The Downside of Anticipation

On Saturday, I woke up early with what could best be described as anxious glee. As soon as I had opened my eyes, I was leaping out of bed and yanking the front door open to see where the delivery guy had chosen to hide the box containing The-Book-By-You-Know-Who.

At first, I thought he had done a keen job by tucking the box in the darkness behind a patchwork of freshly woven cobwebs. But after reaching in and pulling out only cobwebs and an angry spider, it dawned on me that maybe UPS or FedEx didn't make deliveries before six in the morning.

A blanket of disappointment draped itself over my shoulders. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning who rushes to count the presents under the tree only to discover that mom and dad have decided not to put anything out until after every last relative has arrived, including Uncle Stu driving from Schenectady.

I made a pot of coffee, sat by the front window, and tried to read an unrelated book about events that transpired in 1620 around Cape Cod. On any other day, I would have been absorbed in the tale of William Bradford and Massasoit, but on Saturday, it lacked the magic and wizardry I craved. It was like satisfying the desire for sashimi with California rolls.

Throughout the morning and early afternoon, I tried my hardest to go about my day as though the fate of the world didn't depend on the arrival of a book - one spellbinding, life-changing book. As everyone knows, I usually spend my Saturdays checking the front door and windows every five minutes to see if any peculiar packages appear or suspicious vans drive by, so I would say my attempts at normalcy were successful.

Unfortunately, no peculiar packages appeared, only a couple of leaflets - one offering cleaning services, the other offering Sunday services. If it weren't for leaflets, I could probably get by with a recycling bin half the size. No suspicious vans drove by either, only the usual SUVs delivering kids to the community pool. I did notice an ice cream truck and mail truck zip by five hours earlier than normal, but other than that, nothing. I began to worry the book might not show up at all.

Two hours passed. Unable to contain my anxiety any longer, I decided to see if anybody else in the neighborhood had received book-sized parcels. I didn't want to appear like I was snooping, so I grabbed the mailbox key and pretended to walk to the community mailbox while surreptitiously peeking at porches for any telltale packages. I breathed a sigh of relief when I reached the box and saw that nobody had received anything. That meant there was still a chance the book was on its way.

I was just about to turn around when I realized how suspicious it would look if I walked all the way to the mailbox without actually checking for mail. Keeping an eye out for onlookers, I opened the mailbox and reached in quickly. Instead of snatching bills and junk mail, I jammed my fingers against a box - a book-sized box with a picture of an owl carrying an envelope on the side.

I stared stupidly at it for a second before comprehension reached my brain. I shouldn't have been looking for delivery vans; I should have been looking for the mail truck.

I rushed inside with the box, ripped it open with care, and plopped down on the rocking chair to discover what happened to our boy Potter.

I know it isn't a race and I know one should savor these things, but I couldn't stop reading and turning pages, even when I knew I wasn't going to like what happened on the next page. Twenty-seven hours later, I was done with the book.

It was as happy and sad as I expected it to be. On a couple of occasions, I muttered, "Please don't let something awful happen to Character X!" And then, as though she had anticipated my dread, Rowling would let something awful happen to Character X. It was brutal, yet brilliant.

I know it will only count as one of the fifty-two books I read this year, but I can already tell you that I'm hankering to read it again before the year is through. In the meantime, I'll return to the story of the Mayflower. Now that I've had my fill of sashimi, California rolls don't sound half bad.