The Bookish Life of Nina Hill(81)

Lydia grinned. “In K.I.T.T.? With me driving? Twenty minutes.”

Nina shook her head. “No, in a regular Trans Am, because K.I.T.T. is a fictional character, during rush hour, and with me driving.”

Lydia made a face. “Forty minutes.”

“Fine, you drive.”





Twenty-eight




In which things get a little out of hand.

Here’s a useful tip: Driving through Los Angeles in a fast car with a genius researcher is not enjoyable, unless you are one of those people who drinks five Red Bulls and snorts coke before getting in the front seat of a roller coaster and sticking both arms in the air. Nina started reciting “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” as they sped through Beverly Hills, and by the time they reached Larchmont, she was reading the line about rolling the bottoms of trousers, and that tells you how fast they were going. Furthermore, apparently the way to beat traffic in LA is to treat straight lines as abominations and Tetris your way through the side streets. It didn’t help that Lydia was calling out street names as she went, like a pool shark calling a pocket.

As they turned onto Larchmont Boulevard, it was immediately clear something was wrong. Pedestrians on both sides were looking south, toward the bookstore, and Nina began to get what Han Solo might have called a Bad Feeling. She was still nauseous from the car ride, but this was something more.

There was a crowd of maybe twenty people in front of the store, plus two cops, all of whom were watching an argument between a middle-aged woman who Nina recognized from the store (historical fiction) and a younger woman who was wearing a long, fringed skirt, a top made of birds’ wings and macaroni, and a large felt hat with a brim the size of Poughkeepsie. Birds could have perched comfortably on it, if they were able to forgive the bird wing corset.

“I question your assumption that makeup is less culturally valid than literature,” the young woman was saying, as Nina and Lydia got close. Ah, thought Nina, it’s a Larchmont Liberal Street Fight.

The older woman frowned. “I am not in any way questioning the validity of your products, culturally or otherwise, and far be it from me to cast aspersions on the career goals of a fellow woman, but this bookstore has been here for nearly eight decades and is a cornerstone of our community.”

“Progress is inevitable,” replied the woman.

“That is both true and irrelevant to our discussion,” said the older woman, whom Nina was mentally referring to as the Reader. “We don’t need another beauty products store on Larchmont, and we certainly don’t need a pot shop.”

“We’re not a dispensary,” replied the other woman, whom Nina had internally named Bird Wing Betty. “We create makeup infused with potent botanicals that make you feel as good as you look. We are one hundred percent organic, local, and legal.”

There was murmuring in the crowd. Clearly, Bird Wing Betty had some supporters. As if to prove it, a group of about a dozen similarly dressed young people suddenly appeared.

“We saw your post on Instagram,” said one, coming up to Betty and touching her upper arm. “I’m so sorry the boomers are harshing your vibe.”

“Total drag,” said another. “I brought you some royal jelly and an apple cider vinegar shot to alkalinize you.” She handed over a tiny bottle that reminded Nina of Alice in Wonderland.

The cops sensed an opening. “Ladies,” said one of them, an officer who looked like this was a pleasant change from moving homeless people off the streets, “I’m afraid you don’t have a permit to protest, so you need to break this up and go home.”

“No,” said the Reader. “We’re staying here to show our support for reading.”

“Dude, we’re all about reading,” said one of the new young people, “but bookstores are so nineties. Stories live in the cloud now, free like birds. Don’t tie them down in the physical realm.”

The Reader snorted at her. “You’re stoned.”

The girl snorted back at her. “You’re old, but at least I’ll sober up.”

Another guy in the crowd said, “Go back to Santa Monica, you wannabe hippie counterculturalists.” Which, let’s face it, are fighting words, albeit unnecessarily long fighting words.

And then it happened. Someone—no one was ever sure who it was—threw a ball of cardamom, fig, and Brie ice cream, which hit Bird Wing Betty right in the . . . bird wings. Finally, thought Nina, they got that ice cream trebuchet working.

One of Betty’s friends turned and tossed a shot of cayenne and lemon juice in the face of a bookstore supporter, who cried, “My eyes,” and staggered backward. Another ball of ice cream arced overhead and nailed one of the cops, who didn’t take it very well. Nina turned to see who was throwing the frosty artillery just as another scoop glanced off her head and hit Betty, this time in the face. Betty stomped her foot.

“I. Am. Lactose. Intolerant!” she cried.

“No, you’re just completely intolerable,” replied the Reader, and pushed her.

Nina reached up and felt her head, which was sticky. She heard giggling. Lydia was amused.

“You’ve got a little . . . something something . . .” Lydia wiped a little drip from Nina’s forehead and tasted it.

“Huh,” she said. “Mint chip. Surprising.” She opened her mouth to continue and took a gluten-free cupcake right in the cake hole, which was also surprising. She sputtered.