This is a short story from my imagination. I needed some writing practice! As a challenge, I wrote it from a guy's point-of-view. Hope you enjoy it!The Library
Spring had come in so sweet and soft this year, gentle as a lamb. I had enjoyed her greatly, going out with her as often as I could, not spending as much time writing as I had intended. Spring can be distracting! Now that it was almost June, though, she was going out like a banshee. This had its own set of distractions. This morning, the air was close and muggy, and clouds were hanging around like wet, dirty cotton. My air-conditioner was out of freon, leaving me feeling damp and dishevelled, even after a shower and coffee. I decided to go to the library.
My leather satchel was always ready to go. The laptop fit in there nicely, along with everything else I would need for a literary outing. It even had enough room for any books that might follow me home. I stuck a cold bottle of Starbucks frappuccino into the bag's front pocket, a granola bar into my shirt pocket, grabbed my keys as I ran out the door, and hopped into the car.
The excitement I felt was more the anticipation of some cold air-conditioning than looking forward to the task ahead of me. I had been on a nice writing jag, and the feeling of inspiration hadn't left me. I had just gotten to the place where I had to do some research. I had been putting it off and putting it off, and now was the perfect opportunity to get it done and out of the way. A turn of the key brought the revving noise I was waiting for, which was a relief as well, the effect not always following the cause. A lot of things get put off when you're a sensation waiting to happen.
Great, I muttered to myself as I turned the old wreck onto the highway. Three rows of cars sat grumbling, stopped at lights three blocks down. I got going too slow, and now all the mid-morning shoppers are out doing their thing. "Great." I said it aloud this time to make myself feel better.
The only answer I heard back was my mother's voice in my head, cajoling. Steve, dear, you could always get a job at the newspaper, you know. Then you could get a new car and put some new carpet down in the condo. "I would just be stuck in rush hour traffic instead," I answered back to no one. No worries. This book is going to sell, a best seller. Maybe I should sell encyclopedias; anything to get out of my parents' condo. They will never let me live down letting Snarf pee on the brand new carpet they had installed right before I moved in after college. Snarf and I need our own place!
The fifteen minute drive to the Island library turned into half an hour's worth of me and mom hashing it out. I was sure glad to get to the proper-looking new library. Proper, that is, except for the curving yellow brick sidewalk. That must have been someone's idea of a joke. "Real cute," I said to the car door. A writer must maintain his cynical grumpiness at all times. My mantra. It isn't really me- I think I picked it up like a cold from a professor I had every semester until I graduated. But I practice it, nonetheless. It makes me feel professional.
Inside the library, still smelling of industrial carpet and new books, I stood for a moment to scope out the place and pick my space. There was an elderly couple browsing among the books, peering at the shelves, looking for their next adventure. There were a couple of college kids at the computers, tapping away on the keyboards. Over by the children's shelves was a pretty, rosy young mother with four pretty, rosy little girls like cookies cut exactly a year apart. They all had smooth, brown hair tied in a ponytail and identical little dresses. Why aren't they in school? Truants, and the mother too! Then I remembered home schooling, changing my thoughts to lucky little chicks, not having to be stuck in a classroom all day!
Across the room, in the "lounge" section, a big lumpy-looking man slumped in a red leather arm chair. His feet were propped up on the ottoman, and a very fat book was balanced on his chest. He was also balancing a pair of black-rimmed glasses practically on the tip of his nose. I really couldn't tell if he was reading or sleeping, but if it had been me, I would've been snoozing away. His rumpled, white, long-sleeved shirt, loosened striped tie, and grey trousers that matched his greying hair, made me wonder about him. In my imagination, he was either an unsuccessful trial lawyer turned unsuccessful novelist looking to get jolted out of writer's block, or he was a CEO who had lost his job to a bright, up-and-coming-young-whipper-snapper. I felt sorry for him.
The only other person I could see in the library was, of course, the librarian. She was tiny and tidy, silver hair tied back into a bun, little tortoise-shell reading glasses hung around her neck on a brightly beaded chain. Before I could move, she walked up to me briskly and asked, in her prim and tidy little voice, "Can I help you, sir?" I shook my head, said "Uh," in my most studious tone and started over to the empty tables.
She's a piece of work! I thought to myself. The quintessential librarian. If there had been a librarian in the Garden of Eden, she would have been just like that. Librarians have been exactly the same since the beginning of time. She was like a white linen shirt that had been hung out to dry on the line, stiff but smelling like fresh air and sunshine. I had nothing against her. But I knew if that guy slumped in the chair over there started snoring, she'd march right up to him like an old-timey schoolmarm and rap him on the head with a little baton. I'd have to watch myself in here!
