Chapter One #4
Recognizing I’ve accidentally insulted him, I apologize.
“I’m sorry, sir. The reason I ask is because I’m a librarian, and like journalists, there are professional ethics associated with my job.
Librarians aren’t in the business of policing what content people consume.
It has to do with intellectual freedom. If we prevent people from accessing certain websites, what’s to stop us from restricting their access to anything?
For example, if I personally didn’t like your reporting, I could censor your website at the library, and then no one—”
“You’re going to censor my website?” he shouts.
Patrons at the computers look at us.
“No, it was a hypothetical—”
“You made a powerful enemy today, lady.” He thumps a fist on the desk. “You’re a sexual deviant yourself, aren’t you? Do you get off on creeps watching porno at your library? You’re sick too, aren’t you, miss?”
I’m tempted to remind him I’m a Mrs., but instead I say nothing.
He scowls at me. “You’ve got blue hair. I’ve got you figured out.”
Joy dyed my hair blue on a whim last month. She was trying to cheer me up. She said it looked cool.
I frown. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Are you an atheist?” he asks. He’s looking right into my eyes.
I’m not supposed to answer personal questions about my beliefs. I need to be neutral, a-religious, and nonpartisan. Rather than respond directly, I try to politely redirect. I say, “I can recommend some excellent philosophy or theology books if you’re interested in exploring the question of God—”
“You should pray,” he says before picking up his phone and exiting the library.
I’ve written an email to Brenda, my director, alerting her to the pornography incident, as well as the visit from Liberty Lately.
I’m supposed to tell her when there’s been a confrontation that could potentially escalate.
That’s the protocol. I’m also required to inform her because I interpreted the man’s suggestion that I “should pray” as a possible threat, and our rules stipulate that employees must record those sorts of intimidations.
I want to include an apology for bailing on the branch manager interview, but I won’t.
Both Joy and my therapist would tell me I shouldn’t apologize.
It’s not your fault you were sick. Besides, I’m sure Brenda has more important things on her plate than dealing with my failed job application.
Mentioning it could be perceived as me fishing to be reconsidered.
While signing off on the email, I receive an incoming message to the reference desk inbox. It’s titled DO GROUSES EAT BUGS?
Before replying, I need to consult at least three credible sources.
In order for a source to be credible, it must be published by an authoritative body, such as an accredited university.
Its purpose should also be considered. Does it exist to make the author a profit?
Who is its intended audience? Was it peer-reviewed, or published by a scholarly source, such as an academic journal?
Is it relevant and up-to-date? Does it cite other credible sources?
I find two good digital sources through an ornithology database, as well as a handbook about birds.
After consulting and citing all three, I write, YES, THEY DO.
THEY ALSO EAT LEAVES, BUDS, AND FLOWERS.
IF YOU HAVE ANY FOLLOW-UP QUESTIONS, PLEASE FEEL FREE TO REACH OUT TO US AGAIN. WE ARE HAPPY TO HELP.
While researching this answer, I found a photo of a sage grouse. He has plumes around his neck that look like a fur scarf, and feathers growing from his shoulders in a style that reminds me of the coat Joy wore on our first date.
We went to a Mexican restaurant. Joy chatted with the waitress while she led us to our table. They were laughing. They interacted with this comfortable familiarity, like old friends. When the waitress left us to look at our menus, I asked Joy if they knew each other. She said no, they just met.
Joy speaks to strangers with the same candor she has with her friends. Customer service representatives always lose their fake, formal tone when they talk to her. They use their real voices.
I remember glancing at her across our table that night.
The lighting was soft and reddish. Her plumy, ostentatious coat was hanging off the back of her chair.
There were chips and salsa in front of us, and she ate them with no reservation.
Her hand dipped in and out of the basket. Crumbs fell on her shirt.
I was the type of person who counted how many chips I ate to make sure I wasn’t taking too many or eating faster than my date.
I neurotically dabbed my face with my napkin and covered my mouth when I chewed.
I spent the majority of my time on first dates attempting to follow an unspoken social script.
Ask them questions. Don’t talk too much.
Offer to pay. I ate for the performance of eating.
I spoke for the performance of conversation.
Joy and I had only interacted briefly prior to this dinner.
I didn’t really know her yet. I felt apprehensive about going out with her, and almost canceled.
I thought of first dates like job interviews.
They were exhausting. I prepared prior to the date like I would for a test. I primed topics we could chat about and practiced my phony laugh.
When Joy laughs, her chin juts into her neck, and she makes this throaty, choking sound. She doesn’t restrain it. It reminds me of a baby’s laugh. It’s her natural, unpolished bodily reaction. It’s never been refined by insecurity. It’s this raw, precious laugh.
I felt disarmed by her. She exuded this unguarded authenticity.
I found her refreshing and endearing. I still find her that way.
It’s never a performance for her. If she likes something, she says, “I like this.” If she’s worried about something, she says, “I’m worried.
” She smiles when she’s happy, and she frowns when she’s sad.
She wears whatever clothes she wants, regardless of what’s in style, and she says what she thinks.
There’s no artifice. She’s an honest person.
I felt a weight lift in her presence. We didn’t discuss any of the topics I prepped, and I never used my phony laugh. I watched her eat tortilla chips, listened to her chortle like a baby playing peekaboo, and fell in love.