Chapter One #3
I close my eyes while pressing the paper towel to my chest. Mordecai is too talkative.
I’m often exasperated by him. I don’t dislike him; he’s kindhearted, he remembers things like my favorite color, and he’s good at his job.
He talks too much, though. He’s always prying.
Unfortunately, my tolerance for him is low right now after being away for two months.
Somewhat like taking a shot after a long bout of sobriety, I feel knocked out by him.
I also think he’s chattier than usual because we haven’t seen each other in a while, so he’s eager to talk.
He seems to be speaking more rapidly than normal.
Generally, I try to appease him. I smile and nod. Today, I can’t seem to listen to him. I keep tuning him out. I’m facing the sink. Closing my eyes.
Ben did our laundry when we lived together.
He lugged it in a rucksack to a laundromat four blocks away from our apartment.
He used fabric softener and dryer sheets branded with teddy bears that made our clothes smell like baby pajamas.
I remember he regularly took all our curtains down to wash them, which I found interesting.
I appreciated that he wanted to clean our curtains, but not because I actually valued having clean drapery.
Whether our curtains were dusty or not meant nothing to me.
I valued his intention. I appreciated that he was doing a chore for us, despite finding his choice of chore perplexing.
Our priorities weren’t aligned. If he and I were on the same page, he might cook or do the dishes.
But he never did that. He washed the curtains.
I’ve always been a tidy, organized person.
As a kid, I put my toys away when I finished playing.
I put my crayons back in the box. I couldn’t stand having dirty hands.
My mom used to say I was the only toddler without sticky fingers.
As an adult, I can’t relax unless my house is clean.
I make our bed every morning. I wipe down the counters and run the dishwasher before we go to sleep.
Joy and I deep clean the house every Saturday morning.
We mop. Vacuum. Scrub the bathrooms. Wipe down the kitchen cabinets, clean out the fridge.
That said, I’ve never been one for laundry.
I forget to check for things in pockets.
I don’t care if I turn my white clothes gray or pink.
Ben and I didn’t have a washing machine in our apartment.
There was a closet that could be hooked up to one, but we couldn’t afford to buy a machine, and our landlord would sooner die than supply one.
He rented out several buildings and didn’t care about his tenants.
The heat rarely worked. We had mice, and there was this enormous crack in the plaster ceiling in our bedroom.
Every email we sent that landlord went unanswered, yet he persistently wrote us about our utility bills being exorbitant—
Actually, I should say, he wrote Ben. He addressed all his emails to Ben, even though my name was on the lease too. He wrote DEAR BENJAMIN, as if Ben owned the home and I was his pet gerbil. A fragile, twitchy creature he took care of.
It was a grungy, unpleasant place to live, but it was nice that I didn’t have to go deeper into student debt to live there.
The unit was in a secure building in a low-crime area.
I felt safe there. Before we moved in together, I lived alone in a studio apartment where my packages were stolen and I was frequently catcalled on the street.
I haven’t thought about that apartment we shared in a long time. I don’t usually forget things, but I can’t fully picture it anymore. I remember the bathroom, but I don’t remember what number our unit was. I can’t remember which direction our windows faced.
For a long time, I wouldn’t let myself think about the time I spent with Ben. Now all my memories of that period are muddled.
Mordecai is still talking. “You don’t dress the same way for work as you do out in the real world, do you? I don’t. Sure, we can dress pretty casually here, but most of my real clothes are, like, band merch.”
I wouldn’t care if Mordecai came to work every day dressed as a hot dog.
“I’d feel a little unprofessional wearing a band shirt or a graphic tee at work,” he says.
“I know Sue wears them all the time, but I prefer to wear a knit sweater, or something with buttons. I might make an exception if I were leading a themed children’s program, or something for teens, of course.
But you know what I mean, right? I’ve got a collection of work shirts I cycle through, and I never wear cardigans or collared shirts outside the library. ”
He continues to ramble while I stand at the sink, holding the wet wad of paper towels to my shirt.
