Who's crazy now?

Who’s crazy now?

The University library has a large table with a view of the grounds. For someone allergic to the sting of almost every insect in the world, it’s the perfect place for a picnic. Unwrapping my ham and cheese sandwich, I fight the Pavlovian reflex to drool at the idea of the earthy, sweet funk of gruyere.

“Mister Weiss! What do you think you’re doing?”

The librarian is a burly man, with the ruddy complexion of a Scotch drinker. He wears dark blue slacks, a whitish shirt, and a light brown jacket with elbow patches. I have never seen him before. So much for first impressions.

“I’m unpacking my sandwich; I respond sheepishly.” One is not supposed to eat at the library, but I’ve done it so often, it’s almost as thought the rule doesn’t apply to me.

The would-be Scotchman presses his hands on his hips.

“Do you need to express it so loudly to everyone?”

I look around. The place is deserted. The space I plan to occupy marks the only spot on the table without a considerable layer of dust. I don’t know how to respond.

Bruce the librarian, (I just read it on a small pin he wears on his lapel), looks utterly pissed off.

“These premises are reserved for quiet study”, he starts in a deep tenor, “we do not look kindly on rowdy behavior!”

He pronounces rowdy with multiple r’s, rolling them off his tongue, almost comically, like he’s practiced the speech before.

“Furthermore, you and your, your…”

There he hesitates, looks at the imaginary person who is, if I follow Bruce’s porcine eyes, standing to my left.

“Your companion, he spits out.”

I detect a note of homophobia. I am a gay man, but not a flamboyant one. It was not easy being a gay teenager. I didn’t claim it on the rooftops like more courageous boys who live mostly on television. I heard my share of comments about “those fags” and their “dirty sex”. All at once, I feel rage bubbling up because an old fart is being rude to my non-existent lover.

“Do you mean Jesse? My boyfriend?”, I put forth, lips pursed. I blow a kiss in Jesse’s direction. I imagine him stout, but muscular, with a clean-shaven face, a pouty mouth, and long dark hair.

“Whatever he is!”, exclaims Bruce, now crimson below the varicose jowls and nose.

Why haven’t I met him before? I know almost every librarian. As a student of History, I basically live here. I must have read hundreds of books in the last three year. I come here for lunch, read all afternoon, attend class at three o’clock, and come back for evening readings and paper writing. Is he new? His wrinkled clothes say otherwise, and so does his pasty complexion. In any case, he is a very sick man. I suddenly feel deflated, all crossness evaporated.

“I’m sorry. We will be quiet”, I concede.

Huffing and puffing, he pulls a quasi military U-turn and leaves me to my sandwich. I stand, wondering if I should report him to the infirmary, but my stomach loudly reminds me it’s almost 1 o’clock. The salty aroma of cured ham erases all charitable thoughts. Maybe later, I think, as I quickly forget the loony librarian.

Five minutes later, captivated by the medical writings of Al-Zhawari, a remarkable physician who lived in the 10^th century, I do not hear Bruce’s steps until he stops right next to me.

“Mr Weiss!”

I jump 2 inches above the chair, knocking my juice box in the process. How does he even know my name?

“What?”

Gone the easy wit. What’s left is annoyance tainted with terror. No one likes the schizoids; they are too unpredictable.

“I warned you before, no talking in the library!”

I open my mouth to say something, but words elude me. The bizarreness of the situation exceeds my capacity to respond.

“Do you understand? This is your last warning. I will be forced to ask you and your…”

He coughs, pretending that the words hurt his mouth.

“…your boyfriend, to leave.”

At this precise moment, I could easily strangle him and the voices in his head.

“What if I was to suck my boyfriend’s dick quietly, Bruce, would that be all right?”, I want to say.  What’s the matter with this dinosaur? No adult I know cares about the gays anymore. It’s passé. It’s IN. To be subjected to this shade of insanity floors me.

“Yes, sir”, I hear myself reply, “we will be quiet from now on.”

He leaves without another sound.

I reach for my phone. Too early for class. I may have to find another spot to study. Who knows when Bruce with the busted brain will come back?

I take a longing look through the window. April has sprung and the sun is shining. The vast lawn slopes down to the athletic field, green replacing yellow. Like stars in the night sky, a few brightly coloured flowers grow among the careless feet of young adults. A few couples of all genders are making out. Inwardly, I yell: “see Bruce! Who cares? Love is love! “

Maybe I should just check the Al-Zhawari book out and go study outside. It’s still early spring and I doubt many stinging insects are flying. Or crawling. I plunge my hand in my backpack’s side pocket. Epipen. Check.

I gather my lunch detritus. Master Bruce, I see a straight jacket in your near future, and I don’t need a crystal ball. I put books and I-Pad in my bag, I’m going out!

Throwing a last look at the table to make sure I don’t leave anything behind, I shoulder the heavy backpack and turn around in a fluid motion, only to bang my nose on Bruce’s forehead. Rats! It’s the second time he sneaks up on me.

“I’m leaving, so keep your third warning for whoever wants to hear it”, I say.

Self-control and thoughts of my mother prevent me from flipping him the bird.

“Too late, young man. You will now follow me to the Dean’s office. Your attitude needs adjustment”, he says in a clear, loud voice.

The Dean’s office? What’s this? Third grade?

“I’m alone!”, I finally explode. “I’m not talking to anybody you lunatic jerk!”

I slap my chest with both hands, eyes wide, spitting a little.

“It’s only me! I’ve been reading quietly! There is no LOUD conversation.”

He just stands there, impassive. But my anger cannot be contained, once the dam opens, it cannot be shut at once. Some of it must flow out.

“You’re ripe for the loony bin! Call 911, we have a live one!”, I yell at the top of my lungs.

Bruce’s features remain unchanged, save for his eyes. They look over my shoulder. An almost imperceptible nod follows. I whirl around, ready to fight.

My good friend Rodney steps out from behind the aisle. He is holding a camera. I cannot believe my eyes.

“You should see your face”, he guffaws. “But wait. You will! You and about one hundred students in my reality-show class.”

He taps his camera.

“This is an A+, for sure!”

From behind, Bruce places a hand on my shoulder.

“Who’s crazy now?”, he asks.