Chapter Eight #2
“Protect the kids!”
I feel anxious. I put a hand to my chest. The crowd outside is making me uneasy.
I pull at the collar of my shirt. I feel like I’m in the beginning stages of a panic attack.
The last time I had a panic attack, I stood naked in the snow.
That really wouldn’t help my case with these protestors in my insistence that I’m not a pervert.
I stand up. There’s no one to cover the desk, but I’m going to the bathroom anyway.
I’m sitting in a bathroom stall, folded over, with my head between my knees. I’m inhaling and exhaling loudly. If someone were to come in right now, they might think I’m giving birth.
There’s a strange smell in the washroom.
What is it? It’s like basil, garlic, and meat.
Why does the washroom smell like lasagna?
I stand up and exit the stall. I examine my surroundings and see that in the corner of the sink, near the baby changing station, there’s a Crock-Pot.
I walk up to it, open the lid, and look down at a pile of warmed meatballs.
What the fuck?
I unplug the pot, pick it up, and exit the washroom.
“Whose meatballs are these?” I shout.
Patrons shoot me funny looks.
I haul the pot around the library. “Whose Crock-Pot is this?”
A woman near the children’s section raises her hand. “That’s mine!”
I approach her. “I’m sorry, but you can’t use this in the library.”
I place the pot down on the table in front of her.
She frowns. “Why not?”
I look into her pupils as if I’m looking at a Brachiosaurus. She has scaley, periscopic, dinosaur eyes. She and I are different creatures; we’re both from earth, but I don’t understand her, and she doesn’t understand me.
I say, “You can’t cook food in the library. It’s a fire hazard, and the smell could affect the books. We have building codes. It’s also a health and sanitation issue. Food shouldn’t be prepared in a public bathroom.”
She looks at me as if I’ve just said something ludicrous.
I look at her as if she has a thirty-foot-long neck.
I’m an adult. A woman in her thirties. I have free will.
I could leave right now. I don’t have to be here.
I’m my own person, alive in this moment, enduring the mayhem inflicted on public librarians, when I could simply wash my hands of this and exit the building.
Why did I choose this job? Why did I pursue this?
Why didn’t anyone warn me that I’d spend days telling people not to cook meat in the bathroom while hearing others chant from outside that I’m a pedophile?
I just wanted to be around books and help people.
I could go home right now, lie under the lavender comforter on my bed with my cats, and apply for a job in a law library or as a cataloger. I don’t have to do this.
The woman has not left with her meatballs yet.
I say sternly, “Get these out of here.”
I’ve returned to the desk with a glass of water. I open my email and see a response from EaglesNest88@. It says:
I DON’T THINK IT’S VERY PROFESSIONAL TO POST NAKED PHOTOS ON THE INTERNET.
I scowl, hit reply, and type fervently.
WHAT KIND OF JOB DO YOU THINK I HAVE? DO YOU THINK YOU’RE EMAILING SOMEONE WHO WORKS SOME STRAITLACED, STATELY PROFESSION THAT PROHIBITS EMPLOYEES FROM ACCIDENTALLY POSTING THEIR NUDES ON THE INTERNET?
I’M NOT A POLITICIAN. I’M NOT A PASTOR. I’M A PUBLIC LIbrARIAN.
I JUST TOLD A LADY NOT TO COOK MEAT IN THE BATHROOM.
WHO DO YOU THINK IS GOING TO GIVE A SHIT THAT I ACCIDENTALLY POSTED MY NAKED BODY ON THE INTERNET?
WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I AM, AND WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?
I read my reply over. As I do, I feel the energy inside me dwindle. I hover my finger over the backspace key. I wrote this for the catharsis, but I won’t send it because I am a professional.
I erase the email.
“Do you think EaglesNest88 is Declan?” Joy asks.
I’d called her, told her about the people outside, the Crock-Pot, and the email I received.
I say, “Maybe. But how would he get that picture of me? I have a private account. Declan Turner definitely doesn’t follow me.”
“Maybe he’s got good tech skills and can break into accounts.”
“I don’t think he has good tech skills,” I say. “I googled him, and he doesn’t even know how to make his accounts private. He’s got two Facebook albums that appear to be photos he accidentally took of grass up close. He’s not breaking into my social media accounts.”
She asks, “But then how did he know you’re a lesbian this morning?”
“That’s out there,” I say. “I’ve done articles for the library, sharing books for Pride, that mention I’m gay. You’d find them if you googled my name. I go to the Pride parade with the library float. I haven’t hidden it. And I look like a lesbian.”
“Right, right,” she says.
“I’ll add him to my list of suspects, though,” I say.
“Who else is on there?” she asks.
