Waiting for Ayn Rand

Ayn Rand must be the most-owned and least-read author of all-time. I have to admit that there is an old, beat-up copy of Atlas Shrugged living amongst a stack of old, beat-up paperbacks on my bedroom floor. I used to keep it on my bookshelf, but grew tired of the guilt I would feel every time I saw it. It cried out to me, “Fraud! You aren't a real reader- here I am, a masterpiece of everything literary, wallowing weary and unread, sandwiched between dog-eared copies of Stephen King and out-of-print Sci-fi collections!” So I moved it to the stack on the floor, where it now holds up copies of all the books I don't want to put on my shelf. Books like Love Story (“...true love means never having to say you're sorry...” That book was way off the mark.) and Screenplay by Syd Field. But this weekend, some hope for Atlas: a friend and I determined that there will be a moment in every person's life when he or she knows that it is time to begin. Be it Atlas Shrugged or The Fountainhead, you will deem yourself worthy of Ayn Rand, and you will take the plunge. Basically, she's like the quirky, smart, cute girl who works at the university library... you've fallen madly in love with her over the past three years, and your only conversations have gone like this:

You: Um...

Her: Do you have your card?

(You hand her your library card. She scans it. She frowns.)

Her: You have a fine.

You: Yeah, I know-

Her: Three-dollars and fifty-cents.

(Awkward pause. You dig through your bag for two quarters. Her glasses are on the bridge of her nose. She takes them off and lets them hang around her neck. She looks you in the eye. You want to tell her that she is beautiful, that you want to take her to the Library of Congress and make love to her amongst endless halls of priceless documents. You say nothing.)

Her: You know, someone else might have needed that book.

(Snaps her glasses back on her nose. Turns to do her filing. You watch her for a moment, and then decide that it might not be worth it. At least not today.)

And it has taken you three years to get that far. But what you do know, deep down inside, is this: that one day, she will keep her glasses off, and lean over the counter, kiss you on the cheek, and whisper in your ear, “Who is John Galt?” And that it will be something that you would never give up, not for the entire collection of the Library of Congress.