Dear Diary:
Time: 1985 or thereabouts.
Place: Shakespeare & Company Booksellers (as I remember it) in Manhattan.
Midwinter, bundled, I seek refuge in the warmth of the store. Walking not 10 steps inside, I spot an unmistakable tall, reedlike figure with a jutting jaw and blondish hair, wearing a floppy knit hat that could not disguise him.
Ever the fan, I begin to follow him through the aisles (stalk is more like it), trying to get more than a glimpse. He doesn’t seem to notice me as he stops and pulls a book off the shelf. He examines it. Then, he quickly snaps it shut, slips it under his oversize coat and strolls away.
Did I just see what I think I saw? Did my hero just jack that book?
I continue to follow him like a store detective, in disbelief, as he leisurely winds his way through the maze of books and then heads toward the exit. His pace, slow at first, begins to quicken as he approaches the cashier through the front exit. Wait! What do I do? Do I rat him out? I am stunned into silence.
Suddenly, as he gets to the register, he magically flips the book out from its hiding place onto the counter along with a $20 bill. He then flashes a conspiratorial wink at me and my gaping jaw.
Peter O’Toole then exits the stage, leaving this sole audience member both amused and amazed.
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