Keep Moving
He noticed her as soon as he entered. She was looking at him, watching him as he moved through the entrance and into the main lobby. He couldn’t have been any more uninterested. He didn’t have time for her, but she didn’t know. She adjusted her oversized sweater, the kind librarians wear; you know, the ones hanging below their knees. Those must be given out when they grant you your degree.
He took a seat, placed his laptop on the table, and looked at the busts on either side of the main study room. He always liked to sit at the table near Mozart. He knew the idea of something rubbing off was ludicrous, but he didn’t think it could hurt him. If he sat for hours without any ideas, that certainly wouldn’t be the great composer’s fault, would it? As his concentration started to lapse, it was doing that more and more quickly as he aged; he noticed her looking back at him. She was still wearing a mask, as many library employees did long after the mandates and recommendations said it was OK to go without. Probably due to all the homeless who use the place for sanctuary. If anyone was going to be carrying something communicable, it was probably one of them, or so goes the story.
After one particularly uninspired paragraph, he noticed her looking about. She was milling around one of the book displays, not because she was doing anything particular, she probably just wanted a better view of him. Or so he thought. And why not? Where else would a single middle-aged book lover go to meet men other than the local library? She was one of those whose body clock was letting its intentions be heard. Of course, he had no idea if this was true; he just thought it probably was. Lucky for you, I am the type of narrator who resides inside this guy’s mind; now, all you need to do is figure out if I am reliable. Good luck with that.
500 words; he already had 500 of them. His 10,000-word days were most likely gone. It was hard to concentrate for that length of time. 500 wasn’t monumental, but it was a great start considering he hadn’t a clue what to write about when he sat down. Thankfully a masked woman came to his rescue.
No one would have guessed that his bottle of pop had a generous splash of Jack Daniels. No one would have cared. The people who have loud, angry conversations with invisible people don’t get a second look. Everyone here is putting in time, hoping to get home without being accosted by someone with a large backpack in the parking lot.
Here she comes. No, no, no…I am wearing headphones; doesn’t that imply I do not want to talk to you? Dismissive of my wishes, she kept walking toward my table, her mask protecting her from who knows what might be floating through the air. Past the DVDs and the audiobook cart, swaying as she walked. What is she doing? She is coming right toward me. Oh no, she better not be taking her shot. Maybe if I keep my head down and keep typing, she will walk on by. That’s it; I need to pretend I do not see her.
[Author’s Note: When a narrator borrows speech from a character, it is known as Free Indirect Discourse. Sure, it can be subtle, and if you aren’t paying careful attention, you might miss it.]
He looked up a little, the brim of my cap blocking my eyes from making contact. She stood at a cart a few feet from me. It was one of those carts to which you were supposed to return books if you took them off the shelves. I have never seen anyone do that, but I have rarely seen anyone in the stacks. This library is a modern-day DVD store.
He thought about taking his headphones off and whipping them at her. What better way to tell her she needed to stay away. Well, you and I know there are much better ways to make such a point. He took a big breath and decided to simply adjust the headphones. That will let her know that what is coming through the wires to his ears is more important than anything she could conjure up in the way of conversation.
That’s it, keep moving, just go on. He clenched his teeth as she pushed the cart to the aisle beside the Mozart bust. As he glanced in her direction, he caught her looking. No, no, no. Stop wasting your time. I am going to sit here for a bit more, and then I am going to go home alone. I will go to my writing room and get some more work done. I don’t need to be wasting time with the likes of you.
He wanted to jump on the table and announce to the world that the woman pushing the cart, and every other woman in the world, was too late. He formulated the speech in his overactive imagination. What good, he would say, does meeting a woman do me now? Even if she is the perfect match, she is 35 years too late. I don’t need anyone now; I needed her all those decades ago. What am I supposed to do with her now? The only thing I can see coming out of a relationship at my age is that I would get far less writing done. I would be distracted, nothing more. When I am getting ready to die, I don’t want my obituary to say that I met the love of my life in my 60s, and because of that, all the novels that could have been written are still out in the ether, never written, and never even thought of. Yes, how’s that? So, you young woman, keep on pushing that cart. Put the books back where they are supposed to go, and I will sit here and think about…things.
He took a rather large swig of his doctored drink and let his fingers fly. Nothing extraordinary resulted, nothing even a little influential. I doubt it was anything anyone else would bother to read. But he wrote it and felt a sense of satisfaction as he downed the last few swigs of his drink and powered off the computer.
As he got up, he noticed a librarian approach a young man who had been reading a novel alone at a table. Instead of placing the book on a designated cart, he returned it to the shelves. In the world of the librarian, that is a provocative gesture. At this place, you never put a book on a shelf. It has to go back on the cart so that a professional can put it back in its proper place.
“Excuse me, sir,” was all she got out. He turned toward her and smacked her in the head with the book. As she turned, he ripped some pages from the book and tackled her. He was trying his best to stuff the pages down her throat when security arrived. They beat the devil out of that guy. They kept kicking him long after he lost consciousness. His head looked like a pumpkin when they finally stopped. Strangely, there was nothing in the local paper about the incident.
After things eventually quieted down, he collected his things, locked his briefcase, and headed toward the restroom. Oddly enough, there were no blood stains on the carpet. No indication of what had just happened there a few moments ago.
As he left, a group of homeless people gathered at the power outlets near the exit. He saw the chargers snaking their way across the tables to the phones. As he heard several of them cough, he thought that maybe wearing a mask wasn’t a bad idea after all.