The new steel and laminate tables were nice, and the birchwood chairs had an ergonomic curve. Scandinavian design has taken over the world, I mused. I picked a table facing the reference books and set up my laptop. I had an extra battery in case, but I wasn't planning to do a lot of writing. I was just going to take notes. There was a brushed aluminum lamp with a halogen bulb on each table, which was helpful. It was getting sort of dark and glowery outside, which I could see through the wall of windows on the far side of the big room. It was getting so dark I had to turn on the lamp, pulling the hefty chain with a weighty metal ball on the end. I got a few books off the shelf and sat down to work.
It didn't take twenty minutes for me to realize that my stomach was growling. Great. I forgot to eat breakfast. Good thing I brought that granola bar. Watch out for the gestapo! Sneakily, I glanced around the room to check out the librarian's position. The computer kids and the elderly couple had left, and the slumpy man was in the same basic state of slumpiness. Ah, there! She was over by the children's books helping the rosy family. Good. I was safe. I unwrapped the bar, trying not to crinkle too loudly. Darn. Oat crumbs. My mother's voice started in- Steve, if you would just. . .
I once came up with a plot to stop the unwanted voices in my head. I'm still practicing. In my mind, I picture whoever it is talking, and myself with a big, red stop sign. I hold it up, boldly. At first, it didn't work. They would keep on talking. Sometimes, my mental mother would even grab the stop sign out of my hand and say, No, you stop, Steve. Stop and take a look at your life. After many attempts, however, I have managed to take control of my thoughts at least 60% of the time. And occasionally, I'll even be brave enough to stop and look at my life. Only very occasionally. I jumped somewhat violently when I felt the linen shirt walk up.
"Food is not allowed in the library, sir. You'll have to eat outside." I grunted politely as I stuffed the last bite in, and just barely refrained from protesting, It's starting to rain out there! It was!
The librarian went back to her work, and as she got busy reshelving a pile of books, I slid the sweating, lukewarm frap out of its hiding place and took a swig. Stolen waters are sweet chanted a dulcet voice in my ear. That's a new one! I thought to myself, and then looked around to see a pixie-like teenaged girl standing over my right shoulder, grinning. She was pale and extraordinarily thin, but her green eyes twinkled with mischief.
"Mind if I sit here?" she whispered, glancing over at the librarian. "Do you think yonder bookmaiden will notice if I eat my lunch in here?" the pixie asked, showing two very cute dimples. The lunch consisted of about five grapes and a pair of Ritz crackers with peanutbutter spread thinly between them. I shrugged nonchalantly.
I was quite convinced that the green-eyed girl was flirting with me, but I chided myself that I'd be a cradle-robber if I took any notice at all. The librarian took no notice whatever, though, of her nibbling. So I settled down to my notetaking, the best I could with the girl there. I'm really a loner when it comes to writing. Distractions are best saved for non-productive days, although, the female type of distraction is not all that unwanted, and this was turning out to be "one of those days."
Thumbing through a large tome on ships and sailing, I found some intriguing facts and opened up the laptop to type down some of them. Why do I always have to write about stuff I don't know? Wouldn't it be easier to write about. . .cars, maybe. No, not cars. I can't fix anything to save my life. Camping! We did a lot of camping when I was a kid, um-m-m, boating. Yeah, but we only sailed small boats on a lake. That doesn't exactly help me with ships! Which is why I was in the library in a downpour. It's amazing how little you know about the things you think you know about when you start writing about them.
I closed my eyes, after taking a couple of surreptitious sips of coffee along with a couple of well-hidden glances at the pixie. Suddenly I could hear the creak of the ropes and swollen wood on the ship in "Master and Commander." I was there. No wonder they got an Academy Award for best sound! "Sh-h-h!" hissed the librarian from two tables over. I had spoken aloud. The creaking seemed to actually be real.
The girl was getting up and leaning over fetchingly.
"I have to get back to class," she said, not too quietly.
"Don't get wet!"
By now, the rain was blowing like black sheets of Saran wrap. I couldn't believe I'd said that. Even before she'd gotten to the glass double doors with their brushed aluminum handles, the lights flickered. The librarian took action quickly and began shutting down all the computers. No one was going anywhere, it was raining too hard. I could hear thunder rolling like African drums. Although it sounded distant, it sounded ominous.
