A Green Light Means Drop

The reference librarian told the children's librarian, "Okay, here's what we do: You go first, get the door open wide. I'll push this bin out fast as I can behind you, so get out the way. I'm gonna hit the curb hard and might bounce a bit. Don't let that worry you."

     "You don't want to use the ramp?" The children's librarian said.

     The reference librarian shook his head. "If I make the turn, go down a few feet, then have to turn again? Seconds lost. People could be out there waiting to get in. Asking when we open, when they can donate old shit nobody cares about. No masks. The bastards."

     "Should I come behind you with a cart? Catch anything that falls?"

     "And have two of us out there at the same time? Are you mad?"

     "I didn't used to think so."

     "Jamie, we must do this fast. Changing the book drop bin is nothing to laugh at."

     "I'm not laughing. Every day seems the same. Same patrons, same curbside, same you and same me. Nothing ever changes. Even online programs. I don't know whether the wheels on the bus are going round and round or coming or going," the children's librarian said. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

    The reference librarian wanted to comfort her, but in the times of plague there is no touch. Words mean little. Action, though. He knew action. "Hey," he said. "Let's get these bins swapped out. How about it?" 

     The children's librarian's eyes crinkled and her head nodded. A smile somewhere under that Miss Frizzle mask came through. Focus and duty, the reference librarian thought, can bring us through.

     They got into places. The children's librarian stood by the door, her hand on the bar ready to push. The reference librarian stood with hands on a yellow bin. He gave it an experimental shove and enjoyed the way the wheels glided. Well oiled wheels.

     "Go," he said.

     The children's librarian shoved open the door with a heavy metal clang and ran around it. Halfway, though, with a hand on the door, she stopped. A green light shone around her. In the door frame against the overcast sky, she became a shadow in the sick flickering glow of whatever she was gazing at outside in the parking lot.

     The reference librarian stopped himself from pushing the bin into her. "What's wrong?" he said.

     "Oh, Chris," she said.

     He got the bin out of the way and stood beside her in the doorway. The book drop was ablaze in dark green fire. Black in the center where the bright white should be and flickering forest colored light to a smokeless sky. 

     Beyond the book drop, out in the parking lot, came the mirthless laughter of children. "The Nguyen family," the children's librarian said. 

     "Who?" the reference librarian said.

     "They went to the second branch and came back."

     "I'll make a call," the reference librarian said.

Often They Come Back

The circulation librarian stepped into the children's department. She was new and did not take shit, but she still felt at odds just walking into another librarian's area. She said, "Knock knock."

     The children's librarian looked up, "Julie, how nice. What can I do for you?"

     "So I'm on curbside, and there's some people who need help. But they only want to talk to you."

     "Oh, how great. Did they give a name?" The children's librarian began going through piles of books beside her desk. She had been working hard making bags for her regular children she knew would appreciate them.

     "The Nguyen family?" The circulation librarian said.

     The children's librarian froze. "Are you sure?"

     "That's what they said."

     The children's librarian picked up the phone and dialed an extension. She said, "Chris, they came back…. The Nguyen family… The ones we sent to the second branch… Well, no, but Julie said they asked for me… I guess they can still talk... Can you come with me to see… Fine, then. Me and Julie. Enjoy your webinar." She set the phone in its cradle with more force than intended.

     "We have a second branch?" the circulation librarian asked.

     "Yes," the children's librarian said as she stood.

    They walked to the front door. The sun had hidden behind thick dark clouds. Through the glass, shadows could be seen looming over the curbside tables. Three little shadows and a dark brooding lump of an adult. 

     "Where there had been light now lived darkness," the children's librarian said.

     "What?" the circulation librarian said.

     "Nothing. Something my mom always said." The children's librarian squared her shoulders and lit up her face with a kind smile. She crafted her thoughts of joy and helpful wonder. She hoped as she opened the door. "The Nguyen family!"

     "Can you come play with us, Miss Jamie?" the children said as one.

     The mother Nguyen said, "The librarians at the second branch played with them. You should play with them, too."

     "Oh, I'm sorry, but we can only do curbside here. I can probably find some books for you, though if you remind me of your library card numbers…"

     Three sets of little hands lay flat on the table. "Play with us, Miss Jamie."

     The circulation librarian stepped forward. She had picked up a spray bottle at some point. A fine mist came from the end of the spout and onto the table. Onto the little hands. The children hissed and hid behind their mother. 

     "My babies," Mother Nguyen said.

     "I'm sorry. We have to clean the tables. Is there anything library related we can help you with?" the circulation librarian said.

     "We will go to the second branch," Mother Nguyen said and led her children away.

     The children's librarian said, "What's in that bottle, Julie?"

     "My mama said some things to me, too," said the circulation librarian as she wiped at the table.

The Circulation Librarian Strikes Back

"And another thing, if you think you can tell me what I can and cannot check out, then you can go right to hell in a hand basket that says 'I'm the worst person who ever did things' on a ribbon tied around it," the patron in the yellow hat told the circulation librarian.

     The circulation librarian stared ahead. She was new at her job. The reference librarian and the children's librarian watched her from a window. She continued to stare ahead, swaying side to side, her eyes looking past the curbside table. 

     The patron in the yellow hat said, "Did you hear me?"

     The swaying stopped. The circulation librarian said, "Oh my, I'm sorry. I seem to have drifted away just now."

     The patron in the yellow hat took her turn to stare. She said, "What?"

     The librarian waved a hand. "Oh, the way you talked. Just lulled me off. I was thinking about this little dog my mother had who would yip and snap and snarl at nothing at all. Poor little thing. Got run over by a bus."

     "I need to check out the encyclopedia," the patron in the yellow hat said.

     "Oh, we threw that old thing away," the circulation librarian said.

     "Why would you do that?"

     "Because they don't publish it anymore. But you can go online."

     "My taxes fund this library, and I need the encyclopedia."

     "Would you like a refund?" the circulation librarian said.

     The patron in the yellow hat paused. "Yes?"

     "One moment."

     The circulation librarian turned and walked inside the library. The reference librarian and the children's librarian stood near the window, stunned. She asked them, "Sorry, still new in town. Which way is the tax assessor's office?"
    "Next to City Hall on Main Street," the reference librarian said.

     "And the highway from there?"

     "Down Main, turn on Second and keep going until the intersection."

     "Thank you, Chris," the circulation librarian said and turned back to the patron outside.

     "Welcome, Julie," said the reference librarian.

     "Well, are you gonna get me my refund?" the patron said.

     "First, you can go to the tax assessor's office and file your grievance with them. They are next to City Hall on Main Street," the circulation librarian said. 

     "I know where they are. I pay my boat-"

     The circulation librarian talked over her, "And when they have laughed you out on your ass, keep going down Main Street, turn on Second Avenue, and follow it to the highway. Once on the highway, follow it straight to hell. I'm sure the devil is missing his dumbest flunky right about now."

     The patron was stunned. The circulation librarian smiled, turned, and went inside. The reference and the children's librarian high-fived.

Staff Picks: Dark Winter Overlord Edition

Now that the world is in the full grip of winter, you must choose a demonic or otherworldly overlord for which to serve. Do you want fire to warm your home or animal servants to bring you food? What are you willing to give up, blood for blood or do you have a spare virgin lying around? The staff of the library is here to help you make these easy decisions.

Karryn the Vampire Queen - Brenda from Circulation

Overview

Karryn's pretty cool overall. She's immortal, loves to laugh, and makes the best bloody mary's. If you need someone to call up and hang with, there's no beating this dark overlord. Plus, she's a voracious reader. If you let her in, she will satisfy all your needs on those lonely nights.

Cost

Couple pints of blood once or twice a week

Pros

Good drinks and good times

Cons

Little woozy after hangs, and she mmay tell the same stories over and over

The Tome of Ancient Sorrows - Chris from Reference 

Overview

The only reference book you will ever need. It's big and heavy, easily capable of bringing a grown man to his knees with one overhead blow, yet light enough that it can be carried around by any library staff. Just one look in these pages will show you secrets that will melt your brain.

Cost

A melted brain.

Pros

Unlimited knowledge and awesome potential for destruction

Cons

Reading too often can lead to cackling insanity and ooze in ears

Sheila the Book Cart - Freddy the Page

Overview

Built in Detroit in 1956, this book cart has survived to today on wheels of evil and shelves of determination. Giving your soul over to this cart means never having to say "I can't carry that." Sheila will bring light unto your heart and death unto your enemies.

Cost

One Soul

Pros

Great carry capacity, space age design

Cons

May lose passion for all things

Marquis the Butterfly King - Jamie from Children's

Overview

Once a small butterfly, Marquis slaughtered fields of enemies and stomped six bloody boot prints onto the souls of the dead. With his coal and fire inlaid wings he carries the souls of the undying to their places of torment. Hear his forlorn wail and tremble.

Cost

One gumdrop

Pros

Never fear when you know true death

Cons

May destroy you

A Novel Tea

"Look, it's one guy or the other. They both scream a lot," the circulation librarian said sipping her tea.

     "One's a black guy and one's Asian, Brenda," said the reference librarian.

     "They're both Fast and the Furious B-Team," the circulation librarian said leaning back in her chair. They had been debating movies for their entire lunch period. Neither really cared about any of the movies they were talking about. "Nobody cares about them in the end. It's all about that bald guy and that really big bald guy."

     "Yeah, but the really big bald guy is now off fighting with the little British bald guy."

     "That don't make it better, Chris."

     The page came in the break room. He set the electric kettle on and sat across the room from the librarians. The reference librarian said hello while the circulation librarian ignored the boy, saying, "That don't make it better at all."

     "Why? Because the movie doesn't have the one you like?" the reference librarian said.

     The circulation librarian sighed. "Because it's about the family. The whole group. It's like if one of the Lethal Weapon's go off and gung fu fight."

     "There's so much wrong with that statement," the reference librarian said. 

     The kettle began a low whistle. The page stood up and pulled out a tea bag from his pocket. He began looking for a cup in the cupboard above the sink. He pulled down a yellow cup.

     The circulation librarian stood. She walked over to the sink and took the cup from his hand.

     "That's the director's," she said. "I don't think he'd be happy you taking his cup."

     "Sorry, Brenda," the page said.

     "You can use mine, Freddy. Blue one that says you can't beat a good book," the reference librarian said.

     "Thanks," the page said and found the cup. He poured the water and dunked the bag. A warm citrus flavor filled the air.

     The circulation librarian said, "What kind of tea is that, anyway?" 

     The page shrugged, saying, "My mom gave it to me."

     The circulation librarian said, "You're mommy sent you to work with tea, huh? Smells good. Let me taste it."

     "Brenda, leave the kid alone," the reference librarian said.

     The circulation librarian said, "Freddy don't mind me having a little. He knows I like tea."

     Freddy put the cup on the counter. "I know."

     She laughed and picked up the cup. Raised it to her lip and took a sip. "Pretty tasty. I should make you make me a cup."

     The page said, "That's what you do, Brenda. You push too much."

     "Wha-" the circulation librarian said, then she coughed. Blood spurted from her mouth. More coughing. More blood. She fell, her body shaking. 

     The reference librarian jumped to his feet. He crossed to her, held her shoulders shouting her name. Then he looked at the page. "What did you do?"

     The page said, "Pushed back."

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."

The Futility of Cleaning a Keyboard

Look down at your desk. Do you see your keyboard? See the keys, all in a row. See them raised and separated. The letters just off center so you know where they are. Little bumps on the "f" and "j" keys so your hands know where to rest. 

     You lucky bastards might even have a 10-Key set up over on the right. Real lucky lefties get the opposite.

     Now, you brave library souls, do a thing for me. Pick up your keyboard. Tilt it until it almost is upside down, the keys facing the desk. One edge touching the surface while the other is held by your hand. 

     Tap the back of the keyboard.

     If nothing happened, good for you. You live a charmed life full of joy and no regrets. Santa will come visit you and leave nothing but joy and oranges in your stockings. Your lovers will always know your secret spots.

     For the rest of us, one of two things happened. Either a fine dusting of dandruff and dust drifted out and onto the desk. You recoiled, but understood this is the way of things. Your keyboard, your mess. A wet cloth, and you can continue living your day.

     But some of you have been pushed out of shared work spaces. Some of us are at patron machines. Shared workstations. Multiple hands touching the keys of our 21st century prisons all day long. 

     For all those people, I apologize. You have just seen some shit. Fingernails and small peices of food fell to the desk. Ancient crumbs of humans past spilled forth on the desk like a mosaic of evil tidings. Ghosts of hands past rattled onto the desk and said "Howdy."

     You have three choices, my brethren.

     Pretend you saw nothing. We are all creatures of the devine and shed ourselves. Where others have left, so shall you. Insanity is just what we accept.

     Pry off all the keys and go at it with every cleaner you know. Then spy those keyboards around you, all filled with the same. Your futility is understated here. One down, one to go, and those damn spacebars are a bitch to put back right.

     The rest of us will just say "gross" and order a new keyboard from IT. IT will groan and grumble, but a small sacrifice to get a relatively cheap asset. When the new keyboard arrives, take the old round back and burn it clean with fire.

A Guide to Library Curbside Printing

The library has implemented a new program for printing for curbside. It's a very simple fifteen step process that begins and ends with you never coming into the library. Let's work it out shall we?

1. Make a decision

     The first thing you must do when printing is deciding what to print. Do you need a certain document so much to go through the next fourteen steps? Government documents, legal forms, potato soup recipes. All of these are very fine things to wish to have a hard copy of in these uncertain times. The entire filmography of the cast of Monkey Island 2 can maybe wait.

2. Have a computer

     Or a smartphone. Something that can connect to the internet.

3. Connect to the internet

     Use that computing device to connect to the world wide web. Sometimes this can be done with wires. 

4. Go to the library's website

     This can be accomplished by typing an "h" and then a "t" and then a "t" and then a "p" and then… you know what, just google "library."

5. Find the printing section

     On the library website you should find a button called "Wireless Printing." Click that.

6. Read the instructions

     The printing instructions should be displayed. Read them one word at a time or six if you are nasty. When you get to the bottom, re-read them again from the bottom to the top. 

7. Find in the instructions the printing bit

     The printing bit should be a button of some kind. In the instructions it should show you the button. Like with an arrow or just a big red box that says "Print" or something.

8. Click that button.

     Click that button.

9. Upload something

     Per the instructions, click something that says something about "Upload" or "Browse" or I dunno, "Gimme file." This should open a box that has all the files on your computer. Find the file you want to print and click "Open" or "Do."

10. Click the big thing

     There should be a big thing that will make printing go. Like a red thing? After doing that you will see a big smiley face. It might be eating a file.

11. Call the library to make an appointment

     Once the file is eaten by the library website, give us a call to set up an appointment. We will confirm the library website's tummy is full of files and that we can access them. If not, we can walk you through it again maybe. If everything's cool, come on down at the appointed time. If you cry, continue to step 12. 

12. Tell yourself it's our fault

     Silently or very loudly curse the heavens and the library person on the phone. Wish and hope that things could be different. Better. That the world is not how we make it. That hope is out there and within your grasp. Hope springs eternal.

13. Find a small child

     Maybe a grandchild or some urchin off the street. Make it someone you trust if you can, but honestly anyone under the age of 25 should be great.

14. Let us talk to the child

     They probably won't need to talk to us, but we would like to thank them. 

15. Come and get it

     Come down to the library and pick up your print job! Or send the child. Whatever makes you happy.

     And that's it! A simple process we hope will make your life a little easier provided by your library.

That Other Drummer Boy

As I am sure all of you do, around the holidays I start to look at all the nonsense that clouds us from each other. The decorations, the pageantry, and that guy in the red suit surround me with a stench of gingerbread that I cannot escape. The most insipid is the Christmas carol.

     That's a long way to say that I hate "The Little Drummer Boy." I wake up early on Christmas morning because my hate for that little bastard is so strong it gives me energy. 

     Written in 1941 as a choral arrangement for amature and girl's choirs, the song was recorded first by the Trapp Family Singers in 1951 as "Carol of the Drum." You may know that group because the last time you saw them they were escaping Nazis over the Alps to the sound of music. Not the most popular version, though, as Jack Halloran's arrangement took the world by storm. His version is the one you know today, just as you know all his other songs such as "That Other Drummer Boy" and "Jesus Take the Wheel."

     Later, Hendrix fucking rocked that shit.

     But what the hell is that song about? It's a little drummer boy, sure, but what's he up to? Why is he drumming?

     Motherfucker is playing to a baby.

     From the lyrics, the story goes that the magi invited along a kid with a drum to see the baby Jesus. They've got gold, frankenstein, and murray, but the kid is like "I'm not giving no baby my drum."

     The magi are like "well, we all brought something."

     And the little drummer boy is like, "I'll play him some shit."

     So he does. Mary nods because there's three weird dudes and a drummer kid. You can debate all day about where they showed up. It's popular to say the manger because that looks cool, but from what I found the magi showed up months or even years later.

     Imagine that conversation:

     Magi: Hey, we heard there's a baby king dude here.

     Mary: I mean, I have a baby and some shepherds and an angel said some stuff.

     Magi: Cool. We brought him some shit.

     Mary: Awesome! We could use diapers and a stroller and a camel seat…

     Magi: We got some smelly stuff.

     Mary: That's nice.

     Magi: Also we brought along this kid who was playing a wicked drum solo. Figured the baby king would dig it.

     Mary nods.

     Little drummer boy plays.

     Magi: Wow, that did not go over well for a baby. Here's some gold. Sorry about that.

     And that's how Christmas began.

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. 

Hunting for Good Porn Science

There's something about stalking around a nursing home looking for a sign that makes me think my life might be going somewhere I might not like.

     I understand that might need some explanation. It's not a long one, but it requires knowledge about 'geocaching." What's that shit, you ask?

     Geocaching is where sad nerd science meets hiking. Long ago, satellites were for more than just broadcasting porn and the Great British Bake Off to the masses. The military used them for many things, including broadcasting porn and British porn.

     Those satellites were also used to locate things on earth with a system called GPS (Good Porn Science!). With a device on the ground, science was able to talk or something. Anyway, eventually they let the people at RadioShack have it.

     Some of those nerds thought, "what if we used the GPS signals to hide things? Then we can tell other people about the GPS and see if they can find the things we hid." Then they made an app because there was not much to do with the first Iphone.

     And so geocaching was born. It used to be free, but then App stores allowed for subscriptions and people got bored, so now for thirty dollars a year you can find things other people hid with your smartphone. 

     Cut to this weekend with me wandering around an old folks home while Martha with the Walker wonders if I'm some kinda old person sex deviant. I'm not despite the fact that I was wearing a hoodie.

     See, some people who hide the geocaches get cute with it. They hide them in public areas so you have to be all weird about it. Slinking around while other normal not-strange people go about their day looking for a film canister or some magnetic whatsit with a small paper log inside. Then you write your name on the paper, high five your cell phone, and go find another.

     Some are more complex. Like the one today at the old folks place.

     Of course I woke up a little hungover. It's Sunday. So I decided to get some coffee and go on a long walk. Because golf is the only real way to spoil a walk, I pulled out my phone and went for some caches clad in the first things I found that were comfy, some old jeans, a black hoodie, and a cap that says CAT on it because I was once a gopher at a construction yard.

     I found two right off. Some Cub Scouts hid one in a little sandwich box near where they meet. The second was hidden behind a fake power outlet on a light pole in a parking lot of a medical building. The third coordinates lead me to the nursing home where I got stuck.

     Some of the places are puzzles, you see. The coordinates get you to the starting point, and the description gets you along with hints from there. Once I found one in a cemetery with multiple grave names, the dates of which lead to more coordinates. Clever.

     Today's however, I could not solve. Without giving too much, it had something to do with the city and a corner. I checked all the corners, lapped Martha with the Walker, and found nothing. Even asked Martha, who nodded at me and said her son was coming to get her for church. 

     Several staff members were getting a smoke. One knew what I was talking about, but she did not know where the cache was on the property. 

     Head down, I left and got a chocolate milk. Not a bad day, but looking back maybe I should find a friend to go with me. A six foot three dude in a hoodie cursing while he stomps around some bushes looks less intimidating if he has someone with him to wave and wish people a nice day.

Wipe out Coronavirus?

I read today in the New York Times that maybe we don't have to wipe down everything so hard that we take the varnish off grandma's kitchen table. Seems our lovely cootiebug is more of an "in the air" thing than has been told.

     This makes me feel a little weird. For months now, at work and at home and at the I don't go anywhere else, I have been wiping people down and not shaking hands with any surface I see. Avoidance and bleach, that's my motto.

     But now, it seems it was all for *shrug*.

     The messaging has changed for sure. Instead of the news telling you to separate your groceries, burn the packages, and shower in Lysol as soon as you walk through the door, most seem to be rather laissez faire about the whole thing. Of course, it could be worse.

     "How should people continue not infecting their loved ones and pet turtles, Blonde Newsperson?" says the Newsperson in Clothes.

     Blonde newsperson says,"Well, not with toilet paper."

     Everyone has a laugh.

     Blonde newsperson, face falling, "But for millions of Americans, the best way to stop the plague is to wear a mask and think about Jesus while covering your children in hand sanitizer."

     "I don't think that's the best-"

     Newsperson in Clothes gets their shit shut down, Blonde Newsperson continuing, "Then what do you do? Welcome those little plague monsters into your home? Tell them you love them and kiss their germy faces? I fill my hands full of that alcohol gel and just wipe. My kids say it burns, but I tell them that's God's love."

     Newsperson in Clothes looks off camera.

     "But that's just me," Blonde Newsperson ends. "Now for the weather."

     I saw that one time. Not in the news from some crazy person (which I feel is the outcome of all this because if you are not crazy while reporting the news after this year, you are a stone cold sociopath), but someone slathering their child in hand sanitizer.

     Wasn't even a plague. Just filled their hands and rubbed it on the child's head and face and neck like it was lotion made by Everclear.

     I said, "Ma'am, that's not great."

     "Well, it's free," the woman said.

     She was not wrong.

     Latex gloves in libraries seem the ultimate waste if this "we don't have to disinfect everything" is true. I worked with gloves a lot in college while cooking in restaurants. 

     A coworker back then compared gloves to condoms. "They keep you in and everything out." My coworker was a moron at comparisons.

     Use gloves in a library for two reasons: you don't wanna wash your hands and you need a reminder not to touch your face. I get not wanting to wash: soap burns. But if you are still touching your face you have to reconsider your life choices.

Songs I Liked For Reasons

Haven't watched anything new or done much, so I'm gonna put my playlist of "liked" on shuffle. We'll see where it goes. Paragraph per song, some might be better than others. Titles are song links on Youtube if you want to listen along.

You Really Got Me by the Kinks

That junky guitar and the marijuana meter that builds reminds me of a bar in New Orleans. One of those little hole in the street places that has a name only for tax purposes. Music plays from a speaker on the bar at half volume because some band out in the street is always better. Some little weird band half assing what they can do or whole assing all they can.

Just Really Wanna See You by Shudder to Think (First Love Last Rites)

Best soundtrack to sit and hold hands to, to sit close to, to kiss and touch and hold and laugh and dance. Specific memories coming are probably not for public consumption. Just really want to let this one roll on by with a smile on my face.

Marquee Moon by Television

Deception in a song because it sounds like a sweet surfer rolling fluttering tune but down there is a darkness that beats like a heart on that drum. "Don't you be so sad," the sings and the guitar cascades into a thumping rant to "I an't waiting, uh uh."

You Really Got a Hold On Me by She & Him

"I don't like you, but I love you. Seems like I'm always thinking of you." Zooey's haunting push on this one really does have a hold on me. Part of me wants this acapella in a big tiled room. Just hold me, hold me and hear that voice echo. I'm reminded of coming home across a desert on this one. A long drive that needed quiet in the night. A good trip ending in that lazy drive through nothing. This song coming like a lone cry in the speakers of some distant animal begging to be held.

Blue Moon by Elvis Presley

Playlist is playing with my emotions on this rainy afternoon. Of course when I hear this quiet croon against the soft base and drums, I think of Joe Vs the Volcano. Tom Hanks, sitting on those trunks in the middle of a big dark ocean. He stands and sees that giant moon above. So small are we that we think gazing on the moon from our own rafts means something to anyone. Not gonna lie, I kinda hate the falsetto Elivis rocks here though.

No Rm. 9, Kentucky by Shudder to Think

Here's a falsetto I can get behind. Playlist seems to think I want quiet singers telling someone they're missed. Shudder to Think always reminds me of my friend from long ago. Last time I talked to him, I called and he said we'd hang out some time. Then we did not. Over a decade ago. Follow each on Instagram for whatever that's worth. "Tongue kiss through the kitchen screen." The lyrics mesh with the tonal guitar shifts. More memories of riding in cars and smoking cigarettes and laughing and turning it up loud on the weird parts. 

Highway to Hell by AC/DC

Guess me thinking about all this driving influenced the playlist. Different devices so no crossover. Of course I'm turning this one up and flooding my brain with that guitar. This is one of those ever present songs. No specific memories, just sweaty beer soaked smoke filled bars where (if this was a movie) things would go really fast and people would appear and disappear while taking shots and shooting pool. Hyper color green walls and red dresses and wooden floors that drink the shadows of shaking lights. Someone writing "Highway to Hell" with an arrow pointing to the bathroom.

I'm Gonna Put You Down by Gangstagrass

Virginia hiking with frustration and loneliness. Putting down boots with the beat. Singing to the chorus "Dig a hole in the meadow, dig a hole in the cold cold ground. Dig a hole in the meadow, I'm gonna put you down." Tonez's lyrics protecting art and profanity are just damn fun to hear.

The Way You Make Me Feel by Michael Jackson

Goddamn it, I'm not having the art vs artist debate. This song, like most of Jackson's, fucking rocks. Still, though, this one has some shame attached to it for me. Eighth grade dance this song played. She wanted to dance with me, but I couldn't. I was scared. I think she cried, and my friend danced with her. Two years later, I made a vow to always dance with anyone who asked. It's worked out so far. I'm sorry, Vicky.

Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper

We were laying on my bed watching My Name is Earl. Randy, Earl's brother, plays this song on a boombox as a running joke in the series every time he gets dumped. The air in the room was tense because we both knew it was over between us. Still, we held hands and watched and waited for the show to end so she could leave and I could drink myself to sleep. An episode where they go to Mexico. Randy gets heartbroken. No boombox, but there's a guy with a guitar named Pedro who starts playing this. The last hard laugh we shared, both of us rolling. It's good we had that.

Pet Semetary by The Ramones (live)

I mean, yeah. Stephen King and the Ramones. Two of my first loves when I started breaking out of my shell. I just like the way Joey damn near growls in parts of this song.

Rolling in the Deep by Adele

Everybody has this on their like list, right? "There's a fire starting in my heart," indeed. I'll be honest, I like other of her songs more. This one probably got more play by me because the damn beat is so good for jogging. Plus, sometimes while exercising I need an angry woman telling me to fuck off.

Rockaway Beach by The Ramones

Another jogging song. Sorry, playlist, already did that today. Still, I can bop along with this somewhat surfer kinda song. It's even got the "ooo's" that every great beach song needs.

And that's where I'm gonna end this because I gotta clean the bathroom. Y'all let me know what you listen to! What should I add to my "Like" shuffle?

Coincidence in the Mandalorian

I opened a beer, filled my vape tube, and started the Mandalorian.

     First season was fun. A finding your legs type of affair where the characters were being felt out. Mando strolling in cock first, shoulders back, shooting people the way the Force intended. Every once in a while, like his shoulders, there was a slump. Never for long, though. Rally cry and pew pew and Mando and Baby Yoda riding into the sunset.

     The first episode of the second season brought a giant dragon and some hell with it. Krayt Dragons ain't nothing to fuck with. Still, you could say the whole thing was justified. Mando came to town looking for other Mandalorians and left with some Fett armor. Felt good, a return most welcome. Except this time I did not seem so worried about Baby Yoda.

     If that is his or her real name.

     Maybe it is fatigue? That cute little face is still adorable. I want them to succeed. Yet I find myself more often than not with the second and third episodes saying, "Did nobody teach BY anything in the first fifty years?" Simple stuff like "don't put that in your mouth." I'll get to that.

     We start the second episode with Mando and BY roaring across the desert. On a steel horse they ride, wanted dead or alive. Some guys with a rope decide "dead." Shit's trashed as they closeline our heroes. Then our heroes kill them. I began thinking, telling my notebook, "what?" I mean, of course they are being chased. Look at that cute bastard. But how did those guys know Mando was riding that way? It's a big goddamn desert yet there's only one rock formation in or out on Tatooine? 

     Maybe they didn't know shit about BY and were just raiders. Sure, but I feel like they went right for him. In the end, like all of us, the last man standing bites off more jetpack than he can chew and is launched skyward. His fall mirrors the fall of man as a superior opponent looks at a child and shrugs.

     Moving on! Back to camp where Mando gets transport for a frog lady and her delicious eggs. I mean, they do look like that jar at the end of the bar filled with pickled eggs that nobody but the guy with one arm touches, but Baby Yoda is into it. And, to say again, who taught this kid to eat everything. Even if his first few dozen years were as a larva or whatever, goddamn somebody slap that kid's hand. I thought he learned his lesson, but then came the spider eggs.

     The standoff and flight against the X-wings brought a smile. When everything looks okay, then those wings open up, that's just simple storytelling. They could have said "Hey, we just wanna talk about some crazy shit you did that we might let you go for," but cops gonna be cops.

     Now I'm gonna dump on the frog lady. Who on an ice planet trapped underground wanders off to maybe find a hot spring? And who does not look around before getting bare ass and dumping their babies in the pool. If my mom did that, I would be dead and deserved it. Not to mention all the kids getting eaten by that adorable big eared green trash compactor.

     Spider fight and cavalry save the day for some reason. Come'on. Ice Spiders? Somebody played a lot of Skyrim on their refrigerator while writing the script. Effective, but expected. And those X-wings just found them on that whole goddamn planet? I drop my glasses in my studio apartment and it takes ten minutes before I can see again.

    Coincidence makes kings in the Mandalorian. The old golden rule is "coincidence can get characters into trouble, but they have to get themselves out." Having space rangers show up to blast your troubles away feels wrong in retrospect.

    Hobbling out into space, we get to some actual others of our dude's kind! And it is Motherfucking Starbuck! Gotta say, when they took off their helmets and called him a cultist, I dug it. Nobody writes stories where our "outsider badass" might actually be a brainwashed sycophant (outside of most movies sanctioned by the US military). Texting with a friend, she said, "so Mando's a Jehovah's Witness?" I just hope he gets to celebrate his birthday up in the stars. 

     And then we have another "help us or we won't help you" plot, which seems to be the series main bag. I'm for it. Our guy is always on the ropes with his little puppet of hunger and gets to display how awesome he can be almost constantly. We do get another "Mando's fucked without coincidence" on the pirate ship, but I will trade that for the hallway scene where he's getting battered then blows shit up.

     Wrapping up, we carreen ever closer to this being a sequel to Star Wars: Clone Wars and Rebels. "Go find Ahsoka Tano," Starbuck said. And so we go, knowing full well that by the end of this season Starbuck holding the DarkSaber will make many nerds piddle on the carpet. 

    I never completed either of those series. At some point, Star Wars became "not for me." I was always into the sword fights and the World War II imagery, but the drama often falls flat. Politics in the real world holds way more sway over my mood than made up in-fighting. I like Mandalorian because of the simple "guy and a kid against the world" story. Grand schemes are not at play, global fuckery is not an issue, and just getting to tomorrow feels like enough.

    Hell, that might be my new catchphrase.

Horror for Halloween

Early afternoon, the sun obeying daylight savings and dipping low in the sky, when along came a woman and two kids. Little kids, the kind that you have to hold their hands, or they go off climbing god only knows. Some high thing like a slide or a giraffe. That little collective walked up to me outside the library where we were doing curbside.

     "Do you have an appointment?" I said.

     The woman's eyes rose over her mask. It was a floral thing that made me think of my grandma's garden. Ugly and unkept and forgotten under a window made for dumping out ashes and regret. "No," she said. They wanted DVDs. 

     What kind of DVDs? We had all kinds written on a big board. People could not be allowed in. We gave them a choice. No longer could the rabble run through the stacks. Like good cooks, we kept them out of the kitchen. Only the rain and the cold.

     "Some kids. We like Legos. And horror for Halloween," she said.

     I left them. Kids bags were easy. I had no idea if the bags had legos in them, or movies with legos in them, or if the movies would explode and drive some entertainment by killing the family pet. All I knew was that the bag said "Kids," and someone had drawn what looked like a dying duck. I hope the family did not have a duck.

     There were no goddamn horror bags anywhere in the library. I checked. Twice. We checked them all out.

     I walked around the staging area for the bags. Scratched at my head, right up top where it itched. Why horror? Why now? Halloween is dead and gone for another year. Lost in the minds of children gazing forward to Christmas. Lost in the minds of adults thinking about the holidays. No traveling this year because there's a virus that might kill grandma. Might as well kill grandma by making her learn how to talk to her phone with pictures. Skype, WhatsApp, Hangouts, all the mess of phones now when the Jetsons made it look so simple. Now Halloween is dead and Thanksgiving will happen over a screen and somehow the bastards in charge are worrying about Target's next sales year.

     Some still have that Halloween spirit. The freaks, the weirdos, the goths, the splattergeeks, the open-minded just enough to dance among the wreckage of a summer camp they never wanted to go to or the bloody carnage of a suburban neighborhood they hated. My people. Those beautiful souls who look and feel just right with the world having dark corners to poke at. Dark corners filled with screams and holding someone close and knowing that while monsters exist in this world, the one on the screen can not get us. 

     Depends on the screen, I suppose. The bastard Trump shows up on more scenes than he has any right. Gotten a fair number of people. Casualties in this war for politeness stuck up there. The dead from a virus and the dead from racism and the plain dead. Ghosts who haunt Facebook wondering where their friends and family went. Ghosts who get no response.

     I had a kinship with this family. This woman with her hideous mask and two little girls who like movies with Legos.

     So I went about putting together some movies. But what do you put in a bag? Do I go with only movies I like, or the big commercial appeal? What kind of horror? The slow and the plodding, or the right out of the gate I'm gonna melt your face and violate your stuffed animal? How long had I been in here looking while the sun dropped even lower?

     I had to pick Crawl. Picture this: You're daddy is not picking up the phone, even though a swirl of atmospheric hell is coming at his house. You drive down there. You're a damn good swimmer and about to make the team at some Florida college. You are capable and love your daddy and what's that noise under the house? It's daddy and a goddamn pack of alligators! Enjoy that fight for your life.

     Second, something creepy and violent to offset alligators eating people in Florida. California. Sunny, bright. A black family goes to the beach and sings in the car and overall has a good time. Then come some people in red suits that look just like them. Attacking them. The followup to Get Out, Us is a damn good, slow burn, thinker of a movie that has some logical issues. In the spirit of most CHUD (Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller) movies, it's best not to think about it and enjoy a damn well made movie.

     We had a copy of John Carpenter's The Thing. Throw that in there.

     One Cut of the Dead. I don't even know how we got a copy of that Japanese zombie flick, but I'll be damned if I will not throw it in. Funny, dark, fast moving, it's the best comedy zombies since Shaun of the Dead.

     Last, Invisible Man. It's new, it's stylish, and I will be damned if it is going to sit on a shelf in my library and collect the dead skin of library employees. Once slated to be a big part of a franchise release, Invisible Man was brought down to a simple story of a man torturing a woman. And he is invisible. It's not just a clever title. 

     So I threw those in a bag, checked out the lot of them, and headed outside. No idea how long it has been. One of the children is upside down on the bike rack hanging there like a christmas tree ornament. Told you they climb stuff.

     "Thank you," said the woman and fucked off with her two kids into the dwindling day.

     I never saw them again. I assume the Lego movies scared them off. Never trust movies with moving parts. Flesh and blood humans all the way.