We’re sitting around the living room reading on this icy cold Sunday, supposed to hit -12 tonight, and I said to Debbie, “I finished the Evanovich book, you can have it. I’m going to read this thing I got at the library called ‘Mister Monkey’ next.”
Debbie, not looking up from what she was doing, said, “Oh, the new Francine Prose?”
My slack jawed stare must of echoed across the room, because she looked up and said, “What?”
“How’d you know that?” I said.
“Well, she writes for the New Yorker,” Debbie said, as if that was an explanation. [1]
A long time ago I remember Debbie telling me about a patron coming into the library and saying, “I’m looking for this book, it has “The” in the title and the cover’s blue.” And Debbie correctly asked, “Do you mean ‘The Client?’ [2]”
Debbie’s been out of the library game for almost 10 years now, but once a librarian, always a librarian I guess. She has an amazing card catalog of a mind.
1. She later explained, “When I looked up I saw “Francine” on the cover of the book.” Which of course explains why any ordinary human would assume it’s the new Francine Prose book.
2. I don’t remember exactly what book it was, this was nigh on 20 years ago, but it was a Grisham, and the point being, it wasn’t the current one, but one several years old.
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