Do not turn the page until you fill in the blanks (just don’t write in the notebook, please).
I can’t say I’d ever heard of French pianism, although if a man on the street (wearing a bowler, no doubt) had asked me if I believed the French were a pianistic sort, I would have easily given an affirmative reply.
Because the bookstore byways of the Strand were more familiar to me than my own family home(s), I knew exactly where to start—the music section. It even seemed a cheat that she had given me the name of the author. Did she think me a simpleton, a slacker, a numbskull? I wanted a little credit, even before I’d earned it.
The book was found easily enough—easily enough, that is, for someone who had fourteen minutes to spare—and was exactly as I pictured it would be, the kind of book that can sit on the shelves for years. The publisher hadn’t even bothered to put an illustration on the cover. Just the words French Pianism: An Historical Perspective, Charles Timbrell, then (new line) Foreword by Gaby Casadesus.
I figured the numbers in the Moleskine were dates—1988 must have been a quicksilver year for French pianism—but I couldn’t find any references to 1988 … or 1888 … or 1788 … or any other ‘88, for that matter. I was stymied … until I realized that my clue giver had resorted to the age-old bookish mantra—page/line/word. I went to page 88 and checked out line 7, word 2, then line 4, word 8.
Are you
Was I what? I had to find out. I filled in the blanks (mentally, respecting the virgin spaces as she’d asked) and turned the page of the journal.
Okay. No cheating. What bugged you about the cover of this book (besides the lack of art)?
Think about it, then turn the page.
Well, that was easy. I hated that they’d used the construction An Historical, when it clearly should have been A Historical, since the H in Historical is a hard H.
I turned the page.
If you said it was the misbegotten phrase “An Historical,” please continue.
If not, please put this journal back on its shelf.
Once more, I turned.
2. Fat Hoochie Prom Queen 64/4/9 119/3/8
No author this time. Not helpful.
I took French Pianism with me (we’d grown close; I couldn’t leave her) and went to the information desk, where the guy sitting there looked like someone had slipped a few lithium into his Coke Zero.
“I’m looking for Fat Hoochie Prom Queen,” I declared.
He did not respond.
“It’s a book,” I said. “Not a person.”
Nope. Nothing.
“At the very least, can you tell me the author?”
He looked at his computer, as if it had some way to speak to me without any typing on his part.
“Are you wearing headphones that I can’t see?” I asked.
He scratched at the inside of his elbow.
“Do you know me?” I persisted. “Did I grind you to a pulp in kindergarten, and are you now getting sadistic pleasure from this petty revenge? Stephen Little, is that you? Is it? I was much younger then, and foolish to have nearly drowned you in that water fountain. In my defense, your prior destruction of my book report was a completely unwarranted act of aggression.”
Finally, a response. The information desk clerk shook his shaggy head.
“No?” I said.
“I am not allowed to disclose the location of Fat Hoochie Prom Queen,” he explained. “Not to you. Not to anyone. And while I am not Stephen Little, you should be ashamed of what you did to him. Ashamed.”
Okay, this was going to be harder than I’d thought. I tried to load Amazon onto my phone for a quick check—but there was no service anywhere in the store. I figured Fat Hoochie Prom Queen was unlikely to be nonfiction (would that it were!), so I went to the literature section and began to scan the shelves. This proving fruitless, I remembered the teen literature section upstairs and went there straightaway. I skipped over any spine that didn’t possess an inkling of pink. All my instincts told me Fat Hoochie Prom Queen would at the very least be dappled by pink. And lo and behold—I got to the M section, and there it was.
I turned to pages 64 and 119 and found: going to
I turned the page of the Moleskine.
Very resourceful.
Now that you’ve found this in the teen section, I must ask you: Are you a teenage boy?
If yes, please turn the page. If no, please return this to where you found it.
I was sixteen and equipped with the appropriate genitalia, so I cleared that hurdle nicely.
Next page.
3. The Joy of Gay Sex (third edition!) 66/12/5 181/18/7
Well, there wasn’t any doubt which section that would be in. So it was down to the Sex & Sexuality shelves, where the glances were alternately furtive and defiant. Personally, the notion of buying a used sex manual (of any sexuality) was a bit sketchy to me. Perhaps that was why there were four copies of The Joy of Gay Sex on the shelves. I turned to page 66, scanned down to line 12, word 5, and found:
cock
I recounted. Rechecked. Are you going to cock?
Perhaps, I thought, cock was being used as a verb (e.g., Please cock that pistol for me before you leave the vestibule).
I moved to page 181, not without some trepidation.
Making love without noise is like playing a muted piano—fine for practice, but you cheat yourself out of hearing the glorious results.
I’d never thought a single sentence could turn me off so decisively from both making love and playing the piano, but there it was.
No illustration accompanied the text, mercifully. And I had my seventh word:
playing
Which left me with:
Are you going to cock playing
That didn’t seem right. Fundamentally, as a matter of grammar, it didn’t seem right.
I looked back at the page in the journal and resisted the urge to turn forward. Scrutinizing the girlish scrawl, I realized I had mistaken a 5 for a 6. It was page 66 (the junior version of the devil’s number) that I was after.
be
Much more sensical.
Are you going to be playing—
“Dash?”
I turned to find Priya, this girl from my school, somewhere between a friend and acquaintance—a frequaintance, as it were. She had been friends with my ex-girlfriend, Sofia, who was now in Spain. (Not because of me.) Priya had no personality traits that I could discern, although in all fairness, I had never looked very hard.
“Hi, Priya,” I said.
She looked at the books I was holding—a