There are days when, as an English
major, I believe I have a pretty good grasp on the English language.
Then, there are most days.
Take last Thursday, for example. I was
in downtown Iowa City pleading with local bookstores to carry my
self-published book, Scout's Honor. (Scout's Honor as
in “that's the title of my book,” not “Scout's honor” as in
“honorable promise.” Although I promise I am being honest about
the title and the following story.)
I should mention up front that just
being in downtown Iowa City has an unsettling way of making me feel .
. . unsettled. And inadequate. With the University of Iowa being
right there, downtown Iowa City is part college-chic/intellectual and
part “hold my beer”/party town.
As I walked the block between Iowa Book
and Prairie Lights, I was considering my good fortune – my meeting
at Iowa Book had been delightful (they said yes!), and I had found a
primo parking spot two days in a row. I wasn't sure if I
should buy a lottery ticket or build a bomb shelter, but I was hoping
that my luck would hold until after I'd been to Prairie Lights.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a
young man, no more disheveled than any other college student,
exiting a bar/restaurant. Lost in my musings, I made eye contact.
Small-town hick mistake.
“Excuse me, ma'am,” he said.
(Ma'am? Ouch.) “I'm looking for a salad.”
His request threw me for a loop, both
because I was daydreaming and because . . . salad? It was
almost noon, and he had exited a pizza/bar place. In the “hold my
beer” part of downtown, they may not serve salad. On the other
hand, I think the intellectual/chic laws require all
establishments to serve salad. Even fro-yo shops.
“Do you know where I can get some
lettuce?” he asked.
Something about his tone of voice made
me wonder if, in fact, he was talking about “salad” and “lettuce”
as in “fresh, leafy greens that you eat.” I began to suspect he
was talking about “lettuce” as in “dried leafy greens that you
smoke.” Or even as in “leafy green bills that you spend.”
I mumbled an apologetic “No” and
kept walking, but my friendly, inner small-town hick felt guilty.
What if he really was looking for a healthy lunch alternative?
Not knowing what he might have meant by “salad” also made
small-town hick me feel very un-intellectual and un-chic.
I was still pondering the whole
salad/salad conundrum when I walked into Prairie Lights. This
legendary bookstore appeals to my inner nerd, while still making me
feel unworthy. It's not just the books themselves, of course, but the
great writers who have been there – the realization that you may be
standing in the very same spot that Jane Smiley or Kurt Vonnegut or
Toni Morrison once stood.
One incident in particular illustrates
the depth of my feelings of inadequacy in regards to Prairie Lights
and to downtown Iowa City in general. Years ago I was herding The
Little Princess and Prince through Prairie Lights when I happened to
overhear a woman, pushing a very posh stroller, ask her very quiet,
well-behaved child if he/she would like to go to the coffee shop for
a “cwaa-saaah.”
This obviously intellectual/chic woman
pronounced “croissant” exactly the way the fancy French chefs on
TV do. It was clear, even to a small-town hick that she was talking
about “cwaa-saaah” as in “a delicate, over-priced
bakery-store pastry” and not “crescent” as in “common,
refrigerated, whomp-biscuit pastry small-town hicks serve.”
Prior to entering the store that day, I
had bribed my children into three-minutes of relative un-monkey like
behavior by promising them a package of crackers from the bottom of
my purse. When they balked at the broken remains, I told them they
were “oyster crackers” – as in “fancy, small crackers” and
not “crackers made of shellfish.” The children counter-offered to
behave in exchange for bake-shop chocolate chip cookies – as in “we
can't be bribed by bread alone.”
That chance meeting plays through my
mind every time I walk through the doors at Prairie Lights. I close
my eyes, breath in that rarefied smart-book air, and BOOM! – I'm
reminded that I'm a chocolate chip cookie trespassing in a land of
“cwaa-saaah.”
Last Thursday my “cwaa-saaah”
inferiority complex was
compounded by my “salad”
anxiety, with a bit of parking meter angst thrown in, leaving me more
befuddled and less able to speak coherently than usual. When
the polite lady behind the big, book-piled desk asked if Scout's
Honor was distributed online through “Ingram” I heard
“cwaa-saaah” and may have said “Me write book gud.
Please to sell?” (Ten minutes and two miles later I realized the
correct answer was “Yes.” I think.)
Despite my inability to communicate
verbally she agreed to carry my book. YAY! Of course she may have
meant “carry” as in “use them to prop up the leg on that wobbly
table.” Whatever the reason, I am grateful that both stores (and
Burlington By The Books) agreed to carry Scout's Honor.
However, I dread the prospect of trying to string together a coherent
sentence when I pick up the unsold stock. In fact, I've considered
paying someone to go to Prairie Lights to buy them out.
If only I knew someone who needs to
make a little lettuce . . . .
