When it’s really hot on a Sunday, the coffee shops and the few libraries with Sunday hours are overrun with writers and students escaping their air-conditionless environments. The Beverly Hills Library is one of those few that is open, and I am one of the many who has arrived, trolled the back room of tables to find a seat.
I avoid the leg-shakers and those who type like it’s a revenge and find myself a nice spot, facing a large arched window with a small sculpture on a wooden plinth in front of it. The light from the window means I see the statue only in a kind of silhouette, but it appears to be a representation in bronze of Abraham Lincoln sitting on a bench, with his signature top hat on the bench beside him. He seems to be resting his weary bones. Could he be worn out from the heat as well?
Outside the window is a large pine tree, which is unusual for Los Angeles. I always particularly notice pine trees when I see them here, as they remind me of my home state. Home town. Really the house where I grew up with a large pine outside my bedroom window.