I believe I am the only person in America who can perform this job right now and that’s what I’m doing. After I am through with my job here, I’ll find something else to do. I think the future has quite a lot in store for me.
The librarian before me was here for three years and finally had to quit because he was afraid of children. He thought they were up to something. He is now living in an old folks’ home. I got a postcard from him last month. It was unintelligible.
The librarian before him was a young man who took a six-months leave of absence from his motorcycle gang to put in his tenure here. Afterwards he returned to his gang and never told them where he had been.
‘Where have you been the last six months?’ they asked him.
‘I’ve been taking care of my mother,’ he said. ‘She was sick and needed lots of hot chicken soup. Any more questions?’ There were no more questions.
The librarian before him was here for two years, then moved suddenly to the Australian bush. Nothing has been heard from him since. I’ve heard rumours that he’s alive, but I’ve also heard rumours that he’s dead, but whatever he’s doing, dead or alive, I’m certain he’s still in the Australian bush because he said he wasn’t coming back and if he ever saw another book again, he’d cut his throat.
The librarian before him was a young lady who quit because she was pregnant. One day she caught the glint in a young poet’s eye. They are now living together in the Mission District and are no longer young. She has a beautiful daughter, though, and he’s on unemployment. They want to move to Mexico.
I believe it’s a mistake on their part. I have seen too many couples who went to Mexico and then immediately broke up when they returned to America. I believe if they want to stay together they shouldn’t go to Mexico.
The librarian before her was here for one year. He was killed in an automobile accident. An automobile went out of control and crashed into the library. Somehow it killed him. I have never been able to figure this out because the library is made of bricks.
The Twenty-Three
Ah, it feels so good to sit here in the darkness of these books. I’m not tired. This has been an average evening for books being brought in: with twenty-three finding their welcomed ways on to our shelves.
I wrote their titles and authors and a little about the receiving of each book down in the Library Contents Ledger. I think the first book came in around 6.30.
MY TRIKE by Chuck. The author was five years old and had a face that looked as if it had been struck by a tornado of freckles. There was no title on the book and no words inside, just pictures.
‘What’s the name of your book?’ I said.
The little boy opened the book and showed me the drawing of a tricycle. It looked more like a giraffe standing upside down in an elevator.
‘That’s my trike,’ he said.
‘Beautiful,’ I said. ‘And what’s your name?’
‘That’s my trike.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Very nice, but what’s your name?’
‘Chuck.’
He reached the book up on to the desk and then headed for the door, saying, ‘I have to go now. My mother’s outside with my sister.’
I was going to tell him that he could put the book on any shelf he wanted to, but then he was gone in his small way.
LEATHER CLOTHES AND THE HISTORY OF MAN by S. M. Justice. The author was quite motorcyclish and wearing an awful lot of leather clothes. His book was made entirely of leather. Somehow the book was printed. I had never seen a 290-page book printed on leather before.
When the author turned the book over to the library, he said, ‘I like a man who likes leather.’
LOVE ALWAYS BEAUTIFUL by Charles Green. The author was about fifty years old and said he had been trying to find a publisher for his book since he was seventeen years old when he wrote the book.
‘This book has set the world’s record for rejections,’ he said. ‘It has been rejected 459 times and now I am an old man.’
THE STEREO AND GOD by the Reverend Lincoln Lincoln. The author said that God was keeping his eye on our stereophonic phonographs. I don’t know what he meant by that but he slammed the book down very hard on the desk.
PANCAKE PRETTY by Barbara Jones. The author was seven years old and wearing a pretty white dress.
‘This book is about a pancake,’ she said.
SAM SAM SAM by Patricia Evens Summers. ‘It’s a book of literary essays,’ she said. ‘I’ve always admired Alfred Kazin and Edmund Wilson, especially Wilson’s theories on The Turn of the Screw.’ She was a woman in her late fifties who looked a great deal like Edmund Wilson.
A HISTORY OF NEBRASKA by Clinton York. The author was a gentleman about forty-seven who said he had never been to Nebraska but he had always been interested in the state.
‘Ever since I was a child it’s been Nebraska for me. Other kids listened to the radio or raved on about their bicycles. I read everything I could find on Nebraska. I don’t know what got me started on the thing. But, anyway, this is the most complete history ever written about Nebraska.’
The book was in seven volumes and he had them in a shopping bag when he came into the library.
HE KISSED ALL NIGHT by Susan Margar. The author was a very plain middle-aged woman who looked as if she had never been kissed. You had to look twice to see if she had any lips on her face. It was a surprise to find her mouth almost totally hidden beneath her nose.
‘It’s about kissing,’ she said.
I guess she was too old for any subterfuge now.
MOOSE by Richard Brautigan. The author was tall and blond and had a long yellow moustache that gave him an anachronistic appearance. He looked as if he would be more at home in another era.
This was the third or fourth book he had brought to the library. Every time he brought in a new book he looked a little older, a little more tired. He looked quite young when he brought in his first book. I can’t remember the title of it, but it seems to me the book had something to do with America.
‘What’s this one about,’ I asked, because he looked as if he wanted me to ask him something.
‘Just another book,’ he said.
I guess I was wrong about him wanting me to ask him something.
IT’S THE QUEEN OF DARKNESS, PAL by Rod Keen. The author was wearing overalls and had on a pair of rubber boots.
‘I work in the city sewers,’ he said, handing the book to me. ‘It’s science-fiction.’
YOUR CLOTHES ARE DEAD by Les Steinman. The author looked like an ancient Jewish tailor. He was very old and looked as if he had made some shirts for Don Quixote.
‘They are, you know,’ he said, showing the book to me as if it were a piece of cloth, a leg from a pair of trousers.
JACK, THE STORY OF A CAT by Hilda Simpson. The author was a girl about twelve years old, just entering into puberty. She had lemon-sized breasts against a green sweater. She was awakening to adolescence in a delightful way.
‘What do you have with you this evening,’ I said.
Hilda had brought in five or six books previously.
‘It’s a book about my cat Jack. He’s really a noble animal. I thought I would put him down in a book, bring it here and make him famous,’ she said, smiling.
THE CULINARY DOSTOEVSKY by James Fallon. The author said the book was a cookbook of recipes he had found in Dostoevsky’s novels.
‘Some of them are very good,’ he said. ‘I’ve eaten everything Dostoevsky ever cooked.’
MY DOG by Bill Lewis. The author was seven years old and said thank you when he put his book on a shelf.