The WOWMOBILE spent last night out under the stars, and while it was a clement evening, needless to say this was not by design. As with a bus, the bookmobile has a pneumatic device that "kneels" the vehicle for easier patron ingress and egress. Well, at my first stop on Monday morning WOW knelt but did not rise, and whatever malfunctioned did so to the extent that the wheel well is now resting on the rear tire on the passenger side. To condense the story, when the mechanic finally did arrive, he was--not surprisingly--unable to jack the vehicle up high enough to assess the problem.
And so the better part of my day was spent sitting under a tree reading an old (1948) book by Bernard Devoto, The Hour, a darkly jocular meditation on what does (rye, bourbon, or a gin martini) and what does not (everything else) constitute a proper cocktail. "Darkly jocular" may seem an oxymoron, but I think it appropriate. When speaking, for example, of "The Enemy," Mr. DeVoto (who has quite a way with words) likes to write sentences such as, "I am not concerned with [them]...unless you think it possible to sterilize or massacre them on a sufficiently rewarding scale." Around four o'clock the library got a van out to pick me up.
Today I took said van and did my stops, while scientists studied how to raise and repair the bookmobile. As I write, it remains where I left it. Sleep tight, My Prince.
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