The Good Luck of Right Now(21)

I nodded because what he was saying seemed logical.

Father McNamee nodded back once, said, “Besides, this is why God gave us whiskey,” got on his knees in the living room, and continued praying.

I decided to skip Mass for the first time in my life, because I didn’t want to see Father Hachette again. I didn’t want to have another confusing conversation. And Father McNamee and I were having Communion on a daily basis—three times a day, at every meal. You, Richard Gere, appeared to me several times, ghostlike in the darkness of my bedroom, and you told me that it was okay to skip Mass, that I could pray and talk to God anywhere—but as you are a Buddhist, I’m not sure I can trust you on these matters.

Father McNamee prayed and prayed and prayed, and nothing else really happened until I went to the library on Monday morning. The Girlbrarian was working. I thought about the goals I had made with Wendy. How I wanted to have a beer at the bar with The Girlbrarian.

There is nothing I want more than to speak with The Girlbrarian.

I prayed for strength.

She was wearing black military-style boots, jeans, and a long white sweater that looked like a dress and covered everything from her shoulders to her knees. For an hour or so I watched her push her cart in and out of aisles as she returned the books to their homes according to the alphabet. She would study the spines of each through her long brown hair, and then she’d scan the shelves, her eyes zigzagging the rows.

Whenever she found the proper place she would nod once and push her lips together as if to say, “Yes, I do believe I have found your home, Mr. or Mrs. Book.”

Then she would kneel or climb the little ladder attached to the cart before she made a space for the returned book. She’d slide the book back onto the shelf, make sure the spine was even with all of the other spines, and then give the top a little tap with her index finger, as if to say, “Perfect.”

The whole time I watched The Girlbrarian I pretended that you were speaking to me, Richard Gere. You kept saying, Look at her, Bartholomew. She’s perfect for you. Go over and speak with her. Ask her what she likes to read. Ask if she likes looking at the river flow behind the art museum. Tell her you like her outfit. That she does her job with precision and efficiency, both of which you value highly. Ask her to have a beer with you. Why not? What do you have to lose? There she is. Go! It’s as simple as walking fifty feet and saying ten words, big guy. Come on!

When you spoke to me at the library, you kept calling me “big guy.”

Come on, big guy. She’s right there. And I’ll be with you the whole time. I’ll be telling you what to do in your mind. Come on, big guy! We can do this. Trust me.

It was nice to hear your voice in my mind—even if I was only pretending—especially since you are so confident and good with the opposite sex, both on and off the screen.

Each time The Girlbrarian climbed to the top of her ladder, I thought of that line you say to Julia Roberts at the end of Pretty Woman.

“What happens after he climbs up the tower and rescues her?” you ask.

And Julia Roberts says, “She rescues him right back.”

I wondered if maybe The Girlbrarian and I would say something like that to each other after we had gone on so many dates, and in my mind you said, Sure. Sure you will, big guy. It’s easy. Just go over and say hi. Listen to what I tell you to do, and failure will be impossible.

But I didn’t listen to what you told me to do.

I didn’t say hi.

I didn’t do anything.

And I want to thank you for being patient with me, Richard Gere, because you never once yelled at me or called me a retard. You said only positive, encouraging things in my mind, and you were so nice, I almost wanted to cry. I understand why Mom loved and admired you so much, although the little man in my stomach was not amused. He kept yelling, Hey, stupid! Richard Gere is not speaking to you! It’s only your imagination! What type of a grown man pretends like this? Only retards! With every sentence, he’d give a little kick or punch, and my insides started to feel sore.

But you ignored that little angry man in my stomach—you just kept encouraging me, Richard Gere.

You even appeared to me briefly in the library—just long enough to flash me a smile before your image evaporated.

Thank you.

I listened to you speak so sonorously in my mind for more than two hours until I realized that I had to leave and get something to eat before I attended my Surviving Grief meeting.

I ate a baked potato and a salad at Wendy’s, because I was thinking about Wendy my grief counselor just as I was walking past that redheaded little girl’s fast-food restaurant and was reminded of Jung’s synchronicity, so I decided to go inside.

I smiled while eating at Wendy’s—thinking about my grief counselor and the fact that there are no coincidences.

Thinking about Wendy at Wendy’s.

Then I went to the address that Wendy gave me.





1012 Walnut Street


Third Floor


There was a coffee shop on the first floor, and when I asked for directions they told me to use a door that was in an alleyway. There was a buzzer and a black box with numbered buttons and a tiny hole you were supposed to speak into. Since I didn’t know the entry code, I pushed the white circle call button and heard a bzzzzzzz!

A second later, a man’s voice said, “Hello?”