One of my summer research gigs has brought me to the Princeton University main library two weeks straight. On the first trip my buddy came along. We’ll call him Seth because I’m silly. We hopped on the library elevator when this tall, slender brunette slipped through the closing doors. She exited a floor before us, and Seth and I exchanged a knowing glance. We had both checked her out (pardon the library pun).
We hit the microfilm room and had a blast operating the analog machinery, taking turns piloting. We both watch too much Battlestar. The last item on my list confounded the helpful librarian in the department; she directed us to the “book finder around the corner.” As we rounded said corner, I could see the woman from the elevator behind a computer. My neck snapped around to Seth, “Are we going to fight over her?” I was only partially kidding. He graciously gave me the floor. She told me the item in question was in the rare book room. I could speak no more.
I came back the next week to the rare book room sans Seth. The experience was a bit of nerd nirvana. I should say the edifice itself is exactly the way a romanticized library should look in my head. Gothic. Glorious. When I described it to the guy who dropped me off from the car dealership (my baby was in the shop), I said it looked like a church without the steeple. And the rituals of a rare book room are indeed church-like. There’s the expected silence, but the security and protocols are somewhere between reverential and military. Normally I detest such bureaucracy, but not here. After jumping through many hoops to prove my identity and legitimacy for entrance, I tucked my backpack into a locker and filled out a call slip because I was not allowed to bring my notebook into the room. I then had to wash my hands! I would’ve put on a hazmat suit if they had asked.
The room was small, filled with researchers crouched over manuscripts spaced out among long tables. The reference desk person made me type my call slip into the computer. Again, I happily complied. I quietly waited for someone to fetch the item for ten minutes. Then, a gray bin appeared on a cart. The librarians opened the bin, and I suppressed the urge to make an Ark of the Covenant joke. It might melt your face! My goofy unspoken banter vanished the moment I saw it: an original newspaper from 1861. They gingerly placed it on the table, and I held my breath as they unfolded the one sheet. The best part was that this holy relic had exactly the information my employer required. Actually, that’s not quite the best part because I hadn’t forgotten about the hot librarian. My mission accomplished, I contemplated going to the basement to find her. No, if it’s meant to be, I will find her without searching, I thought. By the way, this was a cowardly thought disguised in my usual besotted foolery.
I left the library and heard organ music from the chapel immediately across the courtyard. Naturally, I went into the chapel, Gothic and glorious complete with stained glass windows and steeple, and sat down in a wooden pew. I had the place to myself. I was overwhelmed by the pipe organ and the splendor. After about twenty minutes, I felt sufficiently high off my charmed life. I emerged into the sunlight. There she was sitting directly in front of me having a smoke, wearing red sneakers and jeans. I broke into a huge grin, but then strode right past her. I had a bandage on my face (another story), and let’s face it, this was awkward enough without a piece of frosted shredded wheat affixed to my cheek. I rounded the corner, stopped, and had a little conversation with myself. This sure looks like it was meant to be. Egg up, woman! I had to go back. She was still there when I approached. (To be continued…)
Chasing Jessica 
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