Lost Time

Here comes another one, just as confused as the others. As soon as he comes through the door, there is first that look of surprise, then of admiration (for it is a beautiful library if I say so myself). When he has finished enjoying the quaint, retro charm of the room, the vintage green desk lamps, fine mahogany furniture, and that unmistakable smell of old, over-read books, it dawns on him that he has no recollection of making his way here. He's not even sure what part of town he has come to and probably does not know where he left his car.

He does not seem like a stupid man. He appears to be quite young, no younger than 30, and certainly no older than 40. Dark-haired, just greying around the temples, and well suited and booted. Perhaps he has just come from work. If he has, I don't imagine he recollects it. He's just standing there now, with his hand on his forehead as if it will help him remember why he's here.

For what could anyone want in an old library? What is there in a library that he could not pick up in a shop or on the internet? It's clear to him it is a late hour – it's already getting dark outside as we can see through the window. He must have just come from work. He checks his watch. He has no watch. Where has it gone? He checks his pockets. It's not in any of them. In vain, he looks around at the carpet as though his watch has just miraculously unbuckled itself from his wrist and fallen to the floor. Maybe it's outside.

So, he gets ready to leave again and turns back towards the door, walks up to it, whispering: "what did I do with my watch?" under his breath. He gets to the door and then stops. Whatever it is he needs in the library, it probably won't take him very long to find it if he could only remember what it was. And anyway, he most likely took his watch off in the car when he left work.

He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that whatever he was meant to do in the library was very important, and he could not go home without having done it. So he turns back around and once more admires the bookshelves, furniture, and the fine scent of aging paper. He scans the room, and finally, his eyes settle on me.

I am, as always, very, very busy, and I really do not think I can be much help to him at this moment, not in any way that would be productive. So I carry on with my work. It is simple work, surely. My work as a librarian mostly involves cataloging and updating our listed titles. When no one is in the library, I am able to shelve the books. Sometimes, if they are especially valuable books or important somehow, I will read some of the content to ensure it is suitable for those visiting the library. Right now, though, I'm getting ready to close, and I really must finish cataloging today's titles. Despite all this, and despite my clear indications that I am really very busy, the young man approaches me with an awkward smile on his face.

"Hello!" he says in a bright, cheerful voice. "I wonder if you can help me."

I know that I cannot, and so I say: "No. I cannot." He looks offended. Of course, he does. It is true, though, and every time I am forced to have this kind of interaction, I take no pleasure in it. The fact is I am very busy, and when people ask me if I could help them, it is usually in vain. It is not meant as a personal attack. Nevertheless, to soften the blow, I add: "Perhaps you should take a look around the library. Something might jog your memory. But you ought to be quick because we are closing soon." He seems happy to accept this and raps his knuckles on my desk. 

There he goes, walking off into the stacks. They are beautiful bookshelves, put up in the 1980s, I believe. Made to be very sturdy and long-lasting. I try not to move the sections around too much; that way, we know where everything is. It's a clear, very straightforward layout, which I find very easy to navigate when I am shelving. Unfortunately, the library users are often mis-shelving the books that they take out, and so I have to do an awful lot of work to keep everything in an orderly fashion. If I wasn't so busy, I would watch this guy as he wanders around among the shelves.

He does, at least, appear to have an appreciation for the books. Look at him, smiling at those old, slightly frayed paperbacks, those leather-bound classics, those beautiful glossy art books. All of them appear to his taste and disposition, too. He can't help himself. He picks up every second book, flicks through a few pages, and raises his eyebrows. There's a cocky little smile on his face as if he's suddenly discovered buried treasure. I'll admit that it is a pleasure to see him take such delight in so many long-forgotten works. 

He stops at a display just outside the kid's section. It's a colorful part of the library, with some child-friendly red and blue shelves and a box of old toys in the corner. The shelves are full of picture books, books about giants and dragons, compilations of fairy tales, and more modern short novels for book-loving children. Further on, there are school books and set texts for the older kids. But it is the display that has caught his attention. 

Yes, there it is. I know that look. Always the same. He's found a book that he used to read when he was a child. Can't help himself, picks it up as though it is made of gold leaf, trembling in his hands. It's even the same edition he had, the same his mother or father read to him in his nursery, showed him those beautiful illustrations, the pictures which fuelled his imagination and transported him to distant worlds or fantastic lands of old. I wouldn't be surprised if he starts openly weeping or crying for joy. To witness such a thing is one of the most rewarding aspects of this job, among a great many things which have no reward at all.

"I can't believe you have this book!" he yells. I look up from my work and put my finger to my lips. It's a cliché, but it is universal, and it always does the job. He looks admonished.

"Yes. Of course," he whispers and tucks the book under his arm. He's done with the kid's section now, so I turn the lights off in that area and return to filling in my reports, the books which need to be signed out today. I wish he would hurry up so I could get on.

But he's gone over to the fiction section now, and that is always a dangerous place for someone to go, especially when you're trying to close the library. It might be difficult to get him to leave if he gets engrossed in a particularly good book, he might come back with an arm full of books he wants to sign out, which will take some time, or he might suddenly be reminded of a particular book he read once that he cannot remember the name of or any other details other than he liked it. I have a love/hate relationship with the fiction section.

It's not a large fiction section, I grant you, but its titles seem to excite him. It's good to see him smile, but I worry that he's going to sit down and bring out a big pile of books and just start reading. Thankfully, he's only flicking through a couple of titles until he gets to one book in particular. 

