One quarter-inch ‘a tobacco-juice-colored dust coats erry single-family home, Ford pickup truck, ‘n brick-faced business in Guymon, Oklahoma through ‘n through. Folks can keep all but the insides ‘a their noses clean, ‘cause no amount ‘a tissue wipes away that sticky, vanilla bean-like paste for good. As a kid, I thought it was funny Mother worked so hard ‘ta keep the dust out of da house, seeing as one of my chores wadn’t sweeping da insides of folks’ caskets, and I guess God agreed with me, ‘cause right at the beginning He say somethin’ like, ‘You came from dust and you gon’ return there, too.’
My auto repair shop ain’t no different than the rest of da poor half ‘a town—shabby, honest, a ‘lil behind in rent, ‘n, like I say, covered in dust, ‘n I ain’t no different than the rest of da folks here either—a face as plain as beans, womb dry like bad cornbread, and personality a ‘lil tangy, same as pickled chow chow. We got nottin special, nottin ‘ta hide, nottin ‘ta hate, nottin ‘ta envy, nottin ‘ta take.
The other side ‘a town got more, ‘n all the problems that come with it. Main Street cut us in half like a deer strung up for guttin’: my side a compost pile—we been here too long and are startin’ to stink—the other half come and go as they please, as their businesses please, shinin’ bright one minute and bowels scooped out da next, like jack-o-lanterns at Halloween.
Some new folk stopped at my auto repair shop this mornin’ drivin’ none other than a red C2 Corvette Stingray, seeing as the check engine light was flashin’ like the bracelet ‘round this lady’s skinny wrist. They da kind that look rich but wouldn’t’a picked me ‘n my shop if they had da choice. She look so thin I say to her man, “Sir, you gotta take her to eat a meal ‘cross da street ‘fore da wind knock her over. Your car be done ‘fore you finish.” Only when they left, I noticed ‘nottin was wrong with the car ‘n the first place, only the gas cap was loose, and I tightened it by hand ‘til I heard a click. The rubber seal wadn’t even damaged, so I wadn’t ‘gon charge them none, and that’s why my best friend say, “You ‘gon go outta business Rev, all ‘cause you don’ like taking folks’ money.” I just smile and say, “Oh well,” back, but really it’s cause I wish someone woulda fixed Mother and Daddy’s car when they didn’t have no money ta give, ‘cause then maybe that crash never woulda happened, and Mother coulda yelled, “Why your shop so dusty?” and got busy with her broom, and Daddy coulda told her, “She doin’ just fine.”
‘Cause I had time ‘fore the rich folk gon’ come back, I took a stroll down Main Street. At each window I could tell ‘ya who owned it, what school their children attend, and where their kin buried, too. Somethin’ special caught my eye this mornin’, which that ‘n itself was special, ‘cause nottin ever surprised me here anymore, ‘sides that birthday party the town threw me last week. The Guymon Public Library was that somethin’ special. I hadn’t thought ‘bout that buildin’ in at least twenty years, since Jessie Ray kissed me on a field trip ‘n his girlfriend Sue Sharp didn’t take to it too well. I still never been invited to their house. The library done caught the jack-o-lantern plague and had da ugliest, geometric, shaggy carpet I’d e‘er laid eyes on.
“I would much rather have you inside, my Special One,” a voice frail as Mother’s Christmas peanut brittle said as da door swung open. A little old woman pushed me inside so quick she near tripped over her straw sandal flip-flops.
“All—all right,” I frowned. “How long you been in Guymon, ma’am?”
The pale, yellowish wrinkles on her face rippled in the wind when she say, “A while.”
“And how long you stayin’?”
“As long as it takes.”
I looked her o’er head ta toe and couldn’t make sense ‘a her. O’er a fitted linen dress she was wearin’ another dress made from these blue beads, with lil’ bells on the hem that tinkled when she walk. Her dark eyes had black makeup along da edges. ‘Round her neck and ankles and wrists were jewelry and pendants made ‘a gold ‘n gemstones. I’d never seen anythin’ like her in all my life.
Her mind seemed ta be stuck somewhere else, like my old neighbor Mrs. Wilma, so I didn’t ask her what she mean. Not that I had the chance to say anythin’ anyhow, because she kept on talkin’ by herself. “I am caretaker of the Great Library.”
She ain’t either! The shelves look bad I don’ think they been touched with a human hand since mine! I’d have to agree with Mother: the place needed dustin’. Her library look so bad I think a few of da books screamed out ta me ta put ‘em out ‘a their misery. “Well, you get da hang of it I’m sure,” I said, but I couldn’t tell her da truth if I tried… this place was fit for fire. And what she mean Great Library? Only Guymon residents who thought this library was Great were da mice!
She say, “I find myself rather spellbound here! I think library shelves draw humans inward, and the Guymon Public Library is no exception. What is your occupation?”
‘N I told her.
“And where did you come of age?”
‘N I told her that, too. Why couldn’ I stop talkin’?
“Anything else you would like to say, my Special One?” she asked.
“No ma’am I’m just answerin’ your questions is all,” I said back.
“Say whatever you feel particularly bound to say. The contents are of little consequence.” Her long fingers impatiently adjusted the big ol’ pendant ‘round her neck like I was keepin’ her open past 5 o’clock.
Her manner ‘a speakin’ was so odd she couldn’t ‘a talked to another soul in years! I shoulda made Mrs. Wilma come in here wit me ‘cause the two ‘a them would be best buds.
“Well, that’s all I got ta say, so I’ll ask you a question, I guess: what do you do in here all day?”
“I tend to some of the books.”
The books she tend to must be a special few! “Some? Which books you tend to?”
“Smart you are! I shall show you. How would you like a book, yourself?”
