nice girls win

I love my sister-in-law Katie for many reasons, one being our shared appreciation for books (and well, reading them).

Last weekend on my visit to see Little Man, she and I skipped over to Delray Beach to a book signing by Jodi Picoult.

Upon our arrival to the library, we were disappointed to learn that even the stand-by tickets had all be given out, and that we would only get to meet Jodi "by some miracle."

(It was Mr. Organizer's code for, "Don't count on it." He didn't fool me.)

Now we like Jodi, and we know a lot of other readers do, too.  She tackles some pretty hot topics, and we figure her audience includes other young(ish) adults like ourselves, and maybe women up to say, around sixty years old.

We just didn't think so many of them would be at this particular library, on this particular day.

We also didn't consider the overwhelming number of 75-and-uppers that would storm the Delray Beach Public Library for a free Sunday afternoon activity.  Three hundred and eighty of them, in fact.

"I really don't think the majority of these people have read one of her books," Katie lamented.  The fairness quotient seemed out of balance already.

We decided to wait to see if the "some miracle" would happen; I admit I hoped it would.

We watched the stand-by ticket holders be escorted to the overflow room, where they would only hear the audio feed of Jodi's presentation and reading.  I was grateful we didn't have the stand-by tickets.

Then we watched five others with no tickets push their way up to the auditorium door, demanding to be granted entry.

"They got here after us.  This isn't fair."  Bless her, Katie is a lover of justice, and these circumstances were too much.  I felt her pain.

In that moment, I didn't want the riff-raff room with only an audio feed to offer.  I wanted in.  In the room where Jodi was presenting.  In the room that was supposedly full, with no more tickets available.

We wanted justice!  We needed a strategy.

Mr. Organizer announced that two seats were available in the stand-by room, and a couple eagerly (albeit unfairly) whined their way into those slots.

The strategy mantra was coming into focus: No whining.  Smile big.  Win over Mr. Organizer.

Next, Mr. Organizer invited three people in to take single seats in the auditorium.  Three (rude) folks slipped inside, and I wondered if the last of the "some miracles" had just been exhausted.

No whining.  Smile big.  Win over Mr. Organizer.

Katie and I continued to stand in the lobby of the library, chatting with one last kind, decent soul.  One more seat inside opened up, and we insisted that she take it.  It was her birthday after all.

We're the only ones left.  We've been nice to Mr. Organizer, and there is no way he's going to look us in the eye and tell us there's no room left in the inn.  It's gonna happen, I coached myself.

The resolve was peaking, and I convinced myself that we'd played our cards so well, that they would give us VIP access.

The doors opened a last time, and another library official -- Mr. Organizer's assistant, maybe? -- flashed a smile and said, "There are two reserved seats left.  Come on in."

They weren't VIP, per se, and they were on the very back row, but they did have "Reserved" signs hanging on them.

We felt vindicated.  We were in.  We enjoyed ourselves.  We left with signed books.

I know life doesn't always work out this way, but three cheers for justice.

And that is how the nice girls won that day.