If I were eyelashes, I would be short, sparse, and in desperate need of mascara. Of course, my actual eyelashes are an American classic. What I really need is the newest book by my favorite author, Daphne Baker. You might say that romance novels are what really accentuate my features, like a good highlighter. Just kidding, I don’t know what that is. I’m a man. And so was David Bowie.
Anyway, I have once again parked in front of my favorite library, ready for them to serve me up a fresh helping of D Bake. I look on the new shelf, and you wouldn’t believe it. My book’s not there. Someone may have checked it out. Who wouldn’t want to read a romance novel about a forbidden romance between a nudist and a tailor’s daughter? I search for it on the OPAC, and it isn’t there. I’m not the best speller, so I ask the front desk to look it up for me. The desk says nothing, as it is an inanimate object, so I ask the person behind the desk.
She searches for it, and tells me that they don’t have it. Though it is hard for me to admit, I flew into a rage so hot, there must have been volcanoes in my eyes. I demanded to speak to whoever orders the books. I need to read The Fabric-Free Lover, or my heart will erupt.
They call down the acquisitions librarian, and I demand to know why I am being deprived of my full-frontal joy. She tells me that it hasn’t been ordered yet, because the demand wasn’t quite high enough. I tell her that it is number nine on the romance list. She hands me a suggestion form, which I can ask for at the front desk whenever I need it. Since the book is fairly new and popular, it will probably be ordered. If they get it, it will be put on hold for me, and I’ll be called the day it comes in. If not, I’ll still get a call. I’ll make sure I’m sitting down when I answer the phone, just in case. I breathe. I will keep coming to Laman, even though I feel like the fabric that attempted to constrain the bare-bottomed Romeo I desire to read about. Before I leave, I check out the book sale. The books are only a quarter a piece, so I buy sixteen for four dollars.
I leave the library, hopeful that I’ll get to read my book without paying nineteen dollars at the bookstore, and I point my car in the direction of Ulta Beauty. I mean Home Depot, which isn’t far from Ulta Beauty where I’ll buy something for my wife who I’m totally still married to, not mascara for me.
A few weeks later, I am sitting in my Perfectly-Good-Work-Ethic Boy Recliner, reading The Fabric-Free Lover. It ends with a beautiful compromise between the nudist and the tailor, where the nudist agrees to wear a clear bowtie to his wedding and nothing else. But the father of the bride is happy to design such a garment. I am pleased.