Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

The line stretched down the block and around the corner. I was glad I'd brought something to read: the newest Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

I had barely got through a paragraph when the man behind me began to speak.

"Are they going to give out numbers?" he asked. I told him I didn't know. He said that's typically what they do at big book signings.

I turned back to my book but didn't get very far.

"I'm doing this for my mother," he explained. "She lives in New York. If this were for me, I would have been here at 6:30 a.m."

A simple nod did not satisfy him. He continued on, talking about the early reviews of the book, the photo on the cover, the quality of the printing. He said that when Hillary gets excited her eyes bulge out, and that he'd heard each person would get 10 seconds to talk to her...

With a sigh, I closed my book.

We were in line for Hillary Clinton's signing of her book, Living History. For the next 45 minutes, as the line crept forward, we discussed books, architecture and the like. A tall man of average build and silver hair, he filled me in on tidbits of Philadelphia history, such as the fact that the Ritz-Carlton Hotel used to be a bank and that the founder's profile is chiseled into the building facade.

He also filled me in on a number of literary events and book stores in the area, including drawing a map to the Walt Whitman house in Camden. Reluctantly, I admitted to myself it had been worthwhile talking to him.

The line was moving quickly because we were only picking up a color coded and numbered ticket and, if needed, a copy of the book. I was told to come back at 1:20 p.m. It was nearly 9 a.m.

Well, I still had my book to read — two of them now— so I walked a couple blocks to the park that houses the famous LOVE sculpture. City workers were cleaning the fountain. A man in a rippled white T-shirt circled the park with a leaf blower, attempting to clear all the tiny leaves accumulated under the benches. He made everyone stand up from their benches so he could do this. The leaves circled temporarily away.

I had time to read a few chapters, alternating between Harry and Hillary, before the sun shifted. I moved to a shadier spot near the fountain, slowly filling again with chlorinated water.

A chapter later, the city workers began drilling holes in the dirt in the flower boxes to insert small flower pots. The drills seemed excessive for the job and were even noisier than the leaf blower. I decided it was time for lunch anyway.

The first place I tried, a grill in Penn Station, wasn't serving lunch yet, not even salads, so I walked down to Market Street and found a Cosi coffee house. While there, I had a chicken salad and drank far too much coffee which, far from cleaning the morning blur from my mind, only added a nervous sort of buzz.

When the lunch crowd infiltrated, I left the crowded confines, wandered a few blocks and sat in the soothing spray of a fountain outside City Hall, just a block from the book store. From there I could see a line moving lazily inwards. A woman in cutoff overalls dipped a tanned foot into the fountain, kicking waves.

Closer to 1:20, I ambled to the book store. A handful of protesters with bullhorns and signs had gathered in front. One held a huge poster of an aborted fetus and was screaming something about religion and government. Another held a sign that read, "Hillary's priorities: Book signings, 9; September 11 funerals, 4."

I made my way inside. When they called my ticket color, I walked up the stopped escalator to the mezzanine, where we were asked to check all bags at a table. In front of this table was a bottleneck of women, the men having carried everything they needed in their pockets. I was asked to leave my camera behind, too.

Finally, I was in a very short line to the book signing table. From there I could see Hillary, sitting at a table in front of a black drop-cloth, signing madly. A close-packed group of local media photographers stood behind a velvet rope.

Book store employees collected our books, warning us we may not get the same one back. They passed the books in a never-ending stream past Hillary, who signed them with a blue marker.

In a very short while, I stood in front of her. In person she looked exactly like the photo on her book jacket, which I guessed had not received the usual air brush treatment, leaving the delicate lines around her eyes. She was a little pale, perhaps tired but energized, clearly. She looked up at me, eyes bulging slightly. "Hi," she said through a smile, her hand never pausing in its work.

"Nice to meet you," I said weakly.

A book store employee handed me the book and told me to have a good day. On my way away from the table, I flashed a smile at two nearby secret service agents. They smiled back.

It was a short 10 seconds.

I had gone to the book signing in part because I had once shaken President Bill Clinton's hand. He was campaigning at the time and had come to my master's degree ceremony at Penn State in 1996. After his address, each master's degree graduate filed across the stage and shook his hand. He was very tall, very broad-shouldered, with a humongous nose.

So when I heard that Hillary was going to have a book signing in Philadelphia, I had to attend it. And from everything I've heard about her, I'm not surprised that it moved so quickly, so efficiently. There were no long hours standing in lines, and a relaxed sort of crowd flow inside. Even though she didn't actually take 10 seconds to talk to everyone, I noticed that she looked up to make a eye contact and say a quick "hi" to everyone who passed through.

As I collected my bag and made my way out of the store, I heard two older woman chatting happily behind me. One of them said she thought that Hillary could beat any of the current Democratic candidates in a debate and that she hoped to have a chance to vote for her for president one day.

By the time I emerged from the book store, most of the protesters had left. The sunny day poured down on me, the first such day of summer. I broke into a brisk stride, heading for the subway station, another couple seconds of history etched in my mind.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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