Public Internet users susceptible to the lurid covers of paperbacks swelled the checkout line. Two women were busy swiping cards, sliding books through a de-magnetizer, and passing items back to patrons with smiles so perfunctory they were almost vicious.
“Books are due in four weeks, the DVD in two,” said the larger woman. She leaned over to her partner, whose nametag read ‘Ms. Beatrice, County Library Acquisitions Specialist,’ and whispered: “It’s not like they would recognize you with your—Book items due in a month. Thanks.”
Every time Tiffany leaned over, her stool creakingly suggested that she lose a few pounds.
“Personally,” she continued, “I’d never do it. I had morality beat into me by—your DVDs.” Whispering again, “I heard of a woman who used Native American war paint, at first only to hide her face but then because of a certain, pricey clientele who got off on it.”
Beatrice adjusted her glasses. “Tiffany, let’s concentrate on check-outs, please.”
“Whatever you say, Chief.”
It was time for another patrol. Beatrice grabbed a walkie-talkie and headed for the stairwell. As she climbed to the third floor, she wondered why people were so reluctant to face the truths of their lives or to opt for the occasional salad.
Tiffany’s conversations were a cross between BT700 (early Christian history and thus the golden age of apologia) and PS700 (romance fiction). The closest she ever got to PN700 (non-fiction) came last week when she mentioned a video she made just for fun. A dance that could be her signature should she ever, God forbid, fall upon hard times and be forced to remove her clothes to escape the poorhouse.
If only there were such a place as the poorhouse, thought Beatrice. That would be genuine relief.
She entered the newspapers section. It was here where the city flotsam washed up to bask in the glow of florescence and waxed linoleum.
Spotting one, she pulled out her walkie.
“Got a code yellow on three, over.”
In a tiny room in the basement two men wedged before security monitors were mimicking the words “code yellow” through pealing laughter.
Beatrice approached the sleeping man.
“Sir, this is a public library.”
The man snored.
“You are in a library! Sir, wake up!”
Still no response. She looked around. Someone was near. Polished shoes could be seen through the slats of a low shelf. It was only a browser.
“Breaker, breaker. Situation Morpheus. Stand by, over.”
She set down the walkie, looked around, and while coughing to mask it, she kicked the chair hard.
“Yes, take care. God bless, yes.”
“You cannot sleep here.”
“No, no sleeping. She was a girl. And a beauty once upon a time.”
“Sir, you cannot sleep here.”
“Yes. I cannot do here what I was not doing, but accidentally did.”
“If you are caught sleeping again, it is within my power to have you removed from the library.”
“Yes, yes. You have the power,” he said with a thunder sound effect.
“I’ll have you forcibly removed if you can’t follow my instructions.”
“Yes, keep your arms and feet inside the library at all times, until the library comes to a complete stop.”
Exasperated, Beatrice picked up the walkie. “Stand down. Situation over, over.”
In the basement: “Over over!” roared one guard, nudging the other and making him spill his coffee.
Beatrice gasped. Where the polished shoes had been, there was now also a silver light coming from behind the shelves.
Her first impulse was to threaten. Filming her was a violation. But she was no ordinary librarian. She was an Acquisitions Specialist. This situation called for reverse psychology.
She warmed to the awakened man engrossed in an upside-down magazine: “My dear sir, are you feeling better now? Good. May I turn your magazine upright? There we are. If there’s nothing else, I’ll just be on my way.”
She simulated the sound and trajectory of a full exit. In actuality, she turned a corner and then crept silently towards her would-be camera assailant. She was craning her head around the latest issue of Pravda when a voice rang out from the other side of the shelf.
“What in the hell are you doing on the floor?”
She regained her posture and walked around the shelf to confront her adversary, a young man in a suit with spiky hair. She couldn’t tell if his pout was permanent or circumstantial.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Why you were crawling around?”
Shame made her bold. “What were you filming?”
“Filming? I was texting my boss. What were you doing on the floor over there?”
“Nothing. There’s a… contact I lost.”
“You wear contacts and glasses?”
“These are for reading,” she said fondling the glasses looped around her neck.
“So did you find them?”
“Find what?”
“Your contacts or whatever, gosh!”
“No. I mean, yes.”
However much she repeated her mantra in her head – I’m an acquisitions specialist I am an acquisitions specialist—he regarded her as if she were crazy. When she saw that the table where the sleeping man had been could not be seen from this position, she wanted to scream.
“I was getting a sleeping patron to wake up. Sorry if I bothered you.”
“You have to kick out bums a lot, huh?”
“Yes. I do. Unfortunately.”
“What a shitty job,” he chuckled and resumed texting.
Many sepulchral seconds later she marched off, inwardly frantic: “I am an acquisitions specialist I am an acquisitions specialist…”
Had she been less rattled, she might have seen the silvery shine emanating from across the room, where a young man eager to increase the hits on his blog had been recording her all along. Several weeks later he would celebrate the virality of the video as it exceeded 500 views by purchasing a new cellphone. Newly unemployed, Beatrice recalled her disdain for Tiffany’s schemes of self-exposure with a bitterness whose release within her was long overdue.
