Megan Stielstra's Blog

Reading in public is tricky. On the one hand, a change of scenery is nice (especially if it involves good coffee). On the other hand, you do run the risk of people trying to talk to you while you are reading. “What are you reading?” these people ask, and you show them the cover, and then they sit down ‘cause the two of you are going to have a discussion. Granted, I’m sure there are people who read in public in order to have these conversations i.e. Meet people i.e. Hit on people. I am not one of those people. Maybe I was, back when I was single, but quite frankly I’m trying to block those years out, so I’ll remain comfortably in the Not One of Them category, and tell you about the dog park this afternoon.

Usually, Mojo and I walk/run in Humboldt Park. This is my favorite place: it’s big and beautiful and private and a block away from my house. But, the dog has to stay on leash (I’ve seen lots of people letting their dogs off leash there, which they’re not supposed to, which I could care less about if the dog is well trained, which, more or less, Mojo is, but however well he’s trained he’s still a baby and he’s recently discovered squirrels, and the fact that they can run up trees, and, well, it’s just not time yet), so sometimes I’ll take him to the dog park so he can run his ass off with other dogs. Which is sometimes more fun than running his ass off with me. Because I do not roll around in dirt and shit.

So anyhow, Mojo is running around, having a blast, and I am sitting quietly, reading my book. Then:

“Whatcha reading?”

He is tall, with lots of tattoos, and a T-shirt cut off at the armpits to show off the aforementioned tattoos, and a big white Labrador who keeps trying to stick its nose in my crotch.

I hold up my book so he can see the cover: the fifth volume of Anais Nin’s journal (one of my guilty pleasures, like Since You’ve Been Gone by Kelly Clarkston and US magazine [which I won't admit to. I'll say instead: 3d Planet by Modest Mouse and The Atlantic Monthly]).

“Nin, huh?” he says.

Loooong pause, during which he stands there and I wonder if I can go back to my book, or if I have to wait until he leaves. Then:

“Have you read Harry Potter?”

I haven’t.

“Man, it’s amazing. Like, it’s a completely Jungian archetype—” I start repeating Jungian archetype over and over in my head, so I won’t forget it before I can get to a pen. Jungian archetype. Jungian archetype. Jungian archetype—“besides the fact that she’s brought so many people together, like, really built community with her work and that’s just genius, you know? It made me think, what’s going on in the world that makes so many people need Harry Potter right now? Like, why do we suddenly have this need to believe in magic?”

I nod. Jungian archetype. Jungian archetype. Jungian archetype.

“And her website is really amazing, too. Like, I really got to know her on it. Like, she’s totally normal and all, and has kids, and was even on welfare. How amazing is that? She has KIDS, but she’s so passionate about her writing that she goes on welfare to support them! I really admire that, you know? That’s passion!”

Again, I nod. I’m not interested in battles anymore, literary or otherwise. Sure, when I was younger, I was really into them. I could kill a night (pre-21) at the twenty-four hour diner or (post-21) at the four o’clock bars duking out literary theories, or any kid of theories. I got off on the Devil’s advocacy of it, fighting just to fight. But, man, I’m too old for that stuff now. Or, maybe it’s because talking about books is my job, so on my off time I’d like to, I don’t know, read them? Like Kundera wrote: people should stop trying to figure Kafka out and just read him!

“She really inspired me to start writing, you know? I’m a writer now.”

Good. I like people being inspired to write. Just go do it on the other side of the dog park, please, and get your dog outta my pants while you’re at it.

“Are you a writer?” he asks then.

“No,” I say cheerfully. “Just like to read.”

After that, he walks away. He is not getting what he wants out of me, be it a conversation or a phone number. Mojo runs over and drops a (very gross) tennis ball at my feet. We play fetch for a while (he doesn’t always remember the Bring it Back part of that game, which is a problem) and then he starts chasing a puggle and I go back to my book.

Five, four, three, two, one.

“What are you reading?”

This guy is dressed like a bike-messenger: shorts and Nikes and courier bag. He’s got five dogs in the park, all various ages and sizes. One of them is a big ol’ Rott who runs round the park humping littler dogs. I keep one eye on it, making sure it doesn’t go after my puppy, and hold up my book so he can see the cover.

“Nin, huh?” he says, sitting down next to me. “I love her stuff. I know you, you work at the Bongo Room. You know me from—” he names a place I’ve never heard of before— “and then from Starbucks, ‘cause I worked at Starbucks for like two years til it drove me crazy. I thought it would take longer but it didn’t, two years is all I can stand. Now I’m a dog walker. Which is your dog?”

I point at Mojo, who is eating an empty plastic water bottle.

“Huh. Cute. So I was a therapist for a while—I graduated with a double major in psychology and philosophy—and my specialty was sex and relationships. And I think people are just afraid to talk to one another, you know? Specifically if they’re going to say something vulg—what is sometimes perceived as vulgar. I think, if you’re going to take your clothes off in front of someone, you should comfortable saying anything to them, and if you’re not, then you shouldn’t be taking your clothes off in front of them in the first place! Now, if a stranger says something like that—”

Let me pause by saying I didn’t ask this guy what exactly he was talking about because I was afraid he would, you know, tell me.

“—then that’s one thing, but this is another thing entirely, and I’m just saying I think it’s really great that Anais Nin says it. You know? She says it. I’m trying to get my wife to read her stuff—”

Oh no.

“—but she’s not into it. I mean, she’s very well read and everything, very well read, but she’s not interested in reading this stuff.” He pauses. ‘Stuff like this.”

I say, “We have to go now.”

He nods, and I call my dog. The Rott follows him to the door and I can see in its eyes that it’s going to mount my baby’s back. It’s not that Mojo can’t take care of himself; I’ve seen him swipe at dogs three times his size if they try to put their No-Balls-Having selves anywhere near his backside, but, in this moment I’ve got some stuff to get off my chest, so I look at the Rott and I growl.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Mojo thinks that’s the coolest thing on the planet.