The book and its cover

I had an hour off between clients today and so decided to head to Peet's for a break. I was waiting in line when in walked what I can only write was one of the most intimidating looking people I have ever seen. He was a tall, burly man in full motorcycle regalia, his arms covered in tattoos. He had on enough chains, earrings and what I SWEAR were brass knuckles to set off the metal detector at San Jose airport from where he was standing. Instinctively, I moved slightly away, afraid that my presence might irritate him and cause him to use whatever hidden weapon I am sure was lurking under his leather vest.

In fact, that seemed to be popular thought as everyone gave him wide berth as he ordered his drink and stood waiting for it in the pick-up line. Much to my chagrin, he decided to sit at the table next to me outside…imagine my shock when he pulled out As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner from his pocket. Surely, not.

Now, I consider myself something of a literature buff. I have a minor in English Lit and would like to think I could hold my own in a conversation about authors both past and emerging (also, my professors would be SO PROUD of my ability to use the term “SUCK IT!” in proper context). However, Faulkner has always been a weak point for me. I come away from him thinking that perhaps my life would be best spent following simpler pursuits, say, organizing my shoe closet or learning to balance a spoon on my nose. He’s hard and often when someone is rhapsodizing about their love of Faulkner, I have to resist yelling “POSER!” primarily because I think they are lying…or, more honestly, because I want to kick them in the shins for having more brain cells than I do.

Regardless, I was impressed. Awed, even. He tucked into his coffee, scone and book with great concentration while I tried to hide the fact that I was reading US Weekly (incidentally, Madonna and Guy are apparently done). I kept peeking to check his progress - never once did his eyes waver from his book…until I got up to leave, which I tried to do quietly, so as not to disturb him. But, as is my typical fashion, I knocked over my empty coffee cup, which rolled away and came to rest beside his boot, which was not only made for walking but some serious ass-kicking.

Shit.

He looked down, and then at me, and then down again. Right then I was wondering if my will was in order and if I had put enough water in Kylie's bowl that morning before I left…you know, the inane thoughts you have before dying. Timidly, I stepped over and bent down to scoop up my trash. He beat me to it, however, and handed me the cup and then SMILED. And it was a nice smile! With a gold tooth! Not a grimace, but rather a “Come join me for a chat about Faulkner…he’s a crazy bitch, no?” smile.

Feeling brave, I said “Thank you! How are you finding that book? Faulkner has always been difficult for me.”

And then, in what was a gorgeous Scottish accent, he replied “I did my thesis on him at University, so I like to go back and reread some of my favorites every few years. I actually used to teach a class on him at Berkeley.”

Sweet, holy, tap-dancing Jesus!

Had I not had a client waiting, I would have sat down right then and there and begged for his story. Because it’s not every day you find a literature professor moonlighting as a thug…with a tattoo of a naked woman on his forearm. She was wearing some sweet shoes, though.