“Books are due in four weeks, the DVD in two,” said the larger woman. She leaned over to her partner, whose nametag read ‘Ms. Beatrice, County Library Acquisitions Specialist,’ and whispered: “It’s not like they would recognize you with your—Book items due in a month. Thanks.”
Every time Tiffany leaned over, her stool creakingly suggested that she lose a few pounds.
“Personally,” she continued, “I’d never do it. I had morality beat into me by—your DVDs.” Whispering again, “I heard of a woman who used Native American war paint, at first only to hide her face but then because of a certain, pricey clientele who got off on it.”
Beatrice adjusted her glasses. “Tiffany, let’s concentrate on check-outs, please.”
“Whatever you say, Chief.”
It was time for another patrol. Beatrice grabbed a walkie-talkie and headed for the stairwell. As she climbed to the third floor, she wondered why people were so reluctant to face the truths of their lives or to opt for the occasional salad.
Tiffany’s conversations were a cross between BT700 (early Christian history and thus the golden age of apologia) and PS700 (romance fiction). The closest she ever got to PN700 (non-fiction) came last week when she mentioned a video she made just for fun. A dance that could be her signature should she ever, God forbid, fall upon hard times and be forced to remove her clothes to escape the poorhouse.
If only there were such a place as the poorhouse, thought Beatrice. That would be genuine relief.
She entered the newspapers section. It was here where the city flotsam washed up to bask in the glow of florescence and waxed linoleum.
Spotting one, she pulled out her walkie.
“Got a code yellow on three, over.”
In a tiny room in the basement two men wedged before security monitors were mimicking the words “code yellow” through pealing laughter.
Beatrice approached the sleeping man.
“Sir, this is a public library.”
The man snored.
“You are in a library! Sir, wake up!”
Still no response. She looked around. Someone was near. Polished shoes could be seen through the slats of a low shelf. It was only a browser.
“Breaker, breaker. Situation Morpheus. Stand by, over.”
She set down the walkie, looked around, and while coughing to mask it, she kicked the chair hard.
“Yes, take care. God bless, yes.”
“You cannot sleep here.”
“No, no sleeping. She was a girl. And a beauty once upon a time.”
“Sir, you cannot sleep here.”
“Yes. I cannot do here what I was not doing, but accidentally did.”
“If you are caught sleeping again, it is within my power to have you removed from the library.”
“Yes, yes. You have the power,” he said with a thunder sound effect.
“I’ll have you forcibly removed if you can’t follow my instructions.”
“Yes, keep your arms and feet inside the library at all times, until the library comes to a complete stop.”
Exasperated, Beatrice picked up the walkie. “Stand down. Situation over, over.”
In the basement: “Over over!” roared one guard, nudging the other and making him spill his coffee.
Beatrice gasped. Where the polished shoes had been, there was now also a silver light coming from behind the shelves.
Her first impulse was to threaten. Filming her was a violation. But she was no ordinary librarian. She was an Acquisitions Specialist. This situation called for reverse psychology.
She warmed to the awakened man engrossed in an upside-down magazine: “My dear sir, are you feeling better now? Good. May I turn your magazine upright? There we are. If there’s nothing else, I’ll just be on my way.”
She simulated the sound and trajectory of a full exit. In actuality, she turned a corner and then crept silently towards her would-be camera assailant. She was craning her head around the latest issue of Pravda when a voice rang out from the other side of the shelf.
“What in the hell are you doing on the floor?”
She regained her posture and walked around the shelf to confront her adversary, a young man in a suit with spiky hair. She couldn’t tell if his pout was permanent or circumstantial.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Why you were crawling around?”
Shame made her bold. “What were you filming?”
“Filming? I was texting my boss. What were you doing on the floor over there?”
“Nothing. There’s a… contact I lost.”
“You wear contacts and glasses?”
“These are for reading,” she said fondling the glasses looped around her neck.
“So did you find them?”
“Find what?”
“Your contacts or whatever, gosh!”
“No. I mean, yes.”
However much she repeated her mantra in her head – I’m an acquisitions specialist I am an acquisitions specialist—he regarded her as if she were crazy. When she saw that the table where the sleeping man had been could not be seen from this position, she wanted to scream.
“I was getting a sleeping patron to wake up. Sorry if I bothered you.”
“You have to kick out bums a lot, huh?”
“Yes. I do. Unfortunately.”
“What a shitty job,” he chuckled and resumed texting.
Many sepulchral seconds later she marched off, inwardly frantic: “I am an acquisitions specialist I am an acquisitions specialist…”
Had she been less rattled, she might have seen the silvery shine emanating from across the room, where a young man eager to increase the hits on his blog had been recording her all along. Several weeks later he would celebrate the virality of the video as it exceeded 500 views by purchasing a new cellphone. Newly unemployed, Beatrice recalled her disdain for Tiffany’s schemes of self-exposure with a bitterness whose release within her was long overdue.