Suddenly, with a flash and a crack like doomsday, a megabolt hit the iron fence near the building, and the lights went out altogether. To add to the fight-or-flight reaction that kept me bolted to the chair, a sound like three or four freight trains speeding overhead rattled that solid place like tinsel on a tree. The wall of windows exploded into shards and pellets and rain blew furiously into the library uninvited. Who pays for damage by an actofgod? I wondered inappropriately. My random thoughts were interrupted by grabbing and sobbing on my arm. It was the pixie.
"It's going to be alright, honey" I said with bravado, hoping to sound tender. Her skinny cuteness shook with such ferocity that I was compelled to put my arm around her and try to comfort her. As I did, I began to scan the room for casualties. The sweet little girls were huddled around their mother who sat dazed on the floor against the bookshelves. No one seemed hurt. The librarian went over to them, talking in low tones, and then went back behind the darkened desk and began to make quiet calls on a cell phone . Silence, except for the dissipating rain, then, hung heavily in a sort of breathless wet timewarp.
I heard the sirens before I should have, for the lack of windows. Then there were spinning lights flashing through the glass front doors. Two police officers with walkie-talkies were standing on the other side of a huge tree that had fallen and blocked the door. One went around the perimeter, found the emergency exit, and began pounding on the metal door. The unruffled librarian went over to it, unbolted it and opened it, setting off the loud alarm. In came the officers, ignoring the librarian's look of be quiet in here, this is a library , and I marveled at their bravery as they left muddy footprints all over the beige floor.
Firemen at the front door were sawing the old tree with chain saws, and this added to the disconcerting din in the normally quiet place. So much for my research, I thought stupidly. The young girl was sitting up calmly now, face streaked with black mascara giving her white face, pouty lips and puffy red eyes a sort of gothic drama. I found it slightly humorous, but she obviously didn't look like she could take any teasing. I gave her a conservative little smile, and she grinned back. Good, she was going to be OK.
Next in the liturgy of crisis intervention came the officer in his black uniform loaded with all the official stuff. He asked if we were OK and said he was sorry but that he had to make a report. So we answered a few questions that we didn't hear, as he punched his little keyboard. The librarian came over in her superwoman cape and offered to make calls for us. We both said we were fine and that we would just drive ourselves home.
The rumpled man was now pacing along the dry side of the library, talking animatedly into his Blackberry. A tall, kind-looking man had come in through the back and was gathering his little flock of rosy females into his arms. They all looked pale and relieved. Soon they were gone, and the rumpled man had gone too. The librarian was beginning to show her first signs of stress, then, and the officers told her to go home and to take it easy. She looked dismayed, but then complied, glancing over at us and motioning to us to do the same.
The pixie and I gathered our things, went over to the front door to see if the way had been cleared. Although the firemen were almost done cutting and moving the tree, they waved to us to go around the other way. So we did, and quietly loped around the back of the library. The parking lot and small manicured yard were littered with broken tree limbs and other debris that had been left by the tornado. Through the clouds peeped some blue sky and happy yellow sun rays, which was a comforting view that I barely noticed.
We hadn't said anything to each other, as that seemed to take too much energy. I did manage to ask where she was parked, to which she answered "across the street". We were parked in the same place, so we crossed the street together. To me it seemed more like floating aimlessly, not noticing cars or anything, not connected to myself. When we got to our cars, which were parallel parked right next to each other along the curb, we were both dumbstruck by the same sight: that lousy tornado had ripped a very large tree up by the roots and had dropped it rudely onto our cars! It had twisted the trunk unbelieveably, and both our cars were totalled- flattened like metal pancakes!
The sweet little pixie began to curse like a pirate, jumping up and down wildly, stomping the sidewalk angrily and kicking the ruined car several times, yelling incoherently. Finally, she quieted down and stared blankly at the wreck. "I just bought that car", she stated dully. I was glad in a way to see my old junker trashed like that, but I felt equally violated by the destruction of a mindless tornado. "At least you weren't in it," I said quietly. She hadn't thought of that, and a look of wide-eyed fear changed her streaked face. I had a rush of adrenaline too, thinking the same for me. We had been lucky, I thought. This calls for a celebration, I decided in my usual shallow collegiate manner.
"Let's go down to the diner and get something to eat," I said cheerfully as I could manage. I was starting to wonder what I would get around in. The girl shrugged and said, "I don't have anything to do," in a tone that made me think she wouldn't have remembered if she had. I offered to carry her tote, and she let me. In a few minutes we were cozily ensconced in the booth of the restaurant. It had been around for ages and was quite scruffy around the edges, but it had decent food and was a popular neighborhood hang-out. The waitress left plastic menus after we ordered coffee.
"It's all been so surreal I haven't even introduced myself," I said nonchalantly. "I'm Steve."