A popular book, it is, especially amongst young adults. It's not very long, and the tale is rather simplistic, but the language is clear, and the plot is easy to follow. Moreover, I would say it is more of a parable than a work of literary fiction. This all makes it an ideal gift for people just leaving college hence why it is so popular amongst young adults. I imagine that this young man has seen it before and was probably given it as a gift when he, too, left college. Certainly, it was! For, isn't that a tear in his eye as he remembers his dear old mother and father, in their twilight years looking on proudly as he walks out in his graduation gown and they give him this trite little number, this squeaky clean, sickly sweet moral compass of a book? He must've lost his copy – look how emotional it is making him. He tucks this one under his arm as well.

But he's not done with the fiction section (of course he isn't!), and he's just seen something that has him shaking his head and tutting to himself. Of course! The 'life-changing book.' Everyone's got one, and they are all, without exception, rather embarrassing. I'm glad he's realized this and is somewhat ashamed of the adulation he once heaped on this out-of-date, elitist piece of verbal chewing gum. I don't hate the book, nor any books like it, but it does have its place and its time.

I wonder what it means to him, what time of his life it was when he found it? There is a flash of youth in his eyes, a moment of bewilderment in the furrowing of his brow. Ah! That's it! There was someone he recommended this book to, someone who he thought would understand what it meant to him and felt the same way. He shakes his head again. Of course she didn't care about this book. She was much more mature than he was, had seen more of the world, and knew more of what love was about. Perhaps she took it anyway and left it on a park bench somewhere or traded it in for a trashy romance novel that she actually enjoyed. How painful for him, not only to have been rejected but to have had something that he so passionately loved rejected as well.

He looks down at his wedding ring. All was not lost. It was good that he went through such rejection before he was married. Perhaps his wife would enjoy the book now that he can put it in its proper context, now that he has had a great deal more life experience. Yes, he'll bring this one home as well.

So, now he has the books that he wants to check out but still cannot remember why he came here in the first place. It doesn't matter; he's had a nice trip down memory lane. He is certainly a little calmer than when he first came in, and he doesn't seem nearly as bothered by the loss of his watch either. I imagine that if I wasn't dimming the lights around the library as he goes through each section, he would likely stay awhile and finally make the time to read. I can't imagine he has had much time to read recently. It's nice to see that reemerging love of books. It's one of the best things about this job, though there are, as I have said already, many things I do not like about working here. Here he is now.

"I'd like to take these out, if I may," he says and puts the books down on my desk. 

"Certainly, sir," I say, "Have you got a reader's card?"

"No," he says, "I've never been here before."

He's right, of course. He's never been here before.  

"Well," I say, "I'll have to take a few details."

He gives me his name and address, and I write them both down in my ledger with my fountain pen. 

"Don't you need to put it in a computer or something?" he says.

"We don't use computers here. Your name will suffice."

 I check his name against our index, knowing full well what I will find. There it is. 

"You have a reserved book."

He laughs.

"But I've never been here before," he says, "I don't even really know where this is."

"Nevertheless," I say, "You have a book waiting for you. It has been set aside for you."

"Who reserved it for me? How long has it been reserved?"

"A very long time," I say, "It's over there on the reserved shelf."

He shrugs.

"What's the title?"

"No title."

"Then how will I know which one is mine?"

"What is today's date?" I ask. He tells me today's date.

"That is what it will be under, then," I say. I point to the only lit corner of the library, towards the shelves of black volumes by the window. It's very dark outside. "Over there on the reserved shelf. You can leave these books here."

Away he goes, baffled and concerned. Off towards the black shelves. I know the book that he's going to look at. I hope he likes it. 

Every other part of the library is in total blackness now, and he's walking along underneath a streak of velvet light. He's walking slowly and only now remembers that he is still missing his watch. Perhaps he's wondering whether he'll ever see it again.

The book he's looking at now was written about thirty to forty years ago. It's not a very exciting book. It's like one of those David Copperfield, "I am born," "I fall in love," "I become a man," kind of novels, but less interesting. I had a chance to flick through it when it came in. What startled me when I read it was the graphic description at the climax of the book. I hope he is prepared for it.

He's picked it up now and is beginning to read. 

At the very end of the book, the part he is just getting to now, the main character is driving back from work in a rush to get home and see his family, his loving wife, and two young children. He's a great character, really, if a bit impulsive. Sadly, he is a bit reckless, too, and like most people, doesn't feel like he's got enough time for everything he wants to achieve. 

Yes, there it is. He's reading the worst bit now. 

The protagonist checks his watch but, in that instant, loses control of his car and flips it off a grass verge onto its top. It's in the middle of rush hour, so it takes the ambulance a while to get to him. Meanwhile, he is drifting in and out of consciousness, but no one can get him out of the wrecked vehicle because his watch is caught. In the end, the paramedics have to cut the watch off his wrist in order to get him out and begin resuscitation. It's too late, though. I hate this job sometimes.

He's back now and has brought the book with him. The black shelves are in darkness too. Now it's just me and him and the desk and the door. 

"Would you still like to take these other books, sir?" I say.

"No," he says. "No, I think I'll leave them behind."

"That's fine. And this other book? You can leave that behind as well if you would prefer."

He thinks about it for a moment.

"I've got the time? " he asks and instinctively looks for his watch, "I've got time to take it with me?"

I put on my coat, sign out his book, and shut out the light. He follows me to the door, and I open it for him.

"You've got all the time in the world to read it now," I say before leaving the library behind in total darkness.