“Excuse me,
but do you know any girls ages 7-9?” She’s been staring at me from corner of
the locker room for several minutes as I was getting dressed, her pale eyes
peering over her Covid mask. I had seen her before in the pool, here at Kennedy
and also at The Plunge, but she wasn’t someone who had stuck in my mind.
We’d never
spoken before.
She’s holding out to me one of those plastic square baskets that usually hold pencils, crayons, pads of paper and such for kids. In it sits a slim white book with an aqua and purple mermaid on the cover.
Before I can answer her, she begins her spiel. “I’ve written this book. It is for girls ages 7-9 and it teaches them how to expand their vocabulary and reading skills.” She reaches into the basket and pulls out the book, holding it up for me to admire.
I grin
behind my mask. (Can people tell? This is another limitation of the ongoing
COVID plague---communication is so mired behind masks—both clarity wise and expression
wise.) “Wow, that’s really cool,” I tell
her now. “I don’t think I know any girls that age. The girls I know are a little
older, like in the 10- or 11-year-old range. I teach piano and....”
“You do?”
She nods, low key and intense. There’s something about her that borders on the
unstable.
Writers.
What’re ya gonna do?
“Yes,” I
continue, people seem to always be impressed when I mention I teach piano. “But
because of COVID, the lessons have dried up.” She nods, sympathetic. “And the
girls are older now.... Who is your publisher?” I ask. Why do I ask her this? I
don’t tell her that I’m a writer too. But this is in the back of my mind. If
she found a publisher for her Mermaid Book, maybe she knows about publishing.
“It’s self-published,” she murmurs. And I think, of course. Not that there’s anything wrong with self-publishing. In fact, it’s something that a lot of established authors are doing nowadays. And even before it became easier, authors like Sandra Cisneros self-published her classic, House on Mango Street.
She puts
the book back in its little basket, eyeing me sadly for a moment, before moving
on to the next woman in the locker room: “Excuse me, do you know any girls ages
7-9?”
Lime green
sweatered woman beams, “Actually, yes I do....”
And a
transaction is made. Success!
Alice sits
on the bench, valiantly trying to pull on her pants before the 12:15 get out of
here ladies shout from the lifeguard. She turns now and grins at me, sans mask:
“Sally! She’s Our Authoress” she proclaims, laughing heartedly.
All the
women join in. It’s the day before Christmas and everyone is in a festive mood.
Time to celebrate.
Sally smiles.
I can tell even behind her mask. It’s her honor and privilege to be the Pool Authoress.
I wish I
knew some girls 7-9 to give her book to. Part of me thinks of lying. Going over
to her and saying, “You know, I forgot. I do know a little girl who is 7 and
she would just love to read your book!”
“LADIES!!! TIME
TO LEAVE!” The lifeguard hollers at us from the hallway.
“We’re
going as fast as we can!” Alice shouts back, and again, laughing heartily. It’s
all a big party.
I gather up
the last of my stuff, swim mask, cap, suit, towel, lock and cram it into my bag.
“Bye ladies!” I call out. “Everyone have a Happy Christmas!”
“Merry
Christmas to you, Carol!” Alice hollers after me, her laugher following me out
into the hall.
