Another Tale from the Library
Rain always means one thing, more people at the library. I have never seen this many people here, even on election day. The place is jumping.
My regular table is taken, my briefcase replaced by a plastic bag of cheerios, most certainly not that brand, but you get the idea. The little girl’s pink coat almost covers the pistol the adults smuggled in.
There is a young man at the table. As he attempts to solve the world’s problems by examining his phone, I can see what appears to be the outline of a large weapon under his coat. Yes, as he moves, I can see the butt of what is probably a sawed-off shotgun.
In the comfortable seats behind me and to my left, I can see four people, part of the usual homeless crowd, who are here to charge their phones and get out of the rain. They are of no concern. If things go sideways, and my guess is they will, they will be of no consequence.
Where are the security personnel? I do not see a police officer or any guards. This place is running on hope and trust. What would all the others think if they knew what I know? I see at least two weapons. Does the fact that they have a two-year-old girl with them calm me? Yes. I don’t suspect they would do something stupid with the kid here. But the question remains. Why would they bring a child and weapons into my library?
The little girl has just made a new friend. A grandpa brings what appears to be his grandson to the library daily. He might be 18 months. He spends his mornings exploring the children’s section and other areas that interest him. His grandfather is vigilant, always 15 or 20 feet behind him, ready to pounce if he tries to climb the shelves or rip CDs from their display. The little boy just met the little girl. They are rolling on the floor, trying to figure out the other’s deal. Grandpa isn’t smiling at the interaction. He knows the power women have to destroy a young man; he has concern written on his face.
The people at my usual table have left the partially exposed pistol well, partially exposed, as they have disappeared into the children’s section. Lots of days, there is someone over there reading stories to the kids as they continue exploring. I don’t think any of them sit and listen; there is too much going on here.
I just saw the owner of the pistol grab her daughter and carry her off. She was following the boy throughout the library. They seemed to be getting along just fine. I’m sure that worried the mother; she knows the power a young man has to destroy the well-planned-out future of a young woman.
It is still raining hard out there. I can see it from my seat. Just as I was taking in the weather, getting ready for a profound proclamation of one sort or another, another usual customer walked in. He is the guy with the walking boot. Weathered and wet, he made a line directly to his crew in the cushy seats. I would tell you the topic of the day, but I am still listening to The Car. I guess I have heard the entire thing 400 times by now. I still don’t like it.
If I weren’t a responsible reporter of life in Hillbilly Land, I would have the little boy grab the pistol from the table and run off with it. His grandpa would trip and sustain a severe injury while in pursuit. Unfortunately, nothing of the sort is going to happen. I just saw grandpa walk out the front door, his charge in tow. They have places to go and things to do. Who can blame them?
The poor woman who keeps loudly complaining about “Arthur” has just walked in. She is struggling extra hard today. People riddled with “Arthur” do that in cold rainy weather. Regardless of what you may have heard, cold, wet weather does exacerbate the symptoms of arthritis. I have first-hand information.
Chekov said that if you write about a loaded gun, it eventually has to go off. Fortunately, I am simply chronicling my day at the library. I don’t anticipate that the weapon will be fired. I am having difficulty figuring out why they bothered to bring it. Was it a mistake? If so, why is it out of the backpack, partially exposed on the table? Are they trying to get caught? A jail cell should be warm and dry, and at least they would get fed. It is all very curious.
Two elderly women just walked in. Are they part of the danger posed by the gun toating hillbillies? I can’t imagine so, but then again, if we are dealing with master criminals, I will not discount their presence.
I am not concerned about the weapons parked 10 or 15 feet from me. I am worried about the little girl. What chance does she have if the people responsible for her upbringing are bringing weapons into a library? That kid has very little chance of living a substantial, productive life. Is she more likely to be a supreme court justice or a welfare recipient? We all know the answer to that.
Is there anything I can do? Can I intervene and somehow change the course of that little girl’s life? Should I walk to the front desk and tell them I see a pistol and that I suspect a sawn-off shotgun? Should I just call the police? Would that only make matters worse? I am not sure of anything. I just want it to stop raining so I can get out of here.
The rain is not letting up. I just checked the weather on my computer, and the prediction is that it will rain all day. There are still people trickling in, and they are drenched, the water running off of them as they walk back to their comfortable seats. I am going to be here for a bit. It is not that I am scared of rain; I just don’t like being cold and wet. I would rather sit here and type than walk in that mess I see outside.
The people with the pistol and apparent shotgun just returned to their table. It looks like they are collecting their things so they can leave. Sigh. I can now confirm that what I thought was a pistol is nothing more than the end of a pencil box. From my angle, it liked just like a pistol. Also, the guy with the shotgun under his coat didn’t have any such weapon. He is wearing one of those puffy winter coats, and the outline of a weapon seems to be an artifact of the garment’s construction. I stand corrected and relieved.
I usually come to the library and write for a bit. I don’t have to go here; I am just looking for a bit of inspiration. Have you ever tried to fake inspiration? Have you ever tried to convince yourself that you are inspired when you are not? It doesn’t work; it can’t be faked. It is sort of like a blood pressure reading; the output doesn’t lie and doesn’t depend even a little on how you feel.
I have written over 1,300 words this morning while watching the unfortunate and even less fortunate navigate this section of Hillbilly Land. It is now time to start editing and polishing the best I can. There is a significant milestone coming up concerning this blog. I am rapidly approaching 250,000 posted words. That is a substantial number, even though I suspect I will blow through it quickly. Between us, I have a couple million more taking up cloud and external hard drive space. I hope I can get to all of them. Believe it or not, they require a bit of editing.