"I'm Zorcha," she answered shyly. I refrained from saying that her name added to the surrealness of this day, but it did. I was starting to get an itch to write.
"That's a real nice name," I said. "Uh, what do you do?"
"Do?" she answered with a puzzled expression, pixie-like again. "Oh, I'm an artist. And I'm a freshman at River Community College" she added twinkling. "You?"
"Ah! I'm a newly-graduated-neophyte-novelist hoping to write the next great bestseller. In other words, I'm broke!"
"And now carless," she quipped.
"Better than careless," I said, echoing my mother's voice in my head. How nice! I haven't heard that for a few hours now. I should have more tornadoes in my life. . .
"So how are you going to get home?" she asked solemly.
"I guess I'll call my folks," I said, feeling a little embarassed that a guy my age would have to call his folks, but I did live in their condo, and they lived not fifteen minutes from where we were. And they had a working vehicle.
"There's nothing wrong with that," she said, picking up my unintentional communiqué.
"With what?"
"Getting help from your parents," she said. "You should be glad you have them."
"Well, I guess I am," I said, a little too reluctantly though, for her. "But you know, I'm supposed to be an adult, not leaning on them any more, don't you think?"
"It's not about leaning or not leaning. It's about having them." It was a firm statement, like she was giving a final judgment at a court hearing. There certainly was a lot to this pixie girl. Zorcha. . .
"So don't you have your parents?" I asked tentatively. I wasn't sure about where this conversation was going, and after this day's ordeal, I didn't want another one. I'd been through my share of female ordeals. I wasn't in the mood.
The waitress came at that moment, setting down my meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and Zorcha's chicken soup and crackers on the Formica table that was yellow with silver boomerangs. She filled our coffee mugs up with welcome steaminess. I gave the buxom brunette a little look, and she flirted back. Zorcha looked at me with an unapproving eyebrow. Women! I thought.
The food was warming and I was really hungry by now. "No wonder they call it comfort food," I said, having to work at saying my thoughts instead of just thinking them. "Maybe that would be a cure. . ." oops, I didn't mean to say that.
"Comfort food a cure for post-traumatic stress?" she asked innocently.
"Uh, no" I said hesitantly. "For voices in one's head."
"Voices? You mean like schizophrenia?"
"Not that bad," I shook my head, thinking great, she's a therapist too.
I decided to quick-change the subject. "Do you study psychology?"
"Yes, I do," Zorcha answered simply. "I'm fascinated by people and why they do things."
"So that's your major in college?"
"Uh-huh" she said with a spoon in her mouth.
"Hey, that's great!" I said enthusiastically, thinking maybe she could help me with research, considering people were my least understood topic. Instantly, my mother's voice was giving me the argument I had always gotten from her when I talked about writing novels. You don't understand people, how can you write novels? I had habitually scoffed at all her arguments. Suddenly, this one seemed rational.
I decided to give a go at humility, and I asked carefully, "Do you think you could help me with my novel writing, Zorcha?"
Her adorable pixie face looked surprised, and she said back, "I'm no writer!" She was nibbling on a Saltine like a gerbil, taking the tiniest bites on the corners first, then going around the edges ever so intently. She didn't seem to notice that she was dropping an inordinate amount of crumbs on the boomerang table and into her soup. Maybe that was the idea. Maybe that was how she stayed so thin: pretend to eat, but not really ever do it. But it definitely made her look fairy-like.
"I mean, you could help me with my character development."
"Does your character need developing?"
"Huh?"
"You know, do you need to improve your work ethic or something?"
"Ha! Maybe," I said grinning, "but that's not what I mean. I don't really get people, see? I need help making a character real in my stories. I can make up stories, plots, but the characters, well, they're thin. . . ethereal."
"Like me?"
"Like you?" This girl was full of surprises, twists and turns like a good Poe story. I was really liking her. Already.
"I guess that could describe you in some ways. I don't think I know you well enough to say." I think I would like to know you more, though.
I was done with my meal, full to the brim. Feeling complacent, homey, then I remembered. . . getting home. "How do you plan to get home, Zorcha? Are you going to call your parents?"
"My parents don't give a flip about me, Steve. Not one flip of a smashed car pancake!"
"You don't think they'd be just a tad concerned to know you've survived a life-threatening traumatic experience with a tornado, and now your car is totalled?"
She looked a bit sheepish, like a skinny little sheep with mascara streaks. She still had them, and they still made me want to laugh out loud. Boy is she going to be mad when she looks in the mirror, I thought. "Maybe they would be a little upset at that, especially about the car."
"Zorcha, I can't believe what you're saying! Are they in town? You should call them!"
