June had started, and I was on a time-critical mission. I had 20 minutes to compare Russian classics, pick the easiest one to read, find it and Twelfth Night on the shelves, check out, and start the walk back to church in time for mass. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy, right?
I entered the library and walked to the elevator, where I was reminded by the map that adult fiction was at the front of the library, in the display rooms. As I backtracked, I sidetracked to the computer card catalog, since I had found other classics in the reference section before. Confirmed, 822-something and 891-something. There were no pencils and papers, but it was okay. I could remember that.
I mashed both elevators' buttons and rode the first arrival to the third floor. Only 15 minutes left.
A smiling librarian asked if she could help me. "Do you know anything about Russian literature?" She didn't, but said she could try. She found a blog that eliminated War and Peace as a terrible first Russian novel. After 7 minutes, I was left with the name Poor Liza and the author, but she kept the scrap of paper and wouldn't tell me the call number. I tried to remember the call numbers from earlier, thinking I could find Poor Liza in the same area. Crap.
Fortunately, another computer card catalog was right there, with no line. Dekalb County Libraries doesn't have Poor Liza. Lovely. This time I wrote the call numbers down. 822.33 for Shakespeare. 891.733 for Tolstoy and Dostoyevski. 813.54 for Nabokov. Weird that he's not with the other Russians; maybe he's too pervy. (I know, I shouldn't judge Lolita when I haven't read it, but it's about a hebephile -- that's like a pedophile, but likes middle school kids instead. Gross.)
I decided to grab Twelfth Night first; there were two different editions. The first was William Shakespeare's Twelfth night, edited and with an introduction by Harold Bloom. I flipped it open to see what kind of notes it had. Wait. Where was the play? Ten critical essays about the play. No play. What a misleading book title.
Time to find the other edition. I'd searched only that branch and it said "checked in," so I was hopeful. But after searching the entire Shakespeare section twice, I had to concede defeat. Time was up. I had to get back to church. But I couldn't leave empty-handed.
I raced to the non-pervy Russian section, figuring I'd take the least thick book between Anna Karenina and Crime and Punishment (knowing that's a poor indication of complexity, but the time!). I was skimming for Dostoyevsky when my eyes lit on Chekhov. Of course! He was Russian! And he wrote plays! Plays couldn't have 900 characters! And I'd read 2 pages of The Cherry Orchard in high school drama, and it wasn't so bad. Done.
I would have gone down the stairs, but they're very hidden (as in, if the library ever had an emergency evacuation, I'd burn with the books while still searching for them). Fortunately, the elevator was already waiting. The self-checkout had a line, but regular checkout didn't. As I stuffed the book into my backpack, I checked my watch. Less than 7 minutes until church starts. It took me 12 to get here. Dang.
Fortunately, my skirt has built-in shorts and was fairly easy to run it, so I raced the 0.8 miles back. Traffic was light, so I was able to jayrun the few streets I had to cross. I ran down the main drag of downtown Decatur, certain that parishioners were passing me in their cars, but as I checked my watch again, I grinned. I skittered into my pew just as we were enjoined to "rise and greet our neighbors." And I had another classic to read. Mission (sort of) accomplished.
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