The Night Before

Five years ago tonight I was in the top floor gallery at Barnes & Noble on Union Square to hear Garrison Keillor read from his new novel, "Lake Wobegone Summer 1956." It was the biggest crowd I've ever seen at a book signing. Heavy thunderstorms were passing across Manhattan, high winds blowing and lightning flashing. More than once Garrison had to pause in his reading for an especially long and loud roll of thunder to pass.

The gallery windows face south, across Union Square and down to the Village, Soho, Chinatown and Lower Manhattan. The twin towers shimmered in the pounding rain, all those fluorescent lights seeming dim each time a fork of lightning struck the buildings. I'd probably seen thousands of lightning bolts hit those buildings over the years. How could we know that we were seeing it happen for the last time?

After the reading Garrison signed copies of his books. He stood on the stage at the front of the room and the crowd formed a line going up the right side aisle. A woman who worked for Barnes & Noble went down the line writing each person's name on a Post-It and sticking it to the book cover. This is common at large readings, it makes it easier for the person signing hundreds of books to get the inscription right.

In all my life there were two  celebrities I was terrified to meet, Leonard Cohen and Garrison Keillor. In each case I'd been a fan for so long, idolized their work, read and listened to everything I could get my hands on, that the thought of finding out either one was a jerk would have been more than I could handle. I met Cohen about twenty years ago and he was a gentle, charming, awe inspiring man. This night I found out that Keillor was kind, soft spoken, funny, genuinely interested in his fans. He asked me where I was from, he said I sounded midwestern. I told him I came from Bed Stuy and now live in Brookyn Heights. He told me I must be doing something right and I said that it was really just a series of happy accidents. He laughed and said, "Jim, my entire career has been a series of happy accidents!" He inscribed the book to me, writing that I was true Brooklyn, and dated it September 10, 2001. We shook hands and I left the stage.

By now it was about ten thirty, half an hour past the store's official closing. It seemed surreal, walking down the still escalators past three dim empty floors to where a lone cashier was working late checking out the people coming from the reading.  A security guard unlocked the door and I walked out into Union Square with a few other people heading for the subway. The rain had stopped and the last clouds were blowing away. The air felt fresh and cool, and the stars were shining. Putting my precious book in my backpack, I went down the stairs to the subway.

When I got home I put the book, still in its bag, on my dining table and took Casey out for his walk. The twin towers loomed over the end of my street, such a constant that I barely noticed the glowing windows, the television mast illuminated against the cool and drying sky. I was thinking about how I would take the book out of its bag tomorrow after work and spend a long peaceful evening of reading.

The next morning I was walking Casey at the end of my street overlooking the harbor at 8:46am.

When I finally took the book out of its bag about three weeks had passed. I opened it and looked at that date, September 10, 2001. When Garrison wrote that date neither of us could have imagined that it was the last day of a world that's gone now. I couldn't help wishing I'd cherished that world more.