12 is the luckiest number

An inmate approached our book cart and knelt down beside another guy browsing the bottom shelf. When asked what he was looking for, he said, “Something real that’s made up.” The other inmate chuckled at the young man’s turn of phrase.

Since we are not stocked with bestsellers in “Creative Non-fiction,” I knew I was in trouble. With a little coaxing, we moved past history, crime, and biography to fiction that seemed like it could really happen. Ah, that strategic word, “Plausible!”

“I’ve only read 12 books in my life and I read ‘em all in jail,” he said.

I asked him, “Of those 12 books, what was your favorite one?"

“Well, it was by someone named Nancy or Nancy was in the book,” said the duodeca-libral inmate.

“Nancy Friday?” I asked, knowing how popular this expert on “Women’s fantasies” was among our connoisseurs in the “Men’s Division!”

“Who is she?” said the inmate.

I struck out, unable locate the Nancy of his dreams. (I had forgotten the realism of Nancy Taylor Rosenberg.) We did settle on one of J.A. Jance’s Seattle mysteries. And I saw him pluck a beautiful anthology of African-American poets from the carts. After all, what is more real AND more imaginary than a classic poem?