adding to
her appeal. She could stand out in a crowd without ever
being a pinup. Her looks and ready wit probably made
job-hunting easy, if she ever got around to such
things.
“So what do you do for a living?” I
asked.
“Little of this, little of that. Mostly I’ve
been a professional student. I’ll probably still be
going to college when I’m thirty. I graduated from
high school at sixteen and I’ve been in and out of
one college or another ever since. I go for a while, drop
out, drift around, go somewhere else, drop out again. I
transfer across state lines and lose half my credits, then
I have to start up again, learning the whole boring
curriculum that I learned last year and already knew
anyway, just to get even again. Schools shouldn’t be
allowed to do that—you know, arbitrarily dismiss half
your credits just so they can pick your pocket for more
tuition. But that’s life, isn’t it, and
I’m sure it’s nobody’s fault but my own.
It drives my family nuts, the way I live, but we are what
we are. My trouble is, I’ve never quite figured out
what I am. This is a mighty lonely planet, way off in
space.”
It was the second time she had said something like that.
I was beginning to wonder if she had been star-crossed by
her name, doomed to play out the destiny of a lonely woman
whose entire life could be told in two short stanzas.
“I do what I can, but then I get restless,”
she said. “My mom and dad help out when they can, but
they don’t have any money either. For the most part
it’s on my shoulders.”
“So what do you do?” I asked again.
“I’m versatile as hell. I know a lot of
things, some of them quite well—just survival skills,
but enough to buy something to eat and a room at the Y. I
can work in a printshop. I wait a dynamite table. I mix a
good drink—once I got fired for making ‘em too
good. I type like a tornado and I don’t make
mistakes. I’m a great temporary. I’ve probably
worked in more offices as a Kelly girl than all the other
Kellys put together. I could get in the
Guinness Book of World Records
. Do they pay for that?“
“I don’t think so.”
“Probably not. They make a fortune off us freaks
and pay us nothing.”
“You could probably get on full-time in one of
those offices if you wanted. Law office maybe. Become a
paralegal. Then go to law school.”
“I’d rather lie down in a pit of snakes. I
find the nine-to-five routine like slow poison. It poisons
the spirit, if you know what I mean. About three days of
that’s about all I can stand. But that’s most
likely what I’ll do tomorrow—get my dad to take
me into town, go on a temporary, fill in somewhere till
I’ve got enough money for a few tires and some gas,
then drift away and do it all over again.”
There was a pause, not long, while she seemed to
consider something. “If I feel lucky, I might look
for books tomorrow.”
I tried not to react too quickly, but I didn’t
want to let it get past me. “What do books have to do
with working in an office?”
“Nothing: that’s the point. The books keep
me out of the office.”
I stared at her.
“I’m a bookscout.” She said this the
way a woman in Georgia might say
I’m a Baptist
, daring you to do something about it. Then she said,
“I look for books that are underpriced. If
they’re drastically under-priced, I buy them. Then I
sell them to a book dealer I know in Seattle.”
I milked the dumb role. “And you make money at
this?”
“Sometimes I make a lot of money. Like I said, it
depends on how my luck’s running.”
“Where do you find these books?”
“God, everywhere! Books turn up in the craziest
places…junk stores, flea markets…I’ve
even found them in Dumpsters. Mostly I look in bookstores
themselves.”
“You look for books in bookstores…then sell
‘em to other bookstores. I
her appeal. She could stand out in a crowd without ever
being a pinup. Her looks and ready wit probably made
job-hunting easy, if she ever got around to such
things.
“So what do you do for a living?” I
asked.
“Little of this, little of that. Mostly I’ve
been a professional student. I’ll probably still be
going to college when I’m thirty. I graduated from
high school at sixteen and I’ve been in and out of
one college or another ever since. I go for a while, drop
out, drift around, go somewhere else, drop out again. I
transfer across state lines and lose half my credits, then
I have to start up again, learning the whole boring
curriculum that I learned last year and already knew
anyway, just to get even again. Schools shouldn’t be
allowed to do that—you know, arbitrarily dismiss half
your credits just so they can pick your pocket for more
tuition. But that’s life, isn’t it, and
I’m sure it’s nobody’s fault but my own.
It drives my family nuts, the way I live, but we are what
we are. My trouble is, I’ve never quite figured out
what I am. This is a mighty lonely planet, way off in
space.”
It was the second time she had said something like that.
I was beginning to wonder if she had been star-crossed by
her name, doomed to play out the destiny of a lonely woman
whose entire life could be told in two short stanzas.
“I do what I can, but then I get restless,”
she said. “My mom and dad help out when they can, but
they don’t have any money either. For the most part
it’s on my shoulders.”
“So what do you do?” I asked again.
“I’m versatile as hell. I know a lot of
things, some of them quite well—just survival skills,
but enough to buy something to eat and a room at the Y. I
can work in a printshop. I wait a dynamite table. I mix a
good drink—once I got fired for making ‘em too
good. I type like a tornado and I don’t make
mistakes. I’m a great temporary. I’ve probably
worked in more offices as a Kelly girl than all the other
Kellys put together. I could get in the
Guinness Book of World Records
. Do they pay for that?“
“I don’t think so.”
“Probably not. They make a fortune off us freaks
and pay us nothing.”
“You could probably get on full-time in one of
those offices if you wanted. Law office maybe. Become a
paralegal. Then go to law school.”
“I’d rather lie down in a pit of snakes. I
find the nine-to-five routine like slow poison. It poisons
the spirit, if you know what I mean. About three days of
that’s about all I can stand. But that’s most
likely what I’ll do tomorrow—get my dad to take
me into town, go on a temporary, fill in somewhere till
I’ve got enough money for a few tires and some gas,
then drift away and do it all over again.”
There was a pause, not long, while she seemed to
consider something. “If I feel lucky, I might look
for books tomorrow.”
I tried not to react too quickly, but I didn’t
want to let it get past me. “What do books have to do
with working in an office?”
“Nothing: that’s the point. The books keep
me out of the office.”
I stared at her.
“I’m a bookscout.” She said this the
way a woman in Georgia might say
I’m a Baptist
, daring you to do something about it. Then she said,
“I look for books that are underpriced. If
they’re drastically under-priced, I buy them. Then I
sell them to a book dealer I know in Seattle.”
I milked the dumb role. “And you make money at
this?”
“Sometimes I make a lot of money. Like I said, it
depends on how my luck’s running.”
“Where do you find these books?”
“God, everywhere! Books turn up in the craziest
places…junk stores, flea markets…I’ve
even found them in Dumpsters. Mostly I look in bookstores
themselves.”
“You look for books in bookstores…then sell
‘em to other bookstores. I
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