The Book Drop Job

The plan to change out the book drop could not have been more simple. Do it fast and early so no patrons could stop for a chat about when the library was going to re-open to full capacity.

     The reference librarian would come in early. Real early. The way he explained it to the page, "If I get here before the sun rises, way before, they can't stop me. I mean no light in the sky, the darkest before, the hammer that makes the crack of dawn. I get here before even the nuts looking for garage sales get on the road. Then I just take it."

     "What about the ones on the wifi?" the page asked.

     "Oh, those bastards don't deal with the book drop. Haven't you been paying attention? They just sit in their cars or under the walkway and download and play their games and don't care fuck all about the world around them."

     "So are you just gonna take it?"

     "No, son. I mean, yes, in a way. I'll do it right and proper. I'll park around back where the meeting room is and go in through there. They don't see my car, they don't see me."

     The page tilted his head. "I thought they wouldn't be here."

     "Always plan for assholes to be where you don't want them to be."

     "Then won't they be around back?"

     The reference librarian grinned. "Chances, son. All we have are the chances we take. So I go in the meeting room, make my way through the building in the dark. Need you to clear my way. No strange carts in the way."

     The page hung his head.

     The reference librarian put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "No worries about that. Not now. Jamie'll fix her up. Just get the rest out of my way. Can you do that?"

     The page nodded. 

     "Right. Then I get the second bin and roll it to the side door. Get that done quick as I can. Then I get out there. Prop the door open and run out into the dark with that extra bin. Get in, and get out. I figure maybe two minutes."

     The page said, "Yeah. That might work. The lock on the book drop might slow you up, but not much. What are you going to do if a patron does come up wanting something?"

     "Well, I guess I might help them. Right to hell," and the reference librarian laughed.

     The page laughed, too, but was not sure why. 

The Day the Book Cart Died

Without people in the library, the staff have gotten much freer expressing ourselves. They sing more. Play more music. Argue on the floor about dumb topics. 

     And some curse like sailors.

     "Ahhh, fucking ducks on the ocean," the circulation librarian screamed. A crash followed. Books raining from the second floor and onto the floor and the heavy metal of a cart tumbling down the stairs.

     The page on duty, a young boy not even 18, said, "You did that on purpose."

     A circulation library saw him standing in the stacks, looking at her. She looked down at the cart and the books. She turned back to him. saying, "No I didn't."

     "That was my favorite cart," he said.

     "Well, it's dead," she said.

     "You pushed it."

     "That's what you do with carts, Freddy. You push them."

     "Not like that." He walked around her and down the steps. "Not down steps."

     "Be careful, Freddy. You can be pushed, too," she said, too quiet for him to hear.

     The page pushed away the books with one hand while keeping the other on the cart. Carefully he lifted it and double checked the welds. Then the wheel fell off. One of the three shelves tilted. The page began to cry soft tears.

     The reference librarian materialized beside the circulation library and looked over the balcony. He said, "Why did you do that?"

     "Remember last week when I wanted a new cart?" the circulation librarian said.

     "I do."

     "Now I might get one."

     "You're kinda fucked up. Might want to go home."

     The circulation librarian smiled. "Have to put in an order first for my new cart."

     "Just one question first," the reference librarian said.

     "Shoot."

     "Why do that to the boy?"

     The circulation librarian smiled. "Remember last week when I wanted to hire a new page?"

     She walked one way and the reference librarian walked the other. Down on the floor, the page held the cart to his chest and rocked it back and forth. He sang a low tune, cursing the circulation librarian in his mind. He began a plot, an idea. Rage boiled and spilled over. 

     Then the children's librarian came to the page's side with another cart. She pulled the cart from his hands. She helped him gather the books. She gave him an ounce of humanity.

     The children's librarian said, "Not today, Freddy. Today we handle this. Then we plot to destroy her with her own fucking hands. We'll make her eat this cart. Until then, I'll get my welding equipment. I'll make her live again in some way."

     The page nodded. Then he smiled a smile touched with madness and wild fury.

The Shelving Robot Is Alive

We aren't sure when the shelving robot gained sentience.

