"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.
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