My Librarian - My Love

I was positioned in a knee-aching deep squat, searching for Gunter Grass on a low shelf, when the brilliance of two dark eyes appeared through an opening opposite me.

           My fingers gripped the edge of The Tin Drum to pull it free just as the librarian, on the other side of the aisle, was slipping No Great Mischief into its proper slot.          She was sitting on a stool opposite me, in the M,N,O, aisle and I imagined her bare knees pressed firmly against the rigid spine of Alistair McLeod.

           Although rows of books separated us and I could only see her eyes, I noticed a softening in those eyes that suggested she was smiling at me. She seemed undeterred by our sudden encounter. The sweet scent of her perfume engulfed me as it wafted through the shelf openings and overtook the usual stale smell of old books. My breathing stopped as her eyes swallowed me. I was captivated. I fell in love right there. Just like that.

           I had never been in love before. I wasn’t even sure I knew what that might be like but something powerful took possession of me in that library aisle and I did not resist.

           As though she was a shepherd and I a lamb, I followed her as she returned to the front desk. She checked me out and as she scanned my barcode, she looked at me and said, “This book is a classic, Joshua.”

           She knew my name!

           “You have two weeks,” she said.

           I wanted a lifetime.

           I glanced at her nametag, Melissa, but quickly returned my focus to her fascinating eyes. I was incoherent and I am not sure what my response was. Did I address her as Melissa? Did I thank her for her service? I felt my face turning scarlet. I robotically stuffed my library card back into my wallet and then, like a spirit, I floated on air through the exit door.

           I raced through the pages of The Tin Drum, staying up late at night, hurrying from beneath the darkness of the Grandmother’s four skirts, into the torturous death of Oskar’s mother. My forehead wrinkled as I endured the imagined ear-piercing, glass shattering screams of the protagonist.

           The next day, I took the book with me to work and propped it open, hidden inside my desk drawer. Me, at forty-two years, acting like a fifteen-year-old boy with a copy of Playboy stashed beneath his mattress.

           I finished all forty-six chapters in three days and was sleep deprived in doing so.

           On the fourth day, I returned the book, hurrying from my office at five o’clock to beat the library closing time. Rather than drop the book in the return slot, I took it to the counter.

           Melissa looked up from her keyboard and smiled. My knees weakened and my heart fluttered as her magnificent eyes looked at me over the rim of her glasses.

           “Well, that was quick,” she said after looking at the return slip. “I hope it was enjoyable.”

           “You can’t imagine how much.” I blushed. I felt that she was interpreting my inner thoughts. I looked away from her black eyes, to her hand that had taken hold of The Tin Drum. Her fingers were long and delicate, coated in a moody-yellow nail polish. And, best of all, no wedding band! Butterflies erupted in my belly.

           “Um,” I said. "What do you have by Joseph Boyden? I hear his work is good.”

           “His work is excellent,” said Melissa. “My favourite Boyden book is Through Black Spruce. It won the Giller Prize, you know.”

           “I’ll take it.”

           “I’ll fetch it for you.” She moved from behind the counter and I followed her towards the ‘B’ section. As she walked, her auburn hair sparkled in the brilliance of the overhead lights. She held Gunter Grass firmly against her hip. Oh, to be Gunter Grass!

           She stood on her tiptoes and stretched to retrieve Through Black Spruce from the top shelf. I noticed her calf muscles flex and I stared at them, locking on for several seconds. I was grateful that her favorite Boyden novel was not The Orenda. It was sitting on the same shelf and it was so thick, I figured it would take me several weeks to read. I needed something that I could get through quickly to allow me to hurry back and see Melissa again.

           Watching the rhythmic sway of her hips, I followed her back to the counter and handed her my library card.

           “See you in two weeks,” she said. She slipped the receipt between two pages near the back of the novel.

           When I got home, I opened the book to the page where Melissa had placed the due-date slip. I held the slip to my nose seeking the scent of her perfume.

           Most librarians, randomly, insert that paper receipt just inside the front cover of an outgoing book. But not Melissa. She had chosen a page towards the back of the book and I believed she had a purpose in placing the receipt exactly where she did.

           The opening passage on that page shook my soul. I read it twenty times, perhaps even more.

           We give ourselves to each other. It is what I think about when I am away from him. Yes, they were Boyden’s words but I sensed immediately that Melissa meant them for me.

           That night I couldn't get to sleep and it wasn’t because I was up reading. I just could not stop thinking about how the forces of the Universe were bringing Melissa and I together.

