The patron in question gathered up her skirts, and, snorting with pleasure, offered me a lavender conspiratorial wink.
INCIDENT REPORT 23
The time was 2:25 PM. A beautiful young man, whose large dark eyes seemed to be watching a movie the rest of us could not see, walked slowly up to the Reference Desk and sat down in the chair intended for patrons with questions. In his fine, long-fingered hand he was carrying a magazine, a recent issue, protected by a plastic cover and labelled, Reference Only.
“May I help you?” I asked.
“Oh, no, Miss, no thank you. But may I sit here awhile?” he inquired, his voice melodious. For a second he truly looked at me, then once more the cinema of his thoughts consumed him. His eyes were lustrous and full of intelligence.
“Of course, yes, of course you can sit. Take your time,” I replied, then focused on the e-mails displayed on the screen in front of me.
The young man—he couldn’t have been older than nineteen or twenty—flipped idly through the pages of the magazine, until all at once he paused.
“Excuse me, Miss, but may I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Have you noticed, Miss, that outside, the cars keep shrinking? Have you been out and seen? They really are getting smaller.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “There are more and more small cars. With any luck it should mean less pollution.”
“Well I’ve been thinking, I’ve been driving cars since I was seven, and that’s a long time, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if they made a really small car, and made it bulletproof, and it would come when you called its name? Can you imagine? You’d say its name, and it would come to you. Wouldn’t that be great?”
“It would be wonderful.”
“I think so too. And one day they will, not for a long time yet, but they will. You’ll call its name and it will come, you wait and see.”
He set the magazine down on the chair, and walked eagerly off in the direction of adult nonfiction. But suddenly he turned and called back to me, “They will do it one day. I promise you. You wait and see.”
Ten minutes later he returned. It was a quiet day and nobody had taken his place. The magazine lay where he’d left it. He picked it up and sat down. I continued with my work. We were as before.
Several more minutes passed.
“Miss, excuse me, Miss, but I’ve been talking with some friends, and I’ve been thinking . . .” He paused long enough to open the magazine wide, and to point with his finger at the sleek naked torso of a muscular male model pressed in upon from all sides by voluptuous, fawning women. He held up the advertisement to be sure I missed nothing. “My friends and I, we’ve been discussing, and we don’t believe this is really the sort of guy women find attractive, I mean, it’s more what a man thinks that turns women on, it’s more his ideas they go for.”
He looked me excitedly in the eyes, wanting, it seemed, my agreement.
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” I stated.
He lowered his eyes and scrutinized the advertisement, then looked up again.
“Women,” he declared, “they get turned on by a man’s ideas, what he thinks. This just isn’t the sort of guy women really want, not women who are a hundred and five, especially not women who are a hundred and five.”
“Are there very many women around who are a hundred and five?” I asked.
He laughed. “You’re right. I guess there aren’t many around who are a hundred and five. I guess there aren’t.”
He got up and walked away with languorous ease, his lovely hands thrust deep in his pockets.
INCIDENT REPORT 24
Once, my father disappeared for three days. I was eleven years old. I listened while my mother telephoned the police to report his absence. She searched his pockets and the drawers of his desk for clues. I asked if he’d been murdered. She assured me, no. He was alive, she insisted, and wandering somewhere, ducking in and out of used-book stores. How did she know? I asked. Had he warned her? Could she promise me he hadn’t accidentally stepped in front of a bus, or fallen down a flight of stairs? She explained that once before, when I was not yet born, he’d vanished, and spent his days of absence frequenting used-book stores. He’d promised her never to do so again. “What good is a promise?” I asked.
When, after three days, my father returned, my mother behaved as if he were still away. She set four place mats on the table, four bowls, four spoons—the right number for her and for me and my brother and sister. Each time my father apologized, I was reminded of a bird I’d recently seen fly into the glass of a closed window. My fury with my father and my anger with my mother for refusing to forgive him competed with each other.
Eventually the resentment my mother felt towards my father dissolved and was replaced by fear. I observed her fear. I noted it—the altered shape of her mouth, the invitations turned down, a sudden aversion to buying new clothes for herself, an intensified efficiency which she hoisted like a flag.
INCIDENT REPORT 25
We, the Public Libraries of Toronto, lend books to any person living, studying or working in the city of Toronto. We do not ask who you are or comment on your choice of reading materials. We require only that you return what you have borrowed in reasonable condition and that you do so in a timely manner. We operate out of ninety-nine branches of varying sizes, positioned across the city. Without statistics we would cease to exist. If we restricted ourselves to the lending of books we would cease to exist. DVDs, videos, CDs, Internet access, magazines, comics, word-processing, story hours, literacy classes for adults, puppet shows, reading clubs: the list of our efforts is impressive. Silence eludes us. If you hope to find silence we recommend that you visit one of our branches early in the morning and lay claim to a chair in a far corner near a window, or drag a chair into the stacks. We discourage all our patrons from urinating indiscriminately, singing loudly, snoring, drying their socks on the heating vents, verbally or physically assaulting each other, cutting out the colourful pictures from our cookbooks, writing in library materials, licking or kissing the lingerie advertisements in the magazines we lend, stealing library property.
