it is.” I stammered. “I know, its pretty dumb to bring an old picnic basket to a library.”
The words came out in a rush.
“Not at all,” she said. “I think its kind of nice, not something you see everyday.”
I looked at her intently before speaking.
“Do you like picnics?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact I do.” She replied.
“Considering that its such a beautiful day… Would you like to go on one?”
“Let me gather my things.”
* * *
It’s strange how people meet, how difficult it seems at times, but things always seem to work out in the end. As long as you feel alive, and are willing to find life, it will be there to be found. Even though one of the plates was cracked, and there didn’t seem to be any food, there was a picnic in that basket.
finis