“Miss St. George, I’m Rock Tuff, your volunteer library assistant.”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Trade and Mr. Son told me you’d be coming. If they recommend you, you may be adequate. They are fine men. They’ve moved many undesirables from the library.”
“Undesirables,” I suspected, was a huge category that encompassed riffraff who wanted to borrow books, use the computers, or read. Given a chance, the Dragon would have reduced Blandsville’s level of literacy to below that of the Middle Ages.
She gave me a crash course in running the library: first, make sure that everyone entering the library has a membership card; second, don’t let anyone bring in anything edible or potable; third, check all backpacks and briefcases; anyone violating any rule is to be ejected immediately.
“Now I have to meet a publisher’s representative for lunch”–lucky fellow:a date with Miss Dowdy every year– “but I should be back by two,” She left and I nervously began my solo performance as a librarian.
Business was slow during the lunch hour and early afternoon. Make that non-existent.
Finally a poorly dressed old man shuffled in and collapsed into a chair. He probably didn’t have a library card and he carried nothing to eat or drink, although he probably could have used both. After twenty minutes, he used the washroom and started to leave.
“Wait,” I said. “I’m new at this job. You’re the first customer and there’s a prize.” I handed him a ten-dollar bill. He was startled, then smiled.
“Thank you.” I think he saw through my subterfuge, but pretended not to.
A middle-aged woman entered. “I’m looking for a book.”
“You’ve come to the right place.” She wasn’t carrying anything consumable, so I tried to help her. “A specific book?”
“Yes. I don’t remember the title or author, but it has a red cover. Or maybe green.”
“Is it a novel? Biography? History?”
“I’m not sure.”
Eventually, miraculously, we found it. It was a novel about the life of Shakespeare’s wife. The cover was blue.
Miss St. George returned, surprised to find the library still standing. “I have to buy some supplies. Could you hold the fort a little longer?” I wished she had not used that idiom because I almost choked trying not to laugh.
Before she came back, several high school students invaded the library. Some of their faces were familiar. Two boys began clicking at the computers. Two girls approached the desk. “Mr. Petty, have you finally found a job you can do?”
I couldn’t remember her name, perhaps because, as Freud says, we tend to forget the unpleasant. “I hope so,” I said audibly, adding mentally: “What are you doing in a library? Have you finally learned to read?” She and her friends leafed through magazines, ones with lots of pictures, I suspected. I also suspected that any of these students would gladly steal and destroy anything by or about Shakespeare.
