Tales from the mean streets

On a recent half-day Friday (definitely one of the best summer reasons to be in publishing--someone let me know if you come up with any good fall, spring or winter reasons), I walked into the Chelsea branch of the New York Public Library. I love libraries, but for some reason in almost two years of living in New York, I still didn’t own a library card. Immediately excited past the point of acceptable dorkiness, I began wandering the aisles, grabbing random books. I ended up with so much more than I could possibly read in the three weeks allotted, which is why I found myself back at the Chelsea branch yesterday with 15 pounds of books to return. The library was closed so I looked around for the handy book drop. A seriously patient, but possibly normal woman was standing at the door, waiting 45 minutes for it to open, and she told me that the book drop was only open when the library was open (Hello Purpose. You have been defeated.) She went on to explain that the book drop had been firebombed more than once and stricter measures had to be taken. I thanked her, clutching my books tightly as I backed away from the danger. Only after I was about a block away did I realize it hadn’t even occurred to me to ask this woman to drop my books for me when the library opened. I made a mental note: Monday morning. Common sense seemingly intact.