The Librarian

The book cart squealed as I labored to push it into position at the end of the shelf. A no-headphones-for-employees policy didn’t prevent Queen’s Greatest Hits from circulating in the cacophonous silence between my ears. Nothing like Freddie Mercury, Brian May, Roger Taylor, and John Deacon to help see the world as it really is.

Elizabeth Adler shoved Louisa May Alcott out of the way as my brain told me “I’m having such a good time. I’m having a ball.” Yeah, bullshit. Nothing would have pleased me more than to be “a shooting star, leaping through the sky like a tiger,” but shooting stars don’t have to worry about coming home to the scent of another man on their wives. I know I really fucked up our anniversary, but at least I ADMIT it. The least she could do is quit inviting her guy “friends” over while I’m working and going to school and Isabel Allende pushed Sarah Addison Allen to the left. Bet V.C. Andrews feels “under pressure,” but at least it’s the pressure of an entire shelf all to herself, not the weight of an inherited wedding ring that still might MEAN something.

David Baldacci shoved Sharon out of the way around an old lady too oblivious to realize I stood there halfway out of her personal bubble. Elizabeth Becka bashed her way between Glenn Beck and Simon Beckett, all sharing the “one vision” of a communal shelf, none apparently paying rent while paying for school while paying for utilities while paying for food. A girl maybe ten years old plopped down in front of me as I leaned in to push Terri Blackstock up against Lawana Blackwell. Oh, to be young again. Seems only those older and younger get any peace these days, while my generation plows through trying to take make its place in the world as Dan Brown plowed in between Dale and Sandra. The young get taken care of, the old get taken care of, and the “young adults” had damn well better learn to take care of themselves because the young and old need taking care of! “It’s a miracle” we don’t all shoot ourselves and let the young and old go fuck themselves. Christopher and William Buckley Jr. fought for space until one of them “bit the dust,” landing a few inches shy of my foot.

I coughed as Meg Cabot bumped Adrienne Byrd around, straining against the bookend. Damned thing’s back again. My granddad won’t give me a moment’s peace about all the heart problems and diabetes and general shitty physical condition of the family tree. If “only the good die young,” my family must be a bunch of assholes. Dakota Cassidy and P.C. Cast jostled each other on the bottom shelf. Mom’s been through cancer twice, but she doesn’t go on and on about it. Two Lori Copelands moved into the empty space next to Keith Coplin. Working all day every day on less and less food had helped me lose weight, but it made my bones act funny. Early osteoporosis? Probably. Or arthritis. Or maybe it’s hypertension and my heart will just shit itself to death at this damned job. Three Clive Cusslers took up residence by force, pushing Judith Cutler down to the next shelf.

Nelson DeMille and Jude Deveraux vied for the last spot on the top shelf. These are supposed to be the days when “the sun was always shining, and we just lived for fun,” but how the hell am I supposed to live at all when pressed to the grindstone day after day? Charles Dickens and Eric Jerome Dickey pushed back and forth at each other’s spaces as they filled in, but that seems a much better prospect for the future than wasted student loans rearing up after that all-important bachelor’s degree. College had been fun these last three years. Doing it on purpose helped, as opposed to my first three years when I just ran on autopilot and others’ expectations. Hadn’t had to work so damned much until now, though, pushing a line of Tim Dorseys over to squeeze Doug Dorst against the side of the shelf.

As the last Sarah Dunant slipped into place, my watch trilled into my attention. Five minutes to escape velocity. Fifty to class time. I pushed the creaking cart back through the aisles of literature toward its final temporary resting place, yearning to confine myself within an LCD monitor and a pair of earbuds. To dream of breaking free of the mundane, to soar on imagination and leave harsh reality behind. Or just turn some pixel-men into oozing masses of pixel-blood. Ya know, whatever works.

The final getthefuckoutwe’reclosed PA message echoed off desks and bookcases and ceiling tile. I shambled out the front door into the night, my slowly-tearing backpack bouncing on one shoulder as my textbooks complained at the presence of gravity. What do I want? To never waste another second steeped in this shit. To do something better with my life than sink into a dull routine and occupy space ‘till my heart explodes.

And somewhere in there to ditch the bullshit and find someplace in my own head to get lost for awhile. Good thing it’s time for class.

*Any resemblance in the preceding writing to any actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental*