Beauty And The Bookworm Read Free Page A

actually answer if someone calls out for Mary. She loves me, though, and I love her.
     
    When I got home from the park I realized I wasn’t going to be able to engage in any self-harm right away because the place had turned into a boiling cauldron of lesbian soup with a healthy dose of butch seasoning. I waded through motorcycle helmets and discarded beer cans, trying to get to my room. I got stopped halfway there by Gran.
    “How was the park, Mason? Did you get some sun? You’re starting to look like one of those blind fish that live in caves.”
    “Sure, Gran , I got some sun. I’m just going to head to my room and…”
    She let out an earth-shaking belch and then finished for me, “Read. I know you’re going to read. Why don’t you put that electronic life-sucker away and go out and do something or stay out here and have a drink? This party needs a little nellying up and you know all the gals love you.”
    The gaggle of middle-aged lesbians that took up every square inch of the room proved their love by raising their beers in unison and offering me a toast. I just shook my head and ran for my room. Once there, I threw myself on the bed in what I think was an appropriately dramatic fashion, you know, the way only ‘50s movie divas and eight-year-old girls can do. I knew there was only way to escape the humiliation of actually thinking that the man of everyone’s dreams could think I was hot – I would have to read. I’d have to read and escape into another world where cops don’t literally mean nightstick when they say nightstick and pucker is a noun.
    I fell asleep after a few pages ( Pole to Pole was a little boring) and quickly entered a dream featuring muscular butts, pink puckers, and several yellow chicks. A chick was tickling my nose with down while the running man tickled my prostate with his…
    “Mason! Wake up ! And what’s with the pup tent?”
    I sat straight up and blinked at the looming shadow in my bedroom doorway. The shadow slowly morphed into Gran. She was standing there staring at me, her hands on her hips. “What?”
    “Are you going to work today?”
    “What?”
    “Are. You. Going. To. Work. Today? It’s almost eight o’clock.”
    “Oh, shit! I slept all night? I’m going to miss the bus!”
    Gran shook her head. “I’ll give you a lift. What were you dreaming about, anyway? You were talking in your sleep and your willy was pointing at the ceiling.”
    “Can I have a minute, please? What was I saying ?”
    “Something about baby chickens. I knew you were a pansy, but chicks? You gotta butch it up, kiddo.”
     
    I made it to the library with five minutes to spare thanks to Gran and her souped-up Harley. She drove like a maniac, of course, and I may have peed myself just a little on the ride. I put the helmet (flaming skull decals on the sides) she’d bought me for Christmas into the hog’s trunk and gave Gran a kiss on the cheek. She laughed and shook her head as she roared away.
    I raced up the library steps, through the lobby, past the assignment board ( yeah, the stacks again) and slid into my seat at 9 o’clock on the dot. I smoothed down my hair, adjusted my khakis and straightened my hunter-green cardigan (no, smartass, I didn’t notice the significance at the time.) I’d had thirteen hours of sleep and half a banana for breakfast, I was ready to start the day.
    I love my job. I love almost everyone I work with. The library was the place I was meant to end up and I did. I know you think you know how the library runs and you’ve probably got a pretty good idea, but, just in case… That nice little lady who checks your books out? She’s probably not a librarian. She’s probably a library clerk who’s been assigned to the circulation desk. The actual librarians at the library are usually working in some office somewhere behind the scenes or at the reference desk. Or the librarian might be working in “the stacks.”
    The stacks are where we keep all the old