I found myself at Boomerangs in J.P center the other day, trying to find some new old digs. As usual, I passed through the bookshelves before leaving, determined to make good my promise to Jack to send some paperbacks to him. "Books are hard to come by here," he explained.
Among other titles I found an almost new copy of Water for Elephants. I could barely contain my excitement as I dropped the two dollars on the counter. I had been meaning to finish this book since the day I started it in Steph's living room a year ago, and had never succeeded in borrowing it from her. Now I'd have my own copy, and if it was as good as the first twenty pages had led me to believe, I'd send it along to Jack when I finished.
Today was the first day I've had a chance to make any serious dent in the novel, since I was still finishing If Grace is True from before my trip. I eagerly buried my face in the book after work, first on the train then on my back porch, then- when the sun left - by the window in my bedroom.
The story is engulfing and I found myself drawn into the two worlds created by Gruen; the narrator's present life as a nursing home resident as well as his colorful memories of working for the circus were equally engaging.
Then, at page 210 something dreadful happened. The next page was 147 again. I flipped ahead, hoping that at the end of the misprint the story would pick up.
175, 176, 177.... 245.
Forty five missing pages of story.
Nothing that has happened in the past few days including the swine flu shenanigans at work has been this frustrating*.
And I know what you're thinking, you're thinking... Misch, why aren't you telling us stories about ziplining through a rain forest canopy? Do you realize that right now you're blogging about a book?
And I will sigh. Because you're right. But it's hard to write about a place like Costa Rica when I'm wearing a sweater.
* I have superb priorities.