Taking After Inspiration

My backpack thudded against my back as I walked down the cracked sidewalk of the city. Drivers were impatient on the streets as they tried to weave through the 5 o’clock traffic to get home in time for dinner. Some of them wanted to get home to their wives and children. Some wanted to get home to a loving girlfriend. Some wanted to get home to a fluffy pet. And some had no one at home, but simply wanted to be rid of another boring day. I was closest to the last type. Although, not that close. While all of these people honked their car horns at one another, I scraped my shoes on the sidewalk. While all the cars were heading home to a small apartment, or a too crowded flat, or an upscale penthouse, I was heading to a building I didn’t even partially own. 

I stopped at the park, climbing up the stairs of a play structure. I sat down at the top, taking off my backpack and leaning up against the metal bars. My head tucked right underneath the plastic steering wheel, somewhat uncomfortably. Sighing, I sat back up and unzipped my backpack. Taking out a water bottle and a small kerosene camping stove, I sighed again, although it could have been more of a yawn. I poured some water into a small metal pot, set it on the camping stove, and lit the stove. 

“Ellie,” I silently scolded myself “You could have gone to a coffee shop, and just gotten some hot water. But nooooo. You were too awkward to do that again.” After a few minutes, the water started to bubble a bit, letting me know that it was just about boiling. I ripped open the gas station ramen with my teeth, emptying the block of noodles into the water, and letting the flavor packet fall onto my lap. I unwrapped a cafeteria spork to stir the ramen, and shoved the wrapper, along with the ramen packaging, into my bag. After mixing in the flavor packet, I simply sat there, eating the ramen with the plastic spork, that had since bent towards the bottom. I collapsed the camping stove, poured out the remaining broth if you could even call it that, and left the park. 

It was probably 5:30 by now, judging from the fact that the sun was visibly lower on the horizon, and glowed a sunset orange. I walked the last remaining blocks to the library, my final destination for the night. I climbed the steps up the doors, where a guard of sorts stood, opening the tall door for me. Smiling at him, I made my way inside, to a glossy wood table. A large clock on the wall read 5:37, and I simply sat there, daydreaming for the time being.

The library was massive, with stone pillars by the entryway, and dozens of tables, each one sandwiched between two tall bookcases. Everything was made of glossy wood, possibly mahogany, although I doubted it. The ceiling towered above me, and the lights cast a warm glow onto everything. Each table had a small lamp covered in green-tinted glass and a metal cup of pencils. A voice boomed out into the quiet library, saying, 

“The library will close in 15 minutes!” That meant it must be 5:45. I waited just a few minutes longer, then stood up. I slung my backpack over one shoulder and head toward the bathroom. I walked in, opening the gray plastic door to one of the stalls, and went inside. I didn’t lock it behind me, just closed it most of the way, and stood on the toilet seat. The voice boomed out again. “The library is now closed.” I stood there a bit longer, waiting until someone came in and turned off the lights, and I heard the telltale sound of the main doors locking. After a few more seconds of silence, I slid down from my perch upon the toilet, satisfied that everyone had left for the night. 

My footsteps echoed through the room, bouncing off the ceiling, and the multitude of books that sat upon the shelves. I set down my backpack on a warm brown armchair, my favorite one in the whole of the library, and my preferable place to sleep. I ran my fingers along the spines of the books, feeling the old roughly bound books, the new sleek ones with shiny covers, and soft well-loved paperbacks. I scoured the shelves, looking for a specific book, one that I had read many times before. One that you could say, was the inspiration for what my life is right now. 

I wasn’t raised in an “Annie” type orphanage, but it wasn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows either. They didn’t pay all that much attention to us, but they were relatively kind. We had food, although it was always the same. Oatmeal for breakfast, a sandwich for lunch, and an annoyingly lumpy chili for dinner. We had a small library, which is where my fondness for books and libraries in general started. The only books it had were an entire collection of Webster Dictionaries, ABC mysteries, a couple of Doctor Suess books, and my favorite. The Mixed-Up Files of Ms.Basil E. Frankwiler. You may know the book, you may not. It involves two kids hiding out in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

That book inspired me. It inspired me to run away. And honestly, it wasn’t particularly difficult. The adults who ran the orphanage were somewhat neglectful and didn’t even notice that I was gone. The kids were lost in their own worlds, and those who did knew didn’t tell. Something about it called to me. The running away. The independence. So that’s what I did. I took all the cash I had acquired from doing chores around the orphanage, and a purple backpack that I had been brought to the orphanage with. And at that moment, I was longer the same girl. No longer the same girl that grown-ups would meet and croon at, saying,

“Poor, poor child. So sad.” And then put their hands over their hearts. No longer. And as I drifted off to sleep, that’s what I saw. The face of those adults who pitied me. That was the last I’d ever see of that look. 

I was awoken violently, someone grabbing my arm. I jumped, and opened my eyes, immediately regretting it as a blinding light was shined directly in my face. Squinting, I saw a badge, that of a police officer. It seems that someone had found me. Maybe they were sent by the orphanage who finally noticed my absence. Or maybe the police finally found where I slept, and decided that they wanted to interrupt me. 

 I saw the scowling face of an adult looking down on me, nothing like those pitying faces I had seen before. This was anger, disappointment, and annoyance. Like I was a stupid beetle that just refused to be crushed. I was picked up from the chair forcefully, and that scowling face was even closer. The minimal light gave away that it was very early morning before anyone should have been in the library. My arm was twisted painfully behind my back, and I heard the jingling of handcuffs. The cold metal froze my skin as the handcuffs closed around my wrists. I was marched out of the library and into the back of a police car. It smelled like dried sweat and anxiety as the doors closed, and the prisoner locks engaged. 

That was the last time I saw that library and my inspiration that lived inside of it.