Work and the Diminishing Priorities

One of my first encounters this morning was with a man whose eyes were bloody red, the pupils a milky black. His skin and hair were the same hue as his white thick cotton tee. His faded black Fubu pants were held somewhere indiscriminate of what the actual essence for which pants are traditionally worn. Barely was there time to turn on the public catalogue monitor before my perceptions of the morning were jostled. I was chanting internally that by 11 I would be able to sit down with a cup of coffee from the cafe and get to the busy work my job revolves around, but it was already too late. Everything became clear that my morning was not to be a good one, not until the people with issues had their complaints resolved.

And this gentleman with the worrisome eyes, eventually sitting with his buddies from one of the local homeless shelters, he was young, seemingly already influenced by one thing or another, approached me before I could view the catastrophe that the book-drop always is, before I could check on the holds list, putting his face close to mine as I leaned over the public pc to say “hello” interrogatively. He stared at me coolly, waiting for a flinch or a remark, but I could only say “hi” back and turned away without further inquiry. Walking towards the corner of seats he watched me with a maniac fluttering of one of his black eyes. I brushed it off, but couldn’t help wondering what else might come when I was at the front desk.

Before my supervisor and I, who were manning the front desk together, had a moment to collect ourselves for the shift, we heard shouting close by. A second young man was yelling obscenities at an older raggedy man whose words were softer, but growing urgent. Soon the older man approached the front desk, in a dingy flannel shirt with a bulging turquoise backpack in his hands and a tragic, watery look in his eyes. A young, possessive man had accused the elder of stealing his backpack. Given the younger man’s hostile tone and immediate usage of inflammatory language, which, no doubt, was perused to convince the sad elder to hand over the rather sodden pack.  Regardless of the foul language and depth of rage, most of which I fail to repeat here due to its racial slurrage, the old man refused to give up the backpack.  Secretly, I applauded the old gent because he maintained a quiet calm that outweighed his apparent fright.

Neither myself nor my supervisor needed to dial for security, as our omnipresent guard was already dashing down the stairs to dissolve the problem, as he has done reliably throughout his tenure. The young man was running on more than adrenaline, we found, so the police were summoned. Being that our facility is located directly next to the police headquarters, the event would diffuse in only moments. Things like this happen all the time at public libraries, perhaps even in the smallest of provinces, so I moved about my morning duties while the police investigated the minor details of the younger and the elder. Upon the police arriving, however, the younger man began to quibble in a shy tone, remarking that he simply asked the elder whose pack he carried and where he found it.  My eyes rolled involuntarily.  The police were not amused and asked the younger to perhaps take a walk with them.

And, surprisingly, I finished my work with little more interruption, though it did look like a possible romper.

It Is Fact Somewhere

Part One:

I was pregnant with our child. I knew I was close to childbirth because the due date had already passed. We took a train into town, we had been living in the country for some time, but needed to get into a populated region for some specific errand. The train stopped because a man had been run over and lost all of his limbs as well as his head. The lone, very square looking torso was passed through the train, much to the chagrin of the many passengers. It looked nearly frozen, and neatly pared.

We decided at this point to de-board the train. Soon after this, though, I went into labor. It was a very solitary experience, and also somehow very painless. I told everyone after having the child that I didn’t know why it was always talked about in such morbidly painful ways. It was one of the easiest things I had done! We named the boy Saul and he had beautiful blond hair and a wild, innocent curiosity. He was instantly independent and yet very connected to his parents. I walked in a drugstore with a soda fountain with Saul, jointly we were oodled by strangers with a penchant for such images as mother with child.

Meanwhile, as I bonded with my new son, you were sorting things out with a fuzzy image, kind of like a walking cloud of static. An entire soundtrack of music burst forth in pockets of heralding, epiphanic tides, I was distraught and trying to stay focused on Saul, your mom was also keeping me company. I looked deep in your eyes and asked you something, and said, “Please be honest.” You responded casually, “Well, yes,” with a shrug to your shoulders.

Saul slept between us.

Part Two:

We had a church wedding. Everything matched a tradition neither of us follow or believe in. My hair was closely cropped and dyed, though no-one could tell since I wore a blossoming veil that concealed the short red tufts. A flood was raging slowly into downtown as hundreds of people ushered us into the church my parents took me to as a child. This Catholic church had a peculiar Italian architecture, which, even though we could not accept what the building stood for, somehow appealed to our own designs. Instead of the usual organ master, we chose your brother to beatbox. This inspired a few giggles throughout the usurping crowd that greeted us. You decided to wear white with me, we radiated newness and growth, particularly in our hands. Tenderness and excitement percolated throughout the ceremony. When we walked back outside after placing rings on each other’s fingers, the water was at the bottom of the steps. We found a salvation in this.