"They live an hour away. They can't really help me anyway. What are they going to do? They're not going to buy me another car!"
"I think they would want to know about you, kid. I really do." I did think that. How could anyone not want to know what their child was doing, what was happening to them? I was beginning to appreciate, just a little, the overprotecting, smothering love I got from my mom. At least she cared. I opened my satchel and dialed up my folks' number on the cell phone. "Mom? Hey, I need a lift over to the condo. Can you pick me up at Fred's Diner on 5th and Main St.? OK, thanks. See ya."
Zorcha looked at me with those huge green eyes that shone out from smudgy, beautifully sculpted bones. I was thoroughly captivated with her eyes. The magical eyes. I have to see those eyes again!
"That's it? You're not going to tell her why? Didn't she want to know?"
"Sure, Zorcha. I just wanted to tell her in person. Be able to give her a hug, and let her see with her own eyes that I'm really OK. I didn't want her to worry unnecessarily."
"Oh. . .well I guess you understand her at least. Maybe you don't need any writing help after all."
"Hmmmm, I wouldn't say that! I've got an idea for a story. Want to help me? Please. . .pretty please?"
"Only if it has a cherry on top!" she quipped with a mischievous half-grin.
I was truly concerned for her now. I couldn't just leave her to fend for herself, even if she was used to it.
"Will you let us give you a ride home at least? Where do you live?"
"I'm at the off-campus student apartments at Riverbend. I can call my roommate. She's probably around, or else I can leave her a message."
"Why don't you just let us drop you off there. It's so close."
"OK, I suppose. If you don't mind. That would be nice really. I'd meet your mom then too."
"She's going to be here in about ten minutes. Let's pay, and then wait outside." I got up and walked over to the register, the old-fashioned kind with all the fancy embossing on it. I held the door for Zorcha. She was only up to my chin even with her black high-heeled, speed-lace boots. She was definitely ethereal.
We stood there, in front of Fred's Diner, shivering a little even though it wasn't very cold. The sun was beginning to set, leaving a little color on Zorcha's pretty face, on everything in the world. She suddenly reached into her purse and grabbed a little compact, looked into it and yelped.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"And ruin that post-tornado look?"
If looks could kill. . .She spit-washed it off the best she could. "I can't believe you, Steve. Really!"
"You just looked so cute. . ." Now I was the sheepish one. "Sorry."
"Forgiven. I really am surprised though, that no one came and debriefed us."
"Debriefed?" I was clueless.
"Well, they've discovered that people don't get post-traumatic stress disorder if they're immediately helped to defuse after a critical incident, and then soon have a follow-up debriefing session. It's very effective."
"That's good to know. "They" certainly had a captive audience for a few minutes. We're a little backwards in this town, though. I guess the city authorities haven't tumbled to that yet. Besides, I think you defused yourself with that car-kicking episode!"
"Oh that. . ." I noticed again the darling dimples that dotted her soft cheeks. Pixie-like, ethereal. . .
"Here's Mom!" The blue sedan pulled up and my pleasantly plump mother, in a printed jersey shift with her hair up casually in a clip, got out of the car. Seeing Zorcha there alerted her to something different. As she walked up I lurched over to her, hugging her hard. It felt good to want to hug her, to express love honestly, not putting up barriers to keep the nagging voice away. I loved my mom. Maybe I should have more tornadoes in my life. . . She looked at me with wonder. Looked at Zorcha, then at me.
"What happened, dear. You look like you've been through a tornado!"
"I'll tell you all about it when we get home, Mom. This is Zorcha. I met her at the Library." Mom reached out her hand to the pixie girl, and the pixie girl shook her hand back. A little glimmer of connection was happening there, which made me glad. We got into the car and Mom chattered lightly, after getting directions to Zorcha's apartment.
As we pulled up to the creaky old building, Zorcha looked at me with those twinkly green eyes. "Do you want to get together and do a little writing?"
"That would be great, Zorcha! How about Friday afternoon?"
"Super! Do you want to meet at the Library again?" she asked with a nearly imperceptible snicker.
"Ummmm. . .let's not! How about Fred's?"
"You betcha!"
Mom put the car in gear, and Zorcha waved, smiling slightly as she turned and walked up to her apartment. From the corner of my eye, I think I caught a glimpse of some fairy dust floating through the sunset-golden air.
The End
"The Library" is a work of fiction by Karen Gladys Henry ©2009.
All Rights Reserved.
"Clouds In My Coffee" is a photomontage by Karen Gladys Henry ©2009.
All Rights Reserved.
ROTFL(or not)
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