The dog was sitting by the door when we woke up, so I took him out. I don’t know why his schedule is so different from ours right now. It might have something to do with the way we changed our schedules to match my parents’ while they were here.
It ended up being beneficial, however, my taking him out early, as it allowed me to take the train with Musette two stops before I had to get out and walk the rest of the way to the literary event.
The transfer that I could have taken required a short, ground level walk but the weekly pass that I got while my parents were here had run out of time. I am now using a pass that a man gave me because he was leaving town. It has fifteen dollars on it. Exiting the underground and then entering it again requires another metrocard swipe and I would rather walk then pay three more dollars to make the transfer.
I thought I was going to the library branch that I walked to while wearing my black rain jacket like a monk, but I’m going to a different one, in Prospect Park, which is the area where my brother-in-law and his Korean girlfriend who is practically his wife live.
The park is much bigger than I expected as is the library which sits on the edge facing the direction I am walking from. A huge arch with a winged angel and a lot of soldiers on it stands directly across from the library. The arch is surrounded by encircling traffic. I want to walk through the arch but am separated from it by the traffic.
I can see the tops of white tents in front of and to the left of the library. “This is the place.” I tell myself. It is a farmer’s market. The literary festival only encompasses the area directly in front of the library. There are tables with a few books, zines, and catalogs on them. Everyone sitting behind the tables look bored and hot and tired. There is nobody reading anything. This is just a bunch of people trying to sell things that most people here probably don’t want. If they’re hunting for talent, they’re not doing a very active job of it. I don’t know what I would even do for these people, publish my scattered blogs as a book, or a chapbook, whatever that is?
I pass by every table. It is all the same. There is nothing for me to do here. I don’t want to buy anything. I don’t want to be sold to and I don’t want to sell myself. So I enter the library. It looks like a mall inside. To the right is an area where people can get id’s and passports. There is an area in the middle that is full of tables where people are sitting and eating and drinking. I wish I had something to drink. I am dehydrated. My lips are chapped. Musette told me to get something before I went to the ‘festival’. I was going to get an iced coffee but couldn’t find a Dunkin Donuts anywhere.
I can see a section marked ‘Popular’. It is on the second floor. I head towards the escalator. On the way there I pass someone who might be Tao Lin. He looks more muscular and toned than I was expecting. He is handsome. We meet eyes. I hope it was him and that this moment goes down in history.
The escalator is not working, so I take the stairs. Getting to the popular section, I find nothing but dvds. From my vantage point on the second floor I can see the fiction section. I go there and look for Celine but there is a black man stocking the aisle he would be on. He is wearing latex gloves. I know the annoyance of having someone peruse a section that you are stocking, so I leave, looking up the nearest Dunkin Donuts on my phone.