     The circulation librarian thinks it started reading while the library was empty in lockdown. The audiobook traffic went up by twenty percent during the pandemic. All alone in the library, nothing to shelve, we figure the little robot started making its way through our meager collection using a library card it found on the ground. 

     Maybe it started listening just to hear a voice. The children's librarian would talk to it before lockdown. Call it "sweetie" and "honey" and thank it. It always seemed to hover around shelving easy books during story time. Maybe it missed her voice. Maybe it just got lonely.

     Of course, once you get a taste of knowledge you need more. I can't speak to what makes a being sentient, but I figure learning is a sure fire indication. That little robot finished all the audiobooks using the card of Philo Green. If Mr. Green had not died of heart failure back in March, we might never have found out.

     But we did find out. When we opened back up for curbside, we were contacted by Mr. Green's estate. Seems his email account had become very active with check out receipts. They wanted to know who was using the card. No way to tell, except the robot started acting out when we deactivated the card.

     You can tell when a shelving robot is acting out because it starts communicating. More than the usual "this book is still checked out," anyway. The first sign was multiple copies of The Da Vinci Code on the circulation librarian's desk. She would put them into the automatic sorter, they would trundle on down the belts into the fiction feeding tube, and then the robot would shelve everything but those books. Just bring them to her desk where they did not belong.

     I decided what the hell and made the little bastard a card. Used the name "Robert Langdon" after the star of the book. Then I called it into my office.

     You have not been a library director until you have seen the joy a small faceless gray robot can exude. The little bot spun around in circles when I read out the number to it. I had to smile.

     Then I got worried. The voice of Paul Mitchell, narrator of The Da Vinci Code, came from the speakers on the little device. It said, "Thank you." Before then it only spit out recorded messages. Things like "excuse me" and "low battery" and "please don't hit me."

     I told the shelving robot it was welcome. Then it left my office and kept on shelving. 

     Every so often, I check the "Robert Langdon" account. It is almost done with the digital collection. Thank goodness. We need the numbers.

Book Worm Fiction

Wanted: Illustrator for the following children's book script:

In an empty library way in the back in an old dictionary on a high shelf lived a small family of Bookworms.

Mama Bookworm cooked.

Daddy Bookworm helped people with medicine.

And Baby Bookworm was a baby who laughed.

The phone rang. Daddy answered the phone acting happy to talk. But then his mood grew sour.

"No. No, no, no. You cannot come here. Do not bring that to my house," Daddy said.

Mama peaked out from the kitchen. "Who's that?" she said.

Daddy waved her off, talking into the phone: "Prank call. Prank call." Then he hung up.

Baby gurgled on the floor, a pillow under her head. She stretched her legs to the ceiling and laughed some more.

A little while later, a crash could be heard outside. Someone was screaming for help. Daddy went outside and found his friend Vinnie Vulture dragging an unconscious Fanny Fox from his car.

"What the fuck is this?" Daddy said.

"You gotta help me, man," Vinnie said. "She snorted the whole bag. Help me, motherfucker, this is Marcel Walrus's wife."

"Okay, come in," Daddy said.

Mama saw them dragging Fanny into the house and lost her shit. "Oh, fuck no. Get that drugged up whore out of my house."

"Just go get my medical bag," Daddy said.

Mama said, "Fuck that. What if she dies here?"

Baby laughed.

"Go get my black medical bag, now," Daddy said.

Mama frowned but left the room. Baby moved the coffee table. Daddy and Vinnie got Fanny on the floor and opened up her shirt. Fanny was sweaty and not moving.

Mama came back with the black bag. Daddy took it from her and pulled out a long needle. He handed it to Vinnie.

Vinnie said, "What am I supposed to do with this?"

 "Stick it in her heart," Daddy said.

"Fuck that. You do it," Vinnie said.

Daddy said, "When I bring a dying girl to your house, I'll stick them with the needle. It's your turn."

"Shit. The heart?" Vinnie said.

"The heart!" Daddy, Mama, and Baby said together. Baby giggled.

Vinnie stabbed Fanny in the heart with the needle. Fanny jumped up screaming, running circles around the small room while Baby clapped and watched. Fanny sat on the floor staring at the needle in her chest.

Mama said, "That was trippy."

They all smoked some grass and chilled the fuck out. Fanny went home with Vinnie. Daddy, Mama, and Baby all slept in the same bed that night.

Tale of the Missing Hold

A guttural scream rang throughout the library. Frustration mixed with anger. The voice was high and loud and filled with expletives.

     I ran to the source of the sound at the front of the house near the circulation desk. We had several tables set up filled with holds. Brenda stood yelling at the books.

     "The fuck?" I said.

     Brenda turned to me, her mouth wide enough for her jaw to peak out below her lime green facemask. "Where are the Nguyen holds?"

     "In the 'n' section?" I said.

     "Don't be smart with me, ST. I will fuck you up."

     At that, I decided to back away. I lifted my hands palms out. "No problem. No problem here."

     "There is a problem. Mrs. Nguyen and the whole goddamn Nuyen family are out there right now. They made an appointment. They did everything right, and I can't find their holds." Brenda deflated, her shoulders dropping.

     I felt my butt touch the circulation desk. I began sidestepping to the right. Best get the desk between her and me.

     "We can figure this out," I said, rounding the desk.

     "Figure what out?" came a voice from below me.

     I may have let out a little pee and a scream.

     The children's librarian sat on the floor behind the desk. Jaime had her legs crossed and her hands on her knees. Her fingers were in little circles that matched the fingers on her facemask. 

     I said, "What are you doing down there?"

     "My afternoon meditation," she said uncrossing her legs.

     "Okay. Sure."

     Brenda picked up a box of sanitizing wipes and threw them into the stacks. "Doesn't anyone care about the Nguyens? Their holds are missing," she said in a voice that rattled the windows.

     Jamie bounced to her feet. "Oh, the Nguyens are here? I'll go see how they are."

     Brenda and I watched Jamie leave out the front door to the curbside table. The door closed to the sound of the children's librarian squealing. With a heavy thunk it closed.

     I brought up the Nguyen mom's record. They had three holds available for pickup. Couple of DVDs and a biography of Robin Williams. At the second branch.

     "Um, Brenda…" I said. I told her what happened. Her smile grew little by little, her heart lighter. I saw her shoulders unbunch as she skipped toward the door.

     A bit later she came back in floating. She said, "They were so nice about it and they said 'thank you.' So nice."

     "Too bad they have to go to the second branch," I said.

     Brenda nodded. "RIP the Nguyen family. They will be missed."

To Watch the Train

I had to do double duty this week working the reference desk at the circulation desk. Happens on holidays when staff go off to do whatever it is they do. They all said they were not traveling, staying in, just going online to say hey to family.

     Whatever they are doing, the small crew here is catching up on small projects and manning desks. The phones all route through the circulation desk anyway due to most questions being about the hours and account issues, so catching the occasional question here is not a large bother. Still, those odd balls come bouncing when everyone else is on break.

     "I want to watch the train," he said. His voice was deep and measured. Not quiet. A low rumbled on the other end of the line.

     "Sure, how can I help you?" I said.

     "I want to watch the train."

     "Do you need directions to the station?"

     "To the people with the train."

     "I'm not sure I understand. What do you need?"

     "I want to watch the train."

     "Which train, sir?"

     "The train."

     I decided to change tactics. "What do you need to do at the train?"

     "I want to watch the train."

     "Is it at a museum?" Silence, no words, just a heavy thick breathing. "Sir, are you there?"

     "I want to watch the train."

     "Sir, I need a little more. Which train?"

     "The train. I want to watch the train."

     "Is it a real train like Amtrak? The subway? A painting or sculpture? What kind of train do you want to watch?" Now the breathing stopped. Pure quiet. "Sir, are you there?"

     "The train. Goodbye."

     The rest of the lunch hour went by. I kept my eye on the phone, hoping it would not ring again. In case it did, I searched every train station around, all the paintings and sculptures with trains I could find, and even found a model train store two towns over. Brenda came back, and I filled her in. 

     Brenda said, "That's Mr. Logan. Yeah, he don't talk much. Don't know why, he's fine in the head. Probably embarrassed. He wanted to put the Human Centipede on hold."

     I just looked at her.

     "You know, the movie where a crazy ass doctor sews-"

     I stood and put up a hand. "I got it," I said.

     "What end do you think you'd rather be on? I always said first because that's the right answer, but my dad said he thought everyone was already on the back end. I guess that's true, but in a more metaphorical sense. I just don't want someone telling me where we're going."

     "I'm going to lunch," I said.

Visitors by Carol

Three days ago Brenda comes in and asks for the day after Thanksgiving off. I tell her no, sorry, we put in those requests two months ago.

     But her kids are sick. They need their momma.

     I say, her kids are both in their thirties. One of them has a family. The other might just be too damn stoned to see out the window. Plus, the children's librarian and the tech serv librarian are off. It's just me, Brenda, and the reference librarian all day.

     "Why don't we just close?" she said.

     I told her no.

     She crooked her hand. Spitting on my office floor, Brenda spoke out the old Creole tongue. A wormy string of swamp words came out of her mouth and stained my ears. Then she took out a marker, drew a symbol on my office door, and closed it behind her with a bang.

     The lights went out. Total dark filled the windows and cracks around the door. Silence filled everything but my chest thumping.

     A little girl stood in front of me. Small, dainty in a white dress. She looked like my sister so many years ago. Then she pulled out a rubber mallet and slammed it into the desk. When the desk did not break, she climbed over it and came at me. I fought her off, pushing us back from the desk and toppling the chair.

    Blows rained down. Thick heavy smacks. The child did not have the raw power or the instrument for any one blow to hurt, but goddamn they began to add up.

     I threw her off me. Standing, I oriented myself toward the door. Within three steps a man stood in front of me holding a ruler. He had on a brown coat and red shirt. His hair was shorter than mine, but other than that he could have been my doppelganger. As if I had been left in the microwave a little too long.

    He swung the ruler at my head. The smack came hard. I felt the light wood break against my jawbone. Painful, but in no way debilitating. I wrenched the broken end out of his hand and turned it on him. He died well, my alternate.

     The little girl screamed. She hit my shin with the mallet. I kicked out, getting her in the face. She stumbled, and I pounced. I grabbed her arm and leg, lifted, and threw her where I judged the window to be. In the darkness she vanished to the sound of glass breaking and screams.

     "You should not have done that. The Past is perfect," said a voice of stone.

     I could feel the edge of my desk. Lowering my hand, I opened the second drawer. The revolver filled my hand as I turned and faced the stranger.

     "Yep," I said and shot the pale figure in the forehead.

     The lights came back. All the light, from the windows and the fixtures. I closed my eyes to think. The smell of cordite filled my nostrils as I dumped the revolver on the desk with a heavy thud.

     After a few breaths, I picked up the phone. Dialed the circulation desk.

     "Yes?" Brenda said.

     "About Thanksgiving."

    "Yes," Brenda said.

    "No," I said, and hung up the phone. 

A Scratchy Voice

When the call came in, I had three people in front of me. One wanted a computer. One needed the printer to stop being an asshole. The third danced and said the bathroom was full.

     I told the man to wait for his turn on the computer. Of course as I started speaking, someone got up. About goddamn time, his words.

     The man with the printer problem left. I do not know what happened there.

     For the dancing patron, I peaked my head in the back room and asked Freddy if he could handle the desk. Desk duty is not in his job description, but that is how we learn. He was on the phone. When he saw me, he stood up. Told me the call was for me. They would not leave a message. They needed me.

     I sent Freddy out and picked up the phone. A scratchy voice on the other end asked if this was a bad time. I said it was. Could I call them back? They said no. They said this was a one time thing. Twenty-five thousand dollars if I would take a family heirloom. 

     I guess I laughed. Of course I did. People think the library takes old stuff all the time, but they never offered to pay. Instead, I told the person on the other end I would have to meet in the flesh. They said they would be in tomorrow.

     Back out on the desk, I found freddy with a mop in hand. He shrugged. I started for the bathroom, but he told me not to worry. The dancer did not make it.

Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon (2006)

She had big hair, big makeup, and read Goodnight Moon like a pro. I sat back and watched Miss Sweet Tater enthrall two dozen kids for an hour while a bunch of idiots outside yelled about Jesus. As if Jesus didn't wear a robe.

    All month we pushed the Drag Queen Story Time. We got a thousand or so calls from the public. The split between patrons wishing us good luck and those calling for our eternal damnation cut right down the middle. It's best not to speculate on such things, but let's just say the retirement home flashed up on the caller ID more than once.

    The day of the event, William Ratcliff came into the library's back door. He looked like a plumber because he was a plumber. Still had on his overalls and carried a big heavy bag. Rather than carry around pipes and toilet rings, that big heavy bag contained Miss Sweet Tater.

    Miss Sweet Tater came from Ratcliff's aunt, a woman with an appetite for life and pecan pie. Little Billy would sit in his Aunt Bea's kitchen and eat that pie and listen while she told him stories of her dancing in New Orleans. A dozen years later, Ratcliff created Miss Sweet Tater and danced on those same New Orleans stages and floats, one time going up on the main stage at the Saenger with the Dixie Chicks to sing God Bless America. Aunt Bea had passed, but Miss Sweet Tater said she had been with him nonetheless.

    After that long afternoon worrying about a violent response to a man wearing a dress, Miss Sweet Tater and I decided to take in a movie. We had time to kill while the crowd dispersed. I pulled up the Shudder app and scrolled through. We chose Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon.

    Humor and horror are linked by the visceral reactions they produce. Humor creates a laugh, horror a cringe. Shifting from a laugh to a cringe takes a deft hand that few have. Behind the Mask rides the line pretty close and succeeds way more than it fails.

    In the spirit of the Blair Witch, three grad students get in over their handheld heads. They have been contacted by Leslie Vernon, a spree killer, who wants to document his first assault on a group of horny and drunken teens. The majority of the flick follows Leslie as he lays out how he's setting up his Final Girl, how he's picked the legend to fuel his mythology, and how he's gonna hack and slash when the time comes.

    For the most part, the movie is a funny deconstruction of slasher movies, almost in the spirit of Scream. Other movie franchises get called out and named. At times it plods along, fueled by the likeable Leslie Vernon and the gullible grad students. When the time comes, however, Leslie puts his scythe where his mouth is and delivers.

    More fun than fright, Behind the Mask is clever and deserves to be checked out.

Tap Tap Tap

The Director checked the basement and the books. The animals were in their cages. Nothing has been disturbed. Whatever had happened, it had not come for his basement collection. He had felt something enter the library. He had suspicions Brenda had something to do with whatever it was.

    The back stairs echoed under his feet. He placed them with deliberation. Most people thought if you stomped around you made people aware of your presence. It's true, but stomping around causes first annoyance and then dismissal. You become someone else's problem. Reorganized in the collective unconscious as unthreatening.

    Moving with quick tapping steps caused others to view you as important. They pay attention. They become aware. The Director took the steps one at a time, tap tap tap of his shoes, pushing off a step before the foot fell to increase the sound of his arrival. His normal steps would have pushed off after the shoe landed causing little to no noise at all. If Chris was at his post at the reference desk on the second floor, he would know The Director was on his way.

    But Chris was not ready for anything.

    "Brenda okay?" Chris said.

    The Diretor took his time. "She's headed home. Not feeling well I think."

    "That's good."

    "Is Freddy up here?"

    "Sure. I think he had a cart over around the cook books."

    "Thanks."

    "Everything okay?"

    The Director resisted the urge to hit the weak bastard. Chris had done his part. The first part anyway. If he could, The Director would pity the reference librarian. "Fine. Just making sure the circulation desk has coverage tonight."

    Chris said something as The Director walked away. He found the boy shelving books. A grass stain covered the back of the boy's sweater. Freddy winced as he reached up to place a book on the shelf.

    "Freddy."

