Confessions of a Librarian

by Barbara Foster

  I contemplated going back on Craigslist to once again climb on the treadmill of dashed hopes. What if I encountered another scumbag like the guy who asked me to sit on the toilet and spread my legs so he could pee between them? Missing the Confessions Club, I checked out other writing groups. None fit! My expectations were unrealistic. The frolicking pusses, especially Demeter, always trying to play with my manuscripts, had spoiled me.

  A cat! Suddenly, I recalled George describing his cat’s long, silky whiskers and the way she chased her tail—just like Demeter. Marmalade sounded like a feline I wanted to stroke. Her owner also had a desirable body worth cuddling up to. I wanted to know him better, to discover if we might set out on an erotic pilgrimage of some significance together. Without further ado, I dialed George’s number. While listening to his phone ring, a Buddhist maxim invaded my thoughts: Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.

  AFTERWORD: 2014

  Since everything is but an apparition, having nothing to do with good or bad, acceptance or rejection, one may well burst out in laughter.

  A Buddhist maxim

  I dialed George’s number several times but he never picked up. It’s a mystery that may never be solved. In need of a spiritual uplift, I decided to reactivate my longtime interest in Eastern religions by attending a New Year’s Eve celebration at a Yoga Center on Fourteenth Street. By now, my surrealistic episode with the two-faced Malcolm had lost its sting. My friend Beverly, who took me to the previous Center where I’d met Malcolm, swore that New Year’s Eve at this Center had a meditation that ended in midnight kirtan (chanting) that rocked.

  Not so keen on meditation, I adored chanting. All my worries would evaporate as my voice blended with other kirtan devotees in a joyous chorus. I could sit for hours intoning the holy names of the Hindu divinities, especially that of the monkey god Hanuman—my favorite. This charged holiday season I missed the Confessions Club more than ever. What fun we used to have exchanging zany gifts and toasting each other at a Turkish restaurant waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square. Now, I would be among strangers, but so what! It was an excellent opportunity to stop brooding about the past and celebrate the future with all its possibilities.

  On the appointed night I arrived at the Center, took an elevator to the fourth floor, and removed my shoes in the Eastern tradition. I walked down a long hall to the main room which had jewel encrusted altars—laden, for the holidays, with fruit and sweet smelling flowers. Statues of popular Hindu deities created the atmosphere of an authentic temple frequented by the faithful. A festive spirit pervaded the entire space, perpetuated by celebrants laughing, hugging and kissing.

  At nine a bell rang to signal the end of speech. People wrote notes to each other, made signs with their hands, or silently mouthed words. The meditation was led by a glamour couple, promoters of veganism, exotic retreats and animal rights, who gave new twists to an ancient discipline. These spiritual entrepreneurs had established a community of upscale followers who chose to spend New Year’s Eve being elevated by sound vibrations rather than having their ears blasted in noisy bars.

  I had reservations about lasting through a three-hour silence till the witching hour would erupt in song. I napped, read and sampled a yummy chakra smoothie in the café. Meanwhile I observed the passing traffic of mostly unescorted, stunning women who looked as though they belonged on Project Runway rather than at a yoga center carrying exercise mats. Men were outnumbered by these slim beauties glowing with health — some tattooed and pierced a la mode. By the time I looked at the clock, the meditation was almost over. When the bell rang, regret that such a peaceful interlude had to end swept over me.

  Once the chanting began, all eyes were on the incarnate goddess who lead the hundred or so kirtan enthusiasts in hymns that resounded through the room, perhaps up to the gods. In Sanskrit, the leader’s name meant angel. What an apt description. Her delicate oval face was framed by an aureole of jet-black hair that fell to her shoulders. From her body emanated holy fire that singed the air around her and those breathing it. Musicians playing drums, flute and a harmonium followed her rhythm as the cadences rose and fell. Although the room was packed, some got up and danced like Shiva, did head stands, a few children whirled, a mom suckled an infant at her breast.

  Giving into the laissez faire mood, I chanted at the top of my lungs worshipping the gods and goddesses, the bringers of good and, once in awhile, ill fortune. Perhaps, if I made the request loudly and fervent enough, the New Year would bring a sensational romantic opportunity. Enough with Internet characters like the guy who described himself as “slightly bisexual,” and the one who wanted to ship boxes of money to my home from Nigeria so we would have everything we needed to start a new life together.