INCIDENT REPORT 26
How old is Nila Narayan? Fifty-five? Her exact age is difficult to determine. Her sleek skin contains her fleshiness, creating an impression of smooth roundness. But her soul is triangular, I’m quite sure of that.
If one of us, her coworkers, relieves her on desk two minutes late, she relieves that person exactly two minutes late at the first opportunity; and if the schedule offers no such occasion for petty revenge, she alters the schedule to meet her needs. She does not consider herself vengeful but hungry for order and fairness.
She is indeed hungry. She enquires what each of us intends to eat for lunch, then counts our calories for us. She rearranges the contents of the refrigerator in the staff lounge with the avidity of someone playing solitaire, determined to win.
At home she cuts out glossy advertisements for men’s underwear, which she brings to work, close-up shots of scantily concealed genitals, snugly held in place for the camera by the latest in pastel stretchy briefs. She pins these to the bulletin board above her workspace. At any hour of the day she can look up from her dull labours into an array of anatomical possibilities.
INCIDENT REPORT 27
I wheeled my cumbersome cart back past the circulation desk and through to the children’s area. There was just one title I’d still not located: Junior Adventures in Science: Animals in Danger of Extinction. J 333.954 Mac.
Not every hold on the list can be filled. Certain patrons languish in disappointment when their desires go unmet, others move on with a shrug. I crouched in front of the shelves. The time was 10:30 AM. The books, I discovered, were in a state of shameful disorder—the biography of a basketball hero, haplessly wedged between Kitchen Chemistry Experiments and Easy Origami.
I found The Big Goodbye: Animals Threatened by Extinction, and another volume titled Too Late: Animals You’ll Nev
er Meet, but the exact book requested was nowhere to be seen. I wheeled my cart back to the circulation desk.
As I unloaded the books I’d collected, a folded sheet of paper caught my eye. Someone had left a page of their notes on my cart, no doubt inadvertently, while I was searching the shelves. Or perhaps it was a mislaid document? I unfolded it and read.
You know who I mean. The young librarian with the freckled hands. She’s got soft, chestnut hair. She takes children into that room with the accordion door and tells them stories. She also sits behind the reference desk and answers questions. Have you noticed how many men come to talk with her? No, not you. You’re blind. Blind, and drunk on your own power. Well, open your eyes wider. Have you at least listened? It doesn’t matter how drunk or ugly they are, she speaks with them. She’s too young to know danger. Ah you, what do you know anyway? That I’m Rigoletto and that it’s my job to make you laugh. Me, poor old hunchback, with no right to happiness. You think that’s funny, eh? Laugh, laugh, get on with your laughter at my expense. This time, I won’t let any harm come to her. You don’t think I’m capable of protecting my own daughter, do you? You’ll see pretty soon, what I’m capable of. If one of those men should so much as touch a hair on her head. It’s not me who’s going to be doing any more suffering. I’ve got my Gilda back, my gorgeous daughter with the freckled hands. She’s been restored to me, and nobody’s taking her, see?
I dropped the paper. I did not intend to; it slipped. Quickly I snatched it up from the floor. I carried it down to the basement where I closed myself in the bathroom and stared at my hands. They were as they had always been—slim, pale and covered in freckles. I washed my face with cold water and returned upstairs.
INCIDENT REPORT 28
The time was 3:15. A male patron in adult nonfiction started removing books from the shelves. He stacked the volumes on the floor. By 3:45 his biblio-towers obstructed access to a substantial portion of the 700s, and he was apprehended. He’d emptied an entire bay of books.
Our Branch Head, Irene Frenkel, approached him with her usual calm demeanor, and suggested he might wish to have a look through the items he’d selected, before removing more. The patron ignored her advice. He added another several volumes to one of his wobbling towers.
“Sir, I must ask you to stop what you are doing,” Irene insisted.
“Why should I?” he retorted. “Is it written somewhere in your Rules and Regulations that a person can only consult a certain number of books at one time? If there’s a limit, you show me where it’s written down.”
Irene, as recommended in the Manual of Conduct for Encounters with Difficult Patrons, stood at a respectful distance and spoke in a tone of unyielding politeness.
“You are right,” she admitted. “No set limit exists to the number of books you may consult on a given visit. But I am asking you to demonstrate moderation. These books on the floor constitute a safety hazard. I am politely asking you to refrain from taking anything more off the shelves until you’ve carried these items you’ve chosen to a table and looked through them.”
Her appeal failed. He continued with his mission.
“Sir,” she warned, “if you refuse to stop stacking books on the floor, I must ask you to leave the library. What you are doing jeopardizes the safety of others, and obstructs the smooth functioning of the library.”
He paused in his labours, and in a tone of mocking authority he warned her, “The disruption I’ve caused so far has been pretty small. But if you refuse to follow the Rules and Regulations, which clearly state that no limit exists to the number of books I can consult on a given visit, then I’ll go get a few friends and come back and show you a real disruption.”
