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Pretending that I’m interested…

I was five years old in 1961 and not yet in school: this meant that wherever my mother went, I went as well.

One winter’s day she decided a trip to the library was necessary, so off we went in our green, 1957 Chevy Bel Air to pick my Grandmother up from her apartment in Borough Park. Then we were off to the Grand Army Plaza library.

It was, and is, a beautiful building, located at the meeting point of Flatbush Avenue and Eastern Parkway. The central library for the borough of Brooklyn! Up several flights of stone stairs, then onto a large plaza where the entrance is located.

Sometimes, if my Mom was in a good mood, she would allow my older brother (who was lucky enough to be in school that day) and I to climb up on the huge, smooth stone slabs and sit, our legs dangling over the ledge.

She was not in a good mood that day.

Before we entered, she took me aside. “No running around inside, do you understand me good?!” she asked.

I nodded, but really didn’t get the question. Of course I understood her; I was no idiot! Whether I would be capable of obeying her or not was another story.

Inside, my Mom and Grandma sat at a table to read. Now, nothing about sitting, or reading, held the slightest bit of interest for me: what five year old is able to sit still? Besides the fact that I could not yet read.

So off I ran, exploring the cavernous rooms. The floor, made of marble, was very smooth and fun to run on.

After 15 minutes or so, I realized I had picked up a tail. An old looking fellow (probably in his 30s), dressed in a suit and tie.

Try as I might, I could not lose him. No matter where I turned, or hid, the clackety-clack of his shoes always followed.

I figured I had two choices: allow him to arrest me for the crime of running inside a library, or go back to my Mom, and a certain beating. What a quandary!

I knew I could never survive a prison stretch, so back to the table I went. I took a seat as my undercover pursuer began a lengthy, low volume discussion with my Mom.

They took turns staring at me as they spoke; a sure sign of trouble. Finally my Mom walked over. I braced for hand to rear end impact…but no whack ensued. Instead, my Mom politely informed me that the fellow was not a policeman; he was merely a newspaper photographer. From the New York Herald Tribune, as if that would impress me. And he wanted to take a photo of me reading from a rare Bible that was being displayed, behind protective glass.

Okay, great! I thought. I can’t read yet, so I’m off the hook!

“Don’t think for a minute you’re off the hook because you can’t read yet,” my Mom said. “You can just make believe you’re reading.”

How can I make believe I’m doing something that I don’t know how to do? I thought.

“But…” I said…

“Never you mind,” my Mom said. “You’ll do what the man says, do you understand me good?!??”

Yes, Mom. I understand you very good. And I knew enough, even at the tender age of five, when to fold ‘em. So off I went with the evil newspaper photographer, my Mom and Grandma trailing excitedly close behind.

I stood with my nose to the glass and stared at the Bible, my breath fogging the window. I noticed about a dozen people watching me, wondering what was going on. The guy instructed me to lean back a bit.

I leaned back, putting my hands on the glass, smudging it. He told me not to touch the glass, and to try to look interested.

I opened my eyes and mouth wide, feigning awe at the majestic book before me. He told me to look normal.

I put my hands on my hips, which I then swayed in circles, trying to be funny. My Grandma laughed, along with my audience; my Mother, who was most definitely not amused, quickly walked over to me.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I had a terrific Mom. The only problem with her was that she wouldn’t take crap from anybody. Not even her son. Whether he was five or 55.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop fooling around RIGHT NOW!” she thundered quietly (we were in a library, remember). “God help you if you don’t do this right!”

So I stiffened up, folded my arms on the ledge, and tried to look as mesmerized as humanly possible, staring at a centuries old Bible that meant absolutely nothing to me.

The guy snapped his photos, exchanged pleasantries with my Mom, turned to glare at me for a moment, then was on his way. Presumably to find other little children to torture.

The following Sunday, my Mom examined each page of the thick morning edition of the Herald Tribune, searching for my photograph. She got progressively angrier as her search remained fruitless. When she could not find what she was looking for, she began the process all over again.

I retreated a step with each unsuccessful turn of the page; I knew this would somehow end up being my fault.

Thankfully, when my Dad finally got home from wherever the hell he was, he ignored my Mom’s anger and took a look for himself. When he got to page 34, there I was, staring at the Bible. My Mom was very pleased. The entire apartment exhaled in relief.

Epilogue: The Tribune folded a few years later. I enrolled in kindergarten the following year, and soon learned to read (Superman comics). The library still stands, as beautiful as ever. And the few times I took my kids there, I always let them run free. I just made believe I didn’t know them when they got yelled at…