           I read feverishly all weekend, passing up lunch and dinner for sitting in my cozy chair slurping jugs of Coca Cola and wolfing down bags of chips to help keep me focussed. I returned the book on Monday, a little greasy. I snuck out of my office, situated a few blocks to the North, and ran to the library so that I was the first through the door at the ten o’clock opening.

           I was sweating profusely as I entered the building. I slowed my pace to a saunter and approached the front desk. I tried to calm my heart rate and look cool. The ridges of my ears burned.

           Melissa wasn’t there.

           The clerk told me that Monday was Melissa’s day off. My heart splashed down into the pit of my stomach. The clerk said she could help me but I tucked Through Black Spruce under my arm and told her that I would return on Tuesday. There was a twisting ache of disappointment running through my gut as I left the library.

           Back at home that evening, I sat and re-read the passage of Through Black Spruce that Melissa had chosen for us. I held that opened page tightly against my heart and began counting off the hours until Tuesday’s opening. It was another long and restless night.

           I was unable to eat in the morning. My appetite was gone and I worried about the strange sensations that were taking control of my actions.

           That morning, Melissa smiled at me as I approached the counter. The back of my neck tingled. My palms sweated. It was difficult for me to look her directly in the eye. Funny how this love thing works.

           “Wow,” she said. “You must be a speed reader, Joshua.” My name flowed smoothly and slowly from her lips, like honey from a jar. She held out her hand to take the book and I rotated the novel in such a way that our fingers touched briefly during the exchange. I imagined the stars re-aligning.

           “What’s next on your agenda?” she asked.

           I was stymied. I was so absorbed in getting back to see Melissa that I failed to plan my next read.

           “I, I,” I stuttered. “Hey, what’s that you’re working on?” I pointed to her computer screen.

           “This? Oh it’s a poster,” she said, “I’m creating it for a poetry contest the library is running for the end of the month.”

           “Poetry, eh? I never get much out of that.”

           “Well,” she replied, “poetry is a very intimate genre. You never know what you might find buried inside your soul.

           My soul ached for what I buried inside it.

           “We have a compilation of random Canadian poets on our shelves. Before you dismiss the art of poetry, perhaps you should read it and see what you think.” She winked and my knees almost buckled.

           I would do anything Melissa suggested.

           “Where do I find that book?” I asked.

           “Follow me.” She headed towards the far aisle and this time I watched the contours of her hips. She stopped partway down the row and pointed at an upper shelf. “There it is. Let’s Fly Away. Can you reach it?”

           “I can,” I said and as I reached up, I wondered if she was looking at the way my body moved. I felt awkward, thinking that she might be sizing me up based on my physical features. Was my shirttail tucked in? Were my shoes too scuffed?

           I checked out Let’s Fly Away, took it home and flipped through the pages. I only read half of a poem, sometimes even less, if it didn’t quickly engage. So many of the poems were totally incomprehensible and yet I was surprised to discover a few of them actually had a heartbeat and took hold of me. Powerful stuff, this poetry, if you are able to read between the lines.

           Over the weekend, I even dabbled in trying to write some poetry. I did much scribbling on loose pieces of paper but most ended up crumpled on my floor.

           Surprisingly, one of the poems I wrote hit home, at least it did for me. It came from my heart and though I wasn’t sure where it might lead, it was at least a start.                                           

                                               Your glasses perched                                                                                                                                                   On the tip of your nose                                                                                                                        While scanning over the barcodes.

                                               Your head tilted                                                                                                                                                   As you tip on your toes                                                                                                                                 Reaching for the top shelf.

                                               Your fine fingers point                                                                                                                                                To the highest of rows                                                                                                                            Directing me to a favourite title.

                                               On Monday mornings                                                                                                                                                I suffer my lows                                                                                                                                         As you extend your weekend.

                                                     I am certain now                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   That everyone knows                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        I have fallen madly for you.

           On Monday morning, I called in sick at work. I was sick. Lovesick.

           I went to the library, knowing it was Melissa’s day off, and walked to the counter. I left my poem in a sealed envelope, addressed to Melissa. I placed a red rose on top of the envelope and I left.

           My heart pounded. I was hyperventilating. My mind raced out of control. I realized I didn’t know how to deal with this love thing. It was all too overpowering and it frightened me.

           As I wandered home, I convinced myself that my attempt at poetry was pathetic. I worried about how Melissa would react to my written word.

           I realized that my meager poem was not good enough to even borrow Melissa’s love for two weeks. I was distraught.

           It was too late to go back and retrieve the poem and I realized I would have to suffer through those lows. Maybe the red rose would resonate with her.

           I sat down, pulled out more loose-leaf papers, and got to work. I had a good poem festering somewhere inside me. I was sure of it.

           Melissa would be hearing from me again.