“Fine,” I coughed ‘n spit da tobacco-juice-colored dust right on da floor ‘cause it ain’t gone make no difference in a place like ‘dis. “But make it a good’n.”
“It is up to you if it is good. But, as I already told you, the contents are of little consequence to me.”
“I thought the sayin’ was, ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’? Don’t you only care what’s in it?”
She just smiled ‘n waved me deep into the library, past the corner where I got kissed, past the shelf where I picked out my first book on cars. Books was errywhere. I had to step o’er piles ‘a pages, overturned shelves, ‘n a dead mouse. I didn’t have no trouble movin’ around but I did have trouble thinkin’ up a reason da old lady was managin’ herself so well. It’s like she had become some young girl again, jumpin’ ‘n skippin’.
“What’s this?” I asked ‘n stopped at a photograph hangin’ on the wall. The date in the corner was smudged, but it look like it said sometime in da 1840s!
“A photograph,” she sighed, impatient for no good reason. “Keep moving!”
“But it look like you! You got the same dress on! And, my stars, look at that—the pyramids ‘a Egypt!” As I leaned closer somethin’ ‘bout the image look wrong: the woman sure ‘nough was the one leadin’ me now, but was somehow older ‘n the photograph that hung on da wall! Mind me, the woman before me now was old, but da one in da picture look ancient, with more winkles on her face and more tiredness in her eye.
“My mother. Come on! Faster!”
“Ah, that make sense,” I say but it don’t. Not really.
After a few more minutes ‘a walkin’ we stopped. How had the lil’ library I grew up ‘round got so big? Did it grow wit’ me? Only then did I realize I was breathin’ real heavy, tired from tryin’ to keep up with an old woman! She become giddy, whistlin’ ‘n gestured to some big shelves with hundreds ‘a thousands ‘a books on ‘em.
“How you keep da dust offa them? Only thing not covered in dust in this town is da livin’!”
She smiled real big but didn’t say nothin’.
I reached for the book an’ it felt real weird, real fragile. The cover was a photograph of an old man with he eyes closed, so I ask, “Why he eyes closed?”
“Marcus Tullius Cicero said, ‘The face is a picture of the mind as the eyes are its interpreter,’ whereas Matthew the Apostle quotes Jesus Christ when he writes, ‘The eye is the lamp of the body,” and William Shakespeare is credited with the following: ‘The eyes are the window to your soul,’ but, I would rather let my books do those things, so you cannot look into his eyes.”
“You wrote these books?”
“Made them. I already you: it is not the writing that is important.”
I opened the book anyhow. “Red ink? I thought only Jesus got to talk in red.”
“My special color,” she say and pull on her gold and red pendant again.
“Ah… I know dis man! He came ta my auto shop a few weeks ago. He said he gon’ come back ‘n bring his other car but he didn’t.”
“Go on, my Special One. Say whatever you think is nice.”
“Oh, you’re writin’ my book?” I asked ‘n put da book back on da shelf.
“Making your book!” She started shufflin’ ‘round ‘n tryin’ ta dust off the shelf to make it cleaner and da rows straighter. “I make lots. More than almost all the other caretakers.”
I glanced at my watch and saw da hands were already makin’ the shape of a slice ‘a pie you get when the server don’ really like you none! “One o’clock? I gotta go! Those new folk gonna be mad at me!”
“No, the sun is ideal to make yours now.”
“But da police captain’s comin’ by soon ‘cause his check engine light been on for weeks! I’ll come back tomorrow ‘n we can start then.” I had no intention ‘a comin’ back, but that was da nice thing ta say.
“No. You shall not leave.”
I woulda been scared if she hadn’t been so old! I turned to leave anyways ‘n she put a heavy, bony hand on my shoulder that felt like it weigh more than da shiny C2 Corvette Stingray! I shook it off ‘n walked away. Quick. Next thing I know a book sailed past my head, nearly missin’ my ear! She was throwin’ books at me! By then I was runnin’—this lady crazy! I could hear her behind me, throwin’ books, flyin’ everywhere, jumpin’ ‘round pillars ‘n stacks. A bookshelf crashed to my left and I screamed, “AH!” like I was watchin’ a horror film. Did she do that on purpose? Did she push that bookshelf so it would fall on top ‘a me? All this fuss over writin’ my book now rather than later! Making my book I corrected myself, ‘n my stomach flip-flopped like her shoes.
This wasn’t no library, it was a labyrinth! The rows seemed ta sway, the pages fluttering to make a wind and push me backward toward da crazy bookmaker caretaker lady. I passed da picture again, but da distraction from my feet was just enough to trip ‘oer da first car book I ‘ere read, ‘n land hard on da book itself. My head went a ‘lil fuzzy ‘n when I stood up there she be! She look so old I almost didn’t recognize her—how had she aged so quick? Her eyes were dark and a smile was peekin’ through her cracked lips as the red pendant ‘round her neck started shinin’ brighter and brighter. It glowed when a sudden tiredness came over me, but it didn’t take away my fear. She heaved an encyclopedia into my chest ‘n I flew back into the shelves, feelin’ like two-thousand hands was pulling in. I felt myself go numb ‘n my eyes close. One final flash ‘a red lit up behind ma eyelids like a Christmas tree. My eyes ne’er opened again. But I did feel soft hands on me, carryin’ me to a spotless shelf, then a young woman’s voice say, “Closer, ever closer, to restoring what Alexandria lost! See now, my Special One? You are far better as a book!”
VOLUME MMLXXII: THE MECHANIC
‘One quarter-inch ‘a tobacco-juice-colored dust coats erry single-family home, Ford pickup truck, ‘n brick-faced business in Guymon, Oklahoma through ‘n through…’
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