In which I complain. Again!

You know what’s weird?

Sometimes I go to my favorite bar, order a drink, and stick my nose in a book.

I know, right?

I have, over the years, had people pick fights with me while I read in a bar. I’ve had people physically take my book away from me until the bartender told them to give it back. I’ve had to change seats to avoid getting picked on. People even say mean things to me when I’m reading.

Last week, for instance, when I was at the Peony (reading Mountains Beyond Mountains, an AMAZING book that you must all read IMMEDIATELY), someone actually said me, “I hate that. I hate that you’re reading! It’s stupid that you’re reading.”

You HATE that I’m READING? Can I get a WTF, here?

But, for all that, overt harassment is statistically rare. More people ignore me than mess with me. The thing that bugs me the most is the subtle harassment, invariably in the form of the following question:

“Whatcha readin’?”

Oh, GOD.

In a library, I might answer the question in earnest. In a library, or even a coffee shop, it’s possible that the person asking really wants to know. But in a bar, no one gives a shit what I’m reading. I’ve learned over the years that what they really mean is pay attention to me, or possibly I am upset that you are reading in a bar so I will bother you to make you stop.

I don’t want to tell you what I’m reading, drunk person. I want to read. That’s why I’m reading. Over here, far away from you. You had to come over here to ask me your inane question, even. Go away!

It doesn’t help that I’m usually reading an ebook, either. I can’t just hand it over like I would with a paperback and let the questioner read the cover himself. (They almost never do, by the way. They glance at it, frown, look at me like I’ve insulted them somehow, hand it back, and start talking again.) I have to say something when someone asks me what I’m reading, but there’s nothing I can say that will actually answer the question without my having to put my book down and get into an involved conversation while – hello! – totally not reading.

I can respond with the title of the book, which means nothing unless it’s a hugely popular best seller. I tend not to read those. A book’s title, totally out of context, is pretty much useless information to anybody. Especially if you can’t even see the cover.

I can respond with a description of the genre, but that’s a pain in the arse for me and takes time. Whenever I do that people just glaze over anyway.

I can respond by reading the current paragraph aloud. People really don’t like that, for some reason.

Or I can respond with, “I’m reading a book,” which has the advantage of being both true and brief, but people invariably think I’m being a smart-ass and start in with me, keeping me away from my reading even longer.

Last night when someone asked me what I was reading, I mumbled, “I don’t really wanna answer that question.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because I’m busy reading, and you don’t really care what I’m reading anyway. What you really mean is that you want my attention.”

“That’s not fucking true!” he said, offended.

“Yes, it is,” I said. “Observe: if I told you I was reading a book called Nonzero, it wouldn’t mean anything, right? If I said I was reading Nonzero by Robert Wright, it still wouldn’t mean anything to you. If I said I was reading Nonzero: The Logic of Human Destiny by Robert Wright, it STILL wouldn’t mean anything. It wouldn’t have meant anything to me, before I actually started reading it.”

I warmed to my subject. “You’d need to see the cover, read the flaps, and basically interact with the book yourself in order to get your question answered, and” – I waved my Kindle around – “there’s no way to do that. So why even ask?

“I’ll tell you why. Because you don’t give a shit what I’m reading, but you want me to stop doing it anyway.”

He more or less implied that I was a bitch and went and played pool, and I got back to my reading.

Reading in bars is so rare that I always notice when I walk into one and someone’s reading. I saw a dude reading sci-fi at Kingston Mines (a famous blues bar in Chicago) once; I walked up to him and said, “I’m not gonna bug you but I just wanted you to know I read in bars too!” He was young and glanced up and gave me a vague, distracted smile, but he didn”t know yet what I know: that if he persists in his bar reading, people will fuck with him because they think that bars are for drinking, not reading.

Here’s the rub: I can walk into a bar, order a drink, not say a single word to anyone and stare at the TV and it’s no problem. I can walk into a bar, order a drink, and ignore people while reading the newspaper, too. That’s fine. I can walk into a bar, get shitfaced, and take a nap on the table, and as long as I’m not super gross I’ll remain unmolested.

But if I pull out a book? Bitch, please.