The local library is an important place for a community. It’s a collection of knowledge and art. A resource for learning and exploring. And for Eau Claire writer BJ Hollars, it’s even a place to turn up the music and dance.
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“Can somebody help me tighten my chinstrap?” I call.
I’m in a storage room in the library basement alongside a few librarians, two of whom are suiting up into an elephant and pig costume, respectively. As for me, I’m neck-deep in the latest in feline costume apparel. My black fur suit hangs loosely around my shoulders, though my tail holds everything in place.
It’s my first undercover assignment, so of course, I’m dressed like a kitty. Not just any kitty, but the main character of a popular series of children’s books, which all but ensures my successful infiltration of Eau Claire’s library family dance party.
The dance party is but one of the many grand reopening events to celebrate our newly remodeled library. And by my calculation, it’s a good chance at getting the scoop on how the “new” library measures up for some of its most important clientele — children.
My entourage of librarian handlers fiddle with the chinstrap until my giant, whiskered kitty head is securely in place.
“Doing OK in there?” a librarian asks.
“OK” is precisely how I am doing. From the neck down, I’m swimming in sweat, but thanks to a tiny fan affixed inside the kitty’s head, the rest of me enjoys a cool breeze.
This “fan-in-the-head” technology wasn’t around the last time I suited up in a character costume. From 2001-2003, I worked at a local bookstore, earning a reputation for my “character” work. During the week, I was an average high schooler, but come Saturday morning story hour, I was Clifford the Big Red Dog, Angelina the Ballerina or a host of other characters sprung from the pages of books.
I’d like to say I was coerced back into costume, but in truth, I begged for the chance to suit up one last time. My “going undercover” was merely the pretext; after two decades of being me, I was glad to try someone else on for size.
The pig, the elephant and I entered the elevator and then rode to the third-floor dance party.
“You ready?” one of my handlers asked.
Since there’s no talking while in costume, I gave her my heartiest cat-pawed thumbs up. The elevator doors opened to reveal a music-thumping, disco-ball spinning dancefloor.
“It looks like a few very special guests have just joined the party,” the DJ boomed over the microphone.
Shrieks filled the room as the children laid eyes upon those characters whom they’d come to know as friends. For one shining moment, we were bigger than the Beatles.
“Let’s see if our guests can join us in the Cha Cha Slide,” the DJ said.
It was a great question, one we’d have to figure out together. I managed each dance move just as the song instructed — clapping my hands, stomping my feet and hopping on cue.
Now, you won’t see too many professor types boot-scoot and boogying inside a kitty costume, though for 16 stifling minutes, that was my only objective.
As the dance wound down, the elephant, the pig and I waved goodbye to our admirers before returning to the library basement. I loosened the chinstrap, removed my head, then pulled off my paws.
Drenched in sweat, I casually returned to the dance party a few minutes later, at which point my children and their pals ran over to greet me.
“Where did you go?” my 8-year-old daughter asked.
“Oh, just checking out books,” I shrugged, doing my best Clark Kent impression.
“But why you so wet?” asked the 2-year-old.
“Ummm…” I stalled, “sometimes I sweat when I read.”
“Well, you just missed the kitty,” one of their friends informed me. “The pig and the elephant were here, too!”
“Oh, yeah?” I asked, feigning aloofness. “Was the kitty a pretty good dancer?”
“Eh, she was OK,” the friend shrugged.
“Just OK?” I asked.
Moments later, the children formed a conga line on the dance floor while I returned to my wallflower status alongside the cookies and punch.
Staring out at the robust scene before me, I realized this was exactly what a library should be. A place where laughter and literature need not be mutually exclusive. And a place where people can be who they are — with or without a costume.
“Last song of the night,” the DJ called.
I pushed myself from the wall, moved toward the music and began to boogie.