Irene, unperturbed by his threat, stated that, as of the present moment, he was evicted from the library for the duration of three weeks and must not reenter until granted permission to do so. Without further comment he left.
On the following day he returned. I was alone at the desk. It was Irene’s day off. She’d reminded me that, should he reappear, I was within my rights to call the police and have him escorted out. She’d prepared a letter of eviction. I could give it to him, or, if I preferred to avoid a confrontation, I could let him come in but keep a close eye on his behaviour.
“How may I help you?” I asked.
Bitter with injury, he stood at the desk and told me of his unjust and wrongful eviction. He spoke with such force his face became flushed, and he threatened, as before, to gather together some friends who’d eagerly bring true havoc to the library. I listened. I did not possess Irene’s courage and calm authority. I nodded and made sounds of sympathy. He asked me where he might find a book on how to play the piano. Together we walked to the shelves and located the book he was after. Until closing time he sat, reading the slender volume of musical instruction.
INCIDENT REPORT 29
At 7:00 this evening, a group of men and women, all speaking a language I did not understand, entered the library together. They were approximately thirty in number and apparently looking for a Tenants’ Association meeting. As we were very busy at the desk, a Page—a university student hired to shelve books—left her regular duties and came to their assistance. She suggested they try the story room and pointed the way.
Inside the story room, a policeman sat on a folding chair behind a folding table. He greeted them cordially. A few minutes later the group reemerged and asked the Page if she could show them the way to a different room.
The policeman came out and explained that his sole purpose in visiting the library was to help innocent citizens wishing to report an incident of police brutality or other police misconduct. He could be of no help, regrettably, with complaints concerning landlords. His was a specific and one-time offer, part of a special programme taking place, on this particular day, in libraries across the city.
The Page, having glanced at the desk and observed that we were even busier than before, proposed to the lost tenants that they try the upstairs programming room, and she pointed the way. She then promptly returned to her shelving, which she carried out in an accurate and timely fashion.
On the second floor, the thirty or more lost tenants entered a room full of people all passionately singing and clapping. A vigorous, white-haired man waved them in, delighted to see his congregation grow twofold so unexpectedly. He threw himself into his sermon with renewed faith and ardour.
The tenants, after several minutes of immersion in song, excused themselves and returned downstairs. At the desk, during their absence, a sudden calm had prevailed. They came forward, described in halting terms their experience upstairs and asked to be shown to yet another room. I explained that sadly there were no other rooms. I expressed my hope they would visit the library again, having reserved a room in advance. They departed, talking loudly amongst themselves in a language I could not understand.
INCIDENT REPORT 30
At 2:05, Nila burst into the workroom. “My God, what a cow of a woman,” she shouted. “The one all in purple—you know who I mean—with the drooping eyelids. She spat at me, I swear she did, what a cow, and they think I’m paid enough to stand out there and serve bitches like her? Like hell I am. I’m not going to take any more of this shit.”
I sat very still in my corner. It is how I used to sit when I was a child waiting for a storm to pass—a storm raging either outside or inside the house.
I looked down at the awkward mask I was making in preparation for the Saturday afternoon family program—“Stories and Masks.” I was constructing it from a paper plate, and had cut crude holes for the eyes and mouth by means of blunt scissors. I’d glued on feathers and buttons, odds and ends from the library basement. Soon I’d be holding up my mask in front of a gathering of children and parents. I’d give each child their own pristine paper plate, and promise them, “Yours doesn’t have to look like mine. This is just an example, only an example.”
There was silence in the workroom. Perhaps Nila had taken herself off to the washr
oom to recover from Lavender Lady? I looked furtively, from behind my paper plate; I peered through its two ragged holes. Nila hadn’t gone far.
Seated at her desk, she was working. She was piecing together tomorrow’s schedule, writing our initials in all the little boxes, assigning to each of us hour upon hour of orderly activity.
INCIDENT REPORT 31
At 7:40 this evening, a blissfully mild spring evening, one of our Pages informed me she’d found a “sticky mess.” She led me to a table at the back of the library. A number of books were arranged in an upright position upon the table. They appeared to have served as a screen. Several more were lying in the “sticky mess.” The perpetrator was nowhere to be seen.
The books, soiled by what looked like common semen, we bagged in clear plastic and I withdrew them from the collection. No other actions were taken.
INCIDENT REPORT 32
The time was 2:07 PM. Wire Stripper Man entered the library in great haste, talking and swearing volubly to himself. He made his way, in quick strides, to his chair.
The time was 3:09 PM. Wire Stripper Man got up from his chair by the window and sauntered over to the Reference Desk. He asked me if I might provide him with a copy of the Lord’s Prayer.
“I know the words,” he assured me. “It’s the line breaks I need.”
The skin at the edges of his fingernails was tinged green from oxidized copper. I Googled the Lord’s Prayer and printed it out for him in Old English, Middle English and several other Englishes as well. He professed particular pleasure at the sight of the Middle English, which he claimed bore a resemblance to Celtic. Ebullient, he returned to his seat.
The Incident Report Page 3
