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Life, actually…

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BEING PRIVY TO THE PRIVILEGED PRIVACY OF THE PRIVY

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I was brought up in a two-bedroom asbestos-shingled bungalow housing two parents and four brothers and sisters, and me.

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Sounds crowded, but we didn’t know it.

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My younger younger brother, Tim, slept in the den (where books and television and dining room and family room mingled), my older younger brother, Ronny, slept on the bottom bunk and I on the top bunk of our own bedroom, older sister Barbara slept in a room that was once our paneled-in front porch, and younger sister Rosi occupied Barbara’s room, then our bedroom, once we elder kids up and moved away.

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Our parents had their own bedroom.

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So, we made do. And it all seemed perfectly natural.

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But the one sacred room in the house was our sole bathroom.

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It was the primp room, the reading room, the telephone booth (our single phone cord reached from the hallway into the bathroom)…the only place any member of the family could disappear into for a little privacy.

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The primary challenge was timing.

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In order to escape the merry chaos of seven people and assorted visiting pets and friends and neighbors and relatives was to find the bathroom vacant and maximize your private time. That’s why the bathroom always housed books and magazines and notepads. It was the only place you didn’t risk having somebody look over your shoulder.

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All spaces were small, in that little home on Eastwood Avenue in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. You learned to get a lot done in a tiny area…and to this day, I tend to work within a few square feet, no matter how much space is at my disposal. I surround myself with books and diaries and papers and magazines and keepsakes wherever I am.

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I even write and edit and record my voice in small spaces—it just doesn’t feel right, sitting in the middle of a large, vacant room with plenty of stretch space. It’s not quite as extreme as hunching over your food, prisoner-like, guarding your plate on three sides, but it is the way I’ve survived all these years.

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Five out of the seven of us Reeds are what you call introverts. For instance, I take my privacy with me wherever I go. Even in a crowded room, you’ll often find me in a corner looking at books or examining artifacts or talking with just one person at a time.  Two of us introvert Reeds are performers, so sometimes you’ll see us entertaining large groups of people and mistake us for extroverts. Not so. We’re merely performers, actors. I am comfortable in front of a crowd when they’re all paying attention, when they have brought me in to entertain. It’s exhilarating. But, in the true tradition of introversion, it’s also exhausting.

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After a performance, I re-charge by being alone and quiet.

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All these years, I’ve been grateful for learning at the age of 13 that I was an actor, performer, public speaker at heart. This skill enables an otherwise shy person to excite crowds and classrooms—easy to do, so long as I know that I can ride away afterward, saying, as the Lone Ranger used to comment to his companion, “Our job is done here. Let’s go!”

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It also allows me to run a very public bookstore and love it. I can perform for each customer, one on one or in groups, playing the part of  kindly old book dealer. Then, I can go home to my quietness and re-charge for the next day.

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Because of who I am, because of how I was raised, I have the best of both worlds. I’m able to be alone anywhere anytime, whether or not I am with people…and I’m able to switch on, enjoy, joke with and entertain whenever I feel like it.

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I get my jollies, then ride off into the sunset. Or hide out in the privy

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© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

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