I’m sitting in an uncomfortable wood chair, in the “Quiet Section” of the Beverly Hills library. The quiet section is reminiscent of the “non smoking section” of my 1985 flight from San Francisco to Israel, one row behind the smoking section. The Quiet Section of the Beverly Hills library is neither quiet nor a section.
My son, nearly 2, is obsessed with tank tops. For a while it was washcloths, then toothbrushes, to fire trucks, toy trains, and now here we are at tank tops. Grey ones to be exact. In sunny LA a tank top wearing toddler is considered hip, not a candidate for “Mr. Fire Island.” But since he only has one grey one, there’s a chance someone’s going to call Social Services, whom I’m fairly certain already has me on speed dial, to complain about the hip, but filthy toddler.
Yesterday, we had a thirty-minute showdown; me determined not to be screamed into dirty tank top submission. We Camp David’d and settled on a green swim shirt. He insisted on wearing it for his bath. I insisted a soaking wet shirt was not appropriate sleep attire. He screamed for thirty minutes, then rubbed his eyes and said, “Sleepy.” I concurred. We both went to bed.
Needless to say, working from home, a home filled with a child, is not an option. My nanny arrives at 8. I’m so happy, I nearly make out with her. I’m out the door by 8:10 and head to the library in hopes of finding a plug, wireless access, and a quiet, childfree area in which to work. I find the Quiet Section. I set up my computer and related junk. I get to work.
Two hours pass before the 80’s rap star Tone-Loc starts yelling in the middle of the library Sure, there’s the chance that the screaming baritone is merely a Tone-Loc doppelganger, but for the sake of visualization, we’ll assume it’s him.
What do you mean I need a card to make photocopies? Why can’t I just use money?
Sir, the photocopiers only take pre-paid copy cards. You may purchase one downstairs with your credit card.
But what if I don’t want to? Why can’t I make a copy? This is whack! What happened to the old fashioned way? I need to make a copy.
It appears that Tone doesn’t have a credit card and therefore can’t make a copy. He goes table to table asking anyone who will make eye contact with him (one guy), if he can borrow someone’s credit card. He’ll be glad to pay them back, but he needs to borrow a credit card. No one volunteers. He starts screaming again.
Oh now that is whack! Ain’t no one gonna help me out? Noooooobody has a credit card?
Again, no one volunteers. I consider it. Maybe we can do a swap. My low limit Visa in exchange for an A Capella rendition of “Funky Cole Medina.” But Tone’s in no mood for requests, I keep it to myself.
Well that is truly whack! I’m out!
The term “Out” as in, “I’m out of here” is affective only in the company of people who care if you leave. In a room full of law students, high school kids, and screenwriters escaping their children, no one gives a shit if you’re “In” or “Out.” And shouldn’t the term, “Out” only be used by celebrities? Jay Z or at least a trying too hard Ryan Seacrest can pull off a catch phrase like, “Out!” Someone might care. But a doppelganger of an 80’s icon best remembered for passing out at a Laker Game under questionable circumstances should in now way abbreviate his exit.
Again, Tone is not in the mood for suggestions. I keep it to myself.
Ten minutes later, a cell phone rings. It’s set to Level 4 (out of 4). The ring tone plays “American Booty,” the Pete Tong Remix of the “American Beauty” theme song. The high-waisted Russian man who wears his belt like a bra belongs to the cell phone. I stare the phone down. I wait for it to stop playing a song that is best enjoyed with a bloodstream full of ecstasy in a Miami nightclub, sure that Yakov Smirnoff is going to apologize and turn the phone off. Instead he answers, full voice, full conversation.
HHHHElllo….Da…NYET…DA…DA!…..Hokay. Cwall me beck!!!!!!
I expect some sort of apology of eye contact when Yakov hangs up. Instead, he dials another call. Full voice. Full conversation.
A law student and I exchange a knowing glance.
What the fuck? his eyes beckon.
Outrageous! I shrug.
The law student’s phone buzzes. It’s set to “Vibrate.” It buzzes across the table like a cockroach on cocaine. He smiles at me, picks it up, and starts clicking away on the keyboard, undoubtedly answering an urgent text from a fellow law student in a torte dilemma. He clicks away on his tiny keyboard for the next hour, in a never-ending spin cycle of text messages. I’m left to wonder, if his phone is set to “silent”, why do I have to hear it?
Yakov’s phone rings again. This time, the librarian comes over. “I’m sorry,” she says. “But this is a quiet area. NO CELL PHONES ALLOWED.” He finishes his call, hangs up, and dials another. The librarian takes a lunch break.
There’s a high school girl sitting back to back with me. The place is jammed with high school kids prepping for finals. The modern American high school student seems to spend most of their time text’ing the person sitting next to them or checking Facebook updates to see which of their 220 friends had a successful bowel movement.
Her phone rings. Her ring tone plays a computerized version of Gwen Stefani’s, “Hollenback Girl.” She answers. She talks. And talks. And talks. I grind my teeth. I try to stay focused. I turn on my ipod except the music is distracting me from hearing the few bright things my brain has left to say. I bite the bullet. I turn around.
Pardon me, I say with extra sugar. Would you mind talking on the phone somewhere else? Somewhere that isn’t say… a library?
The high school girl keeps talking, explaining to her caller that there is a “Cunt” sitting behind her, “Making” her get off the phone.
I wouldn’t mind her calling me a cunt, I’d just wish she’d do it quietly.
She hangs up and packs up her things. We’re still back-to-back, but I can hear her slamming her Trapper Keeper into her book bag, slamming her chair toward the table, slamming her phone into the palm of her hand. I’ll admit it; it’s tense. I’m keenly aware that sitting with my back to a rich kid who thinks she’s in an episode of “Oz” means I stand a good chance of getting shanked in the back. Instead….
BITCH! She yells. YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE SUCH A BITCH.
I consider the appropriate response. Sure, I could tell her that my sons’ age is higher than her IQ, then I could explain to her what IQ means. I could ask her why all she and her high school aged friends dress like hookers before I ask her which MAC shade she’s wearing on her eyes. Or I could just pack up my shit and find a new place to sit which is what I do because the only person being quiet in the quiet section is the homeless guy sleeping off his cheap dime bag high he bought with a pre-paid copy card.
Out I mutter under my breath.
I pack up and move on in search of quieter pastures. I look around the library. There’s few empty seats. There’s one next to the guy who likes to masturbate in the periodicals. I pass. And one next to woman who hasn’t bathed in my son’s lifetime. I keep looking. I find one available seat. It’s in the children’s section. It’s quiet, the only noise of a Mother reading to her child, the child asking her to read that page again. There are no cell phones and no Blackberry’s buzzing. There are only people doing what you’re suppose to be doing in a library, reading. I may have come to the library to escape children and now find myself surrounded by them, but there’s a seat, a plug, and wireless. I take it.
