Macy ran to the library. She had been rudely awaken about 5 minuted ago by blaring sirens. When she had looked out the window of her apartment, she had seen that cars with the sirens were headed straight for the library. Not bothering to check the state of her burnt hair in a mirror or change out of her bright yellow pajamas, Macy barrelled down the stairs to the ground floor of her building and continued to barrel down the street. The library was as much a home to Macy as her own apartment was. She had spent so many days there reading her favorite books and reminiscing about her long-gone friends, who she now realized may never come back for her. Macy fretted over the possibility of there being more problems with the books. The fire the night before had destroyed many of them, but there had still been enough to keep the library open and running. But maybe the books weren't the problem; maybe there was something wrong with Edith, who always showed up to work much earlier than Macy.
Gasping from exertion, Macy pushed through the front doors to find a room crowded with policemen and medics. There was an overturned bookshelf with its contents strewn over the floor. Worried that they could be damaged, Macy carefully inspected one, but realized the books were about the old American West and ceased to care about their condition. Where was Edith? All these people disturbing the library, especially after what happened the night before, should have been incurring her wrath, but she was nowhere to be seen.
A policeman walked up to Macy. "Did you know the victim?" He asked.
"Victim of what?" Macy said, confused.
"The murder that happened here."
Oh, that would explain Edith's disappearance. She was obviously the murder victim.
"She was my boss," replied Macy as she walked away.
She looked around for Edith's body, but she only saw a gurney with a body bag. Macy had never really dealt with death first hand before, and therefore didn't quite know how to react. Her boss was gone; that much was clear. But should she feel sad about it? Edith wasn't family; they weren't even really friends. So Macy decided that sadness was not an appropriate response, but also couldn't think of any other emotions to feel that would be any less inappropriate; she easily ruled out happiness, relief, and fear; those emotions were associated with other things. After some thought, Macy also ruled out anger because she did not know how the murder happened or who did the murdering. She walked over to a medic. "What should I feel?" She asked.
"Just feel whatever you feel," the man said, obviously weirded out. Frustrated, Macy gave up on her quest for appropriate feelings and, without anything better to do, went to her favorite corner of the library, took out her favorite book, and read.
I am speaking to you from the grave... And I say, good post. Fits your weird character perfectly.
ReplyDeleteAN EXCERPT FROM "... who was once handsome and tall as you"
ReplyDelete"Say that my answer was, RECALLED TO LIFE."
-Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
A librarian died today.
I awoke from fevered dreams to the sound of sirens and alarms. My burned hand had made sleep intermittent and uncomfortable, and I wanted to stay in bed. However, the sound of the sirens only grew louder, so I forced myself out from under the covers to make one last trip down to the library.
Shuffling blearily down the street I was joined by throngs of other early-morning gawkers. I half-recognized most of them. They were people I'd probably passed in the street many times, but never spoken to or acknowledged. Our mindless parade was accompanied by a chorus of howling and barking, as if all the neighborhood strays were singing some cacophonous elegy.
When we reached the library, the police were already removing the body. Two of them had the black bag on a stretcher, moving laboriously through the debris and slowly dissipating smoke. In the grey haze the ruins of the library looked ancient, rather than newly destroyed. Policemen moved around, busily questioning the onlookers. Did you know the victim? No one seemed to.
When it was my turn, I asked the bored-looking officer who the victim was. The librarian, he said, did you know her? I told him no and he moved on. The librarian. No was too simple an answer. But then, the police probably didn't care that she had berated me for bringing food into her domain or once debated the relative importance of the number two. After all, I'd never even learned her name.
The only person to answer the policemen's question in the affirmative was a young woman in yellow pajamas. I'd have thought I would have noticed before if anyone else worked at the library, but apparently not. After her brief questioning, the woman wandered about in a daze, only stopping to ask a medic a question.
How should I feel?
I watched as she was brushed off and left to aimlessly drift deeper into the ruins. It wouldn't do any good to talk to her. I had nothing to say. But a few minutes later, I followed, finding her huddled in a corner with a salvaged book.
What was her name? I asked.
She looked up, blinking as though I'd shone a bright light into her eyes. She put down the book, The Search for Intelligent Life, and spoke.
Oh, she said, Edith. Edith E. Evans.
I'll try to remember that, I said.
What's your name?
Jack F. Alwyn.
You're not bad, Jack. I'm Macy. What do you do?
I make snow, I said, snow machines. Ones that make real snow. At least, I'm trying to. It's not easy, you know?
I know. I wait for aliens. It's not easy either.
Aliens? What will you do if they don't show up?
She furrowed her brow, pondering the question. She bit her lip, and her finger nails, and finally looked back at me.
Well, she started, I suppose . . . I suppose it's just important that they know, that if they come, if they wanted to come, that is, that they'd know they would be welcome.
She picked up her book again and resumed reading. I left her alone, left the ruins, left the dregs of the crowd, and returned to my apartment. Waiting where I had left it, the machine dominated the cramped room. Pipes and wires and laptop screens culminated in a great bubble of glass at the center of my apartment. The globe was big enough for a man to walk inside of.
. . .