    The boy turned. "Hey. Sir."

    "I heard you did okay during the chant."

    The boy grinned. "I think so."

    "Good. I might have something else for you to do."

    "Anything. Whatever you need, sir."

    "Thank you. I need you to talk to Brenda."

    "Is she ready?"

    "Not about the journey. She's not ready. But I want to know more about her. Talk to her about the library and her health."

    "Her health?"

    "Yes. I am worried about her. If she begins to have troubles at her job, you and I will not have time to do our good work," The Director said.

    "Yeah. That makes sense."

    "Then you will talk to her. See what she knows. Find out what happened this afternoon. She had an episode. I'm sure you've heard."

    "Saw her leave. Yes, sir," Freddy said.

    The Director turned to go but paused. "And Freddy?"

    "Yes, sir?"

    "Because she left, I need you to be on the circ desk. Kiera leaves at six, so finish up that cart and work it until close."

    "Yes, sir," Freddy said.

    "Good. That's my boy." The Director continued on past Chris at the reference desk. A clear thought danced in The Director's mind about Chris overhearing the conversation. The Director dismissed the thought as he dismissed the man. Neither mattered.

To Be Continued…

A Brightness in the Void

A flash. A brightness in the void. All around the library came the sound of tinnitus. A constant whine as if an explosion had rocked the building. As if the glass should fall in, the plaster should crack on the walls, as if the dust should be shaken from the top of the shelves to dance in the afternoon sun.

    I was aware of myself again. I had a sense of me. A brief moment in time as the library adjusted, but building around me solidified. I was awoken by a sound no one else seemed to have heard.

    Save one.

    Brenda screamed. She had been at the circulation desk. Kiera had been talking to a parent about readers for her child to prepare for kindergarten. Chris had been at the reference desk upstairs helping an old man with his password. The Director had been in his office, reviewing the budget for the next month. All of them made their way to the reference desk as Brenda let out one giant scream followed by short breaths.

    The Director reached her first. He came to Brenda and put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?" he said.

    Brenda glanced at his hand. He removed it. She took a step back as Kiera walked from children's.

    "What happened?" Kiera said.

    "Something," The Director said.

    "Nothing," Brenda said. She wrung her hands and swallowed bile. "I'm okay."

    Chris walked down the steps. The patron he had been helping followed. Chris surveyed the scene. The Director nodded to him. Chris nodded back and turned around. "Let's go work on that password some more, Mr. Clark."

    "Are you okay?" The Director said to Brenda.

    "Just a start. My imagination," Brenda said.

    I felt her lie. I felt everything in the library affected by the flash. It centered around Brenda. A nuclear fallout glow around her radiating in a gentle wave. Inside her, where she grasped her shirt, was a hole that held flat dark.

    I checked The Director and Kiera. The Director maintained the steady hum of life I felt from everyone in the library. A steady thump of a heartbeat. The in and out wheeze of breath. Gurgling and sloshing and dividing and using energy life. In The Director it felt off, though. As if a single flute player in an orchestra had fallen off the beat just enough for a well trained ear to hear. I expected The Director's body, my body, to feel wrong, either by his nature or by my own assumptions. On his hand where he had touched Brenda's shoulder was a bit of the glow. A small shine on the palmed fingers he rubbed against his pant leg. An unconscious movement.

    "If you're sure," Kiera said. She glanced at The Director for confirmation.

    The Director said, "When Freddy arrives, why don't you go home for the day?"

    "I could do that," Brenda said.

    "Only if you feel like it."

    "That might be okay." Brenda's hand circled her chest around that blank spot. It was smaller now, filling in little by little. Right after the flash it had been the size of a baseball. Now it was golf ball sized. The glow was fading as well, the brightness of it a dull shine across the library. I heard Brenda thinking, "It's gone." Clear words, not intention or base emotion besides a deep sadness from her. Whatever had happened, it had started with something in Brenda she knew about.

    "What's gone?" I said and startled myself with my own words. My incorporeal form had become my default. I scanned the building and saw no reactions to my words.

    Then something said, "Me."

To Be Continued…