“I’ve narrowed it down to my cousin Tucker, a guy named Douglas, and a patron who keeps sending me bird requests.”
“How would a patron sending you bird requests get the photo if Declan couldn’t?”
“I have no idea,” I say. “I’m fishing in murky waters over here. And frankly, I’m burning out. I feel like quitting my job.”
“You don’t want to quit your job. You like your job,” she says.
I exhale. “Not when I’m being harassed, and I’m surrounded by people cooking meat near toilets.”
She snorts. “You aren’t surrounded. That was just one lady. Look around, there’s lots of people you like there. Where’s that woodworking guy?”
Randall is asleep in a chair. He’s got a magazine open on his chest. We’re not supposed to let people sleep in the library, but I’m not waking him up. He looks comfortable.
I say, “He’s sleeping, which is what I wish I were doing, but I have to get back to work now. I need to reply to the bird patron. I haven’t responded to them for a while, and I’m on the clock right now. I’ll talk to you later, okay? Tell Sophie and January I said hi.”
“Okay, I will. Be safe. I love you.”
“I will. Love you too.”
I open up the emails from the bird patron. I spend about ten minutes gathering information, then reply.
DEAR SAMMY,
PLEASE NOTE OUR SERVICE DELIVERY TIME FOR REFERENCE QUESTIONS IS ONE WEEK. COMPLEX QUESTIONS MAY HAVE LONGER TURNAROUND TIME.
I HAVE ATTACHED SOME RECOMMENDED RESOURCES REGARDING HOMOSEXUALITY IN BIRDS.
THERE IS EVIDENCE OF SAME-SEX BEHAVIOR AND RELATIONSHIPS IN VARIOUS ANIMALS, INCLUDING BIRD SPECIES. IT’S BEEN OBSERVED IN SWANS, WRENS, DUCKS, GEESE, SPARROWS, FLAMINGOS, ROBINS, RAVENS, HAWKS, FALCONS, EAGLES, OWLS, MAGPIES, DOVES, WARBLES, WOODPECKERS, STORKS, LOONS, BLUEBIRDS, GREBES, AND MORE.
IF YOU HAVE ANY FOLLOW-UP QUESTIONS, PLEASE REACH OUT TO US AGAIN. WE ARE HAPPY TO HELP.
“Did you see there’s a group of anti-protestors out there now?” Mordecai says. He’s standing at the window that faces the entrance. He has his hands on his hips.
I’m sitting at the reference desk nearby. I get up to look outside with him.
There were a dozen people with Declan when I arrived this morning. There are about thirty people outside now. The new people are holding signs that say things like:
I SUPPORT THE LIbrARY!
DON’T JUDGE, JUST READ!
Mordecai smiles. “Well, isn’t that nice? Gosh, that is so encouraging, actually. I find it really uplifting to see so much of our community stand in solidarity with us, don’t you?”
I look at the people outside.
He sighs. “Man, I’m going to be honest with you, I felt really disheartened earlier. You know, they shouted some really vile things at me. I’ve spent my entire morning feeling pretty down in the dumps. This new crowd of people has really turned things around. I feel so much better. Look at them!”
He grins and waves out the window.
Dr. Jeong and I are practicing imaginal revisiting again. I’m telling her about a time when Ben and I were dating, and I went away to a music festival with some friends.
“It was the August after my first year at university,” I say.
I have my eyes closed. “My friends and I rented an apartment for the week. I had my own room. I’d been living with Ben, so it was nice to have some privacy.
This was the first time I spent days away from him, or slept alone, in over a year. ”
“How did being away from him make you feel?”
I consider the question. “I hadn’t noticed it while I was with him, but in his absence, I remember realizing I hadn’t been alone with my own thoughts in a long time. While I was lying alone in my bed, I felt like I was meeting myself for the first time in a year.”
“Could you explain what you mean by that?” she says.
“Sure. Um. When I lived with Ben, I talked to him a lot, obviously. I told him my thoughts. His opinions influenced mine. We interpreted everything together. We lived in a small apartment, so we were always around each other. I was rarely alone with myself. Everything I thought and did was sort of influenced by him. I morphed into him, and the line between who he was and who I was, blurred.”
“But you felt differently that week when you were away from him at a festival?” she asks.
“Yeah, that week, my thoughts weren’t interrupted by his.
I wasn’t talking through my day with him, or hearing about his, or processing my thoughts with him.
I was by myself. I was with friends, but before I went to sleep, I was alone.
I felt sort of startled by how it felt to be alone.
I realized I had been feeling disconnected from who I was for a long time. I’d become a stranger.”
“Okay. When you’re ready, please open your eyes.”
I open them.
“How do you feel revisiting that memory? Do you have any other thoughts or reflections?”