WHEN THE WORD IS THE DRUG

It was an exceptionally early Sunday morning in mid-May. I was somewhere in Los Angeles. I had been going full-stop for the past week. Yesterday, now, seemed like forever, what with an epic 20-hours of musical insanity, heat in excess of 110 and a body positively riddled, and subsequently spent, with adrenaline.

I had only 2 hours of what any reasonable person would consider restorative slumber and was, at the moment, perilously close to projectile vomiting. Every muscle in my body ached and 2 of my toenails were, assuredly, dead and in the process of departing. I was visibly shaking while gallons of sweat shamelessly oozed from my every pore, drenching my already dirty clothes I'd worn for the past two, or maybe, three days.

I NEVER HAD A CHANCE

Before the sun had arisen, I boarded the dilapidated, yet quite punctual, LA light-rail to travel in agony from my humble, temporary digs in Pasadena to, here. Downtown Los Angeles. Nothing in the universe could have ever prevented my sojourn. Because I needed to be right here, right now. Sitting somewhere around the urban gardens of the Los Angeles Central Library.

Because I am a junkie and I needed my fix...

“Hello, my name is Jeffrey and I am a bibliophile.”

This is a very charitable way of saying I'm a book addict. A full-blown, hard core, lifelong, totally immersed, categorically and forever unrepentant literary junkie. I will tell everyone near and far, scream into their ears, that the word is my drug. And I will never, ever stop consuming this drug. Ever.

For full disclosure, you should know that I read a bit. Okay, a positively absurd amount. On average, I read 200 or so books each year. Read any empirical, evidence-based research and it will conclusively prove that most addictions are somewhat hereditary in nature, as is mine. My mom and aunt are, without question, book addicts. While not quite as outlandish as me, they certainly read far more than what is considered the norm.

For my particular reading abnormality, I place the blame squarely upon my grandparents. A couple who religiously visited the Los Angeles Public Library every Saturday, despite rain or shine, for 32 years. So much was their weekend pattern, the LA Times wrote an article about them. So, as you can see, reader dearest, I never really had a chance. And, for that, I am eternally grateful.

THE ECONOMY OF A JUNKIE

So, for a dude who reads 200 books a year, at an average cost of $20 per book, my word addiction runs a retail cost of somewhere around $4,000 per annum. The average library card in California is good for 3 years, which means the real economic benefit of having one is about $12,000 for me. Getting this math?

So, if I can't renew this sucker, I'm totally, completely screwed.

I knew my LA Library card was expiring soon, so I gave them a call (I'd like to say shrewdly, but it was a co-ink-a-dink) before I headed down. The LA Librarians are known far and wide for their kick-ass, totally dedicated customer service, so I made my call.

Me: “Hey, I love the library, but think my card's expiring soon. Can you tell me when?”

LAPL: “Sure, Mr. Phillip. It's going to expire in 43 days.”

Me: "Thanks, so can I just give you my password and we can re-up that thing now or can I do it online?”

LAPL: “Oh no, Mr. Phillip, it's imperative you come to the library in person with a photo ID.”

Me: *Totally Shitting It*

Me: “Cool. Yeah, no worries. I live in OC as you know and the workdays are bad, are you open on Sunday?" (Which happened to be the only time I could have possibly made this work in my travel itinerary).

LAPL: “Only the main branch, but yes, sir. Hopefully we'll see you then”

Me (Still shitting it), “For sure; can't wait.”

MEET PETE - A FELLOW BIBLIOPHILE

So, even in my utterly shambolic state, this is how and where and why I find myself on May 15^th, desperate and just trying to distance myself from a veritable nation of homeless who are now, seemingly, surrounding the Library. A near army of huge, sculpted men with muscles concealed in fine blue sport coats and walkie-talkies are strategically posted near entry points and among the gardens. I take great care to pick out a quiet spot where I can sweat and worry with impunity. So great is my addiction and need to renew this library card, I show up 2 hours before they even open.

And then. Of course. Here comes some even more shambolic dude to park his ass with his shopping cart on the cement across from me.

Staring at my phone in a hopeful wish he'll disappear, I hear his utterance, “Hey man, I'm Pete. Got a smoke?”

I tell him no, but he says, “Cool, I got one for you.” and proffers a full cigarette in my direction. I tell him no, thanks, and he gingerly places it back into his pocket. Despite outward appearances, this guy seems cool(ish).

Pete looks straight at me and inquires, “You look pretty put together, why you here?”

I tell him I love books and that I need to get my card renewed and that, frankly, I'm shitting it a bit.

“A guy like you? You can be from fucking Mars and they'll give you a card,” assures Pete.

“So, you like to read? Who's your favorite?,” asks my new cement bench-buddy.

I reply, "Too many to even mention. How about you?”

Pete hunches his legs deeper into his sleeping bag and looks me square in the eye and says, “Bukowski. You know him?”

I nod and say, “His poetry is awful as is his alcoholic misogyny, but his short stories are pretty amazing.”

Pete has now firmly stuffed his legs into the sleeping bag and is staring at me, a bit unnervingly, in the eye.

“What do you think is his best story?” Pete inquires, but I’m not so tired that I don't know his question is also a test.

Me: “Lots of good Bukowski stories, but I'm going with “Class.”

SILENCE

Pete looks at me now with somewhat accusing and penetrating eyes. “How far away is that buff guard in the nice sport coat now?” I think to myself.

Pete continues to stare at me while clearly thinking. The silence is well into the uncomfortably awkward at this point. Finally Pete asks, “Class. Yeah. So, do you think that really happened?”

This is when I knew he was legit as I responded, “Nah, but that's what makes the story so amazing. Not that it did or didn't happen, but that it should have happened. A drunk Hemingway and Bukowski somewhere in the desert heat, bare-knuckle fighting in some makeshift ring. I've spent my whole life reading and have a ton of imagery lodged in my brain, but Hemingway punching a cigar-smoking Bukowski, with all the sparks exploding over his face and head is one I'll take to my grave.”

Pete laughs and I can see it hurts him to do so. But, I see his eyes open and smile, because we've shared the experience of this story. Both of us thinking and knowing the pun, “Who gets into a boxing match with a lit cigar in his mouth?”

So, I ask him the same question, “What's your favorite Bukowski story?” My eyes sparkle as much as they can.

Pete, says, “The Most Beautiful Woman in Town”

And we both kind of shudder.

Me: “Yep, that's a winner for sure. We all love Cass, right?” I say, trying to veer us off the cliff I'm certain we're on.

And there's a bit of silence now in this early morning LA air. It's clear, we both know this story far too well.

To shake us out, I say, “The best part of that story, I'll never forget, is the line, “She was like liquid moving fire.”

A part of my life I will never forget in front of that library - Pete looks longingly and asks me, ”Why would a totally beautiful woman put a hat pin through her nose? Why would she keep slitting her throat with a beer bottle?”

It's a very difficult and painful question.

Not one I need now, actually.

I tell Pete, “My take is the story is about the tyranny of external beauty and how many cannot see or acknowledge their inner radiance.”

Our heads are hanging a bit now. Just to think to the power of this story. At this time, at this place, we are bibliophiles savoring the same hit.

Pete breaks the reverence that coincides with the opening bell of the Los Angeles Public Library.

A sanctuary for us both.

Me, “Nice meeting you Pete. Who would have known?”

Pete, “Dude, you're so going to score right now. Trust me.” “Hey!” he screams from the front bathroom walls, “Trust me.”

And Pete was right. I walked up with my card, showed my ID and I scored.