I’m trying to recall a time when Joy and I washed our curtains.
I don’t think we ever have. I’m not sure I know how to wash curtains.
Can they just be tossed into a regular machine?
Do they need a more heavy-duty cycle, or something gentler?
We have white drapes over our front windows, and in our bedroom.
They’re lightweight and sheer. Our cats are always basking in the sunlight that breaks through them.
We bought our house six years ago, and I don’t think we’ve ever washed those curtains.
“Can I ask you a question?”
A man in an ill-fitting suit is hovering by the reference desk. I minimize the website open on my screen. I was looking up how to wash curtains.
There’s a prominent sign suspended above my head labeled QUESTIONS?, and I’m wearing a sizable pin on my vest that reads ASK ME ANYTHING.
I smile. It’s important to control your body language when you man the reference desk. People should feel welcomed and comfortable approaching me. Even when someone asks a nonsensical or obvious question, I need to present as interested and gracious.
I nod. “Yes, of course you can.”
“Can I record it?” he asks, holding out his phone.
“Sure.”
Sometimes people like to record conversations. This is especially true of people with anxiety, attention deficit disorder, as well as some other disabilities. I always say yes.
“Wonderful.” He hits record. “I’m a correspondent with Liberty Lately.
We’re doing a story about your pornography policy.
A distraught woman contacted me today voicing her distress when a local degenerate was spotted watching pornography on the public library computers this morning.
She said she spoke to the librarian on duty. Was that you, miss?”
I nod. It seems I’ve misread this man. He isn’t a patron with ADD. He’s a reporter. Though I guess he could be both.
“Can you please answer verbally, for the recording?” He taps on his phone.
I lean toward his phone. “Yes, that was me, and I’m actually a Mrs.”
Joy and I have been married for six months now.
“Can you explain why you would allow the public library, which is funded by citizens like that woman, to devolve into a godless sex hole?”
I stifle an urge to laugh. It’s important not to laugh at patrons. It’s impolite, and it can be off-putting, depending on the context.
“The library is not a godless sex hole.” I lean toward the phone.
“The public library is actually a democratic institution. For democracies to work, citizens need to be able to freely educate themselves. Anyone without home internet or a device can come here to access information. You don’t have to pay for books, or for subscriptions, or even for personalized research.
Public libraries are sometimes referred to as “the last free space” because we’re one of the last places that exist in the public domain without the expectation of spending money.
I’d be happy to recommend some books about the history of—”
“In what twisted, debauched universe is a publicly bankrolled space, where creeps can binge-watch porno, a democratic institution? Perhaps you’re confusing democracy with fascism.”
I consider the suggestion, then say, “No, definitely not. Fascism is a system of government led by a dictator who usually rules by forcefully and often violently suppressing opposition—”
“You’re forcefully and violently subjecting innocent women to deviants watching depraved sex acts.”
I’m tempted to comment that the sex acts weren’t really that depraved, but instead I say, “Respectfully, sir, I think that’s a misrepresentation.
While of course it’s unpleasant to be in the vicinity of someone engaging with it, people can technically watch porn anywhere.
I was just on the bus last week when a man was watching—”
“We pay for the library,” he interrupts me. “We pay the electricity bill. We pay your salary. We’re paying for that perv’s access to porno—”
“The bus is also subsidized by taxpayers.”
I notice he’s clenching his fists, and his neck is turning purple. His body language suggests he’s restraining himself.
I lean back. “You’re a reporter?”
I want to create more space between us.
“Yes.” He leans forward.
I lean back more. “A journalist?”
He inches closer. “Yes.”
“Where did you go to journalism school?”
His face flushes.
I don’t think I phrased myself politely enough. He looks offended by my question.
He raises his voice. “You don’t have to go to journalism school to be a journalist. I’m not interested in being indoctrinated by biased, money-grubbing liberal colleges. I’m with the non-mainstream media. I’m self-educated.”