  The chanting ended with the distribution of prasad (blessed food), which this night consisted of popcorn, coconut pieces and oranges. Intoxicated without a drop of liquor, I kept ecstatically repeating jai jai ma (glory to mother) while the crowd said their goodbyes. Still chanting, I got my coat, put on my shoes and moved toward the packed elevator. To avoid the throngs, I decided to take the stairs. Mystically transported downwards, lingering echoes from the mantras made me want to fly. My feet moved of their own to music that I prayed would never stop. Surprise! Plop, smack! I tumbled down a steep flight.

  Next thing I knew an emergency room doctor was strapping up my painful, swollen ankle. Luckily, the fall did not did not damage the rest of my body. The ankle hurt for weeks, even after I graduated to a boot, which empowered me to inch along with the help of a walker. It took several months, with the help of physical therapy, for me to resume my normal routine. This inactive period provided an opportunity for reflection on productive paths that the still feisty Greenwich Village bacchante might embark on. For encouragement, I re-read favorite portions of Casanova’s Memoirs. His ability to capture the “passing glory of the personal life” remains unequalled.

  Casanova and I both were librarians. In his final years, the legendary polymath served Count Joseph Karl von Waldstein in his castle in Bohemia. A virtual hermit, Casanova wrote 3,700 pages non-stop while being ignored by other inhabitants of the castle. Clearly, I did not live in a time when men fought duels over honor and women peered seductively from behind their fans. In our industrial age, which does not put much emphasis on panache, a female Casanova must tone herself down. After a pedestrian interlude at Columbia Library School, I served an academic bureaucracy that certainly would disapprove of my adventures. I came to agree with Henry Kissinger’s observation that “university politics are vicious precisely because the stakes are so small.” Resilient, not marooned like Casanova, I survived, even thrived.

  Like Casanova, I decided to record my experiences, to tell my story in addition to supplying vignettes that bring to life the individual quirks of the Confessions Club cohorts. One aspect of my Confessions parallels that of the great lover who insisted: “I amuse myself by studying people as I travel... it is fun to study the world while passing through it.” Often my adventures were “fun,” even though they required I be fleet of foot and primed to throw myself into a situation without ruminations on its consequences. In those days, I followed my mentor’s advice: “Go wherever your impulse leads you. Take whatever Fate offers, unless you feel a strong dislike for the gift.”

  My Confessions also stemmed from a deeper need to comprehend my behavior with questionable characters that could have easily ended in the morgue. Being in a wide open marriage put me in an equivocal position that required the steadiness of a tightrope walker. One misstep could shatter the delicate balance of egos. Such emotional risk-taking provided security and excitement in equal measure. Big relationship changes were never on my agenda. I only wanted to enhance my romantic life. Picking roses from a bush full of thorns, I accumulated wounds that healed once a new lover kissed them away.

  From my voyages along the shores of sacred and profane love, which took unexpected
twists and turns, I have amassed archives overflowing with juicy material. This hoard is capital that I access for comfort during difficult interludes. In my mature years, the urge to open this treasure chest of memories that causes me to chuckle and frown is irresistible. Without regret or bitterness, I share these stories written in the Casanovaesque spirit. Pardon my hubris in comparing myself to the raconteur who never goes out of style. Hopefully, if readers hop on board, they will enjoy the ride, perhaps find the trip enlightening.

  Presently, I am semi-retired from the romance field. I have neither the desire nor the endurance to compete with Casanova, who boasted of going to bed with 10,000 women. One substantial relationship would be more than welcome but not so easy to find. Haunts I used to frequent are packed with Gen Xers listening to loud music, or regarding their smart phones as though they were the philosopher’s stone. Dating websites present a wide range of possibilities, but onliners can be deceptive about their history, looks and what they actually want. No matter, I have found a reliable connection that suits my basic needs.

  Currently, I am involved in a ménage a trois with my husband Michael and his longtime partner, Letha. The connection is not about sex but rather family. We three have been together for many years, during which territorial problems have been worked out. We watch classic films, read to each other, spend holidays and take vacations together. Joint projects have produced three books on diverse topics. Our careful research and writing skills have earned considerable praise. Such an unorthodox arrangement has its problems, but so do today’s marriages, half of which end in divorce.

  Only soothsayers can predict the future. However, I am optimistic that the years ahead will be productive ones. My cheering section encourages me in every area. If the need arises, my ménage allows me to dump my troubles on their shoulders. And best of all their household includes two adorable, roly-poly pussycats. To reference Casanova once more: “Beyond pleasure, there is still happiness.”

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