The Joy of Reading

Libraries are boring.

I know, simply saying something that willfully ignorant is enough to make every boomer in the world clutch their pearls in shock and disgust; but it doesn’t make it any less true. No one my age actually or willingly reads books anymore. Sure, they’re foisted upon us in the classroom, and when we’re being monitored, we thumb through the weird smelling pages as we attempt to glean whatever information we can in the most archaic and painstakingly boring way possible, but it’s not like we’re thrilled to do it.

On our own, we would never be caught dead reading. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that I don’t think that I know any adults who still have the urge to crack open a book. It’s the twenty-first century! We have billion-dollar computers in our pockets; why would we bother with something as simple or pedestrian as some old, dusty, boring novel.

Do you know what’s easier than reading? Youtube. TikTok. Narrated summaries from all of the nerds out there who pretend to love it, make stupid videos about it, and teach you everything that you need to pass whatever test you have to take after you use some ChatGPT site to write your paper for you. We’re living in a digital age, and print is dead. Anyone who tries to tell you differently is a fossil who can’t figure out how to use a tablet or cellphone.

Or so I used to think.

I have no idea what brought me to that section of the library, or even what book I was hoping to find. I just know that I had no money, some time to kill, and thought maybe there could be a box of old comic books or something actually entertaining to look at as I waited for my next class. The narrow, dusty aisles crammed full of boring books of every shape and size seemed like an endless maze, and to be honest, I was more intrigued by the maze-like corridor than any story that might have been stacked in the shelves that lined the walls. Weaving up and down row after endless row, I was about to give up when something glinted in the overhead lighting and caught my eye.

It was a key. A small, silver key dangling from a bread twist-tie, hanging off what appeared to be a thumbtack that someone had pressed firmly into the wall and forgot about.

“Yoink.” I grinned to myself as I plucked it from its resting place and brought it closer to my eyes for a quick examination. It was a simple key, silver in color, and it looked as if it might fit a standard door lock. Glancing around the narrow, book-bricked aisle, I could see no immediate place to use it, so shrugging to myself I placed it back on its makeshift hook, where it promptly fell to the ground, clattering as loudly as a key that doesn’t belong to you will clatter when dropped.

Bending to pick it from the floor, I was just about to straighten when I noticed something odd: the bottom of the bookcase in front of me had a hinge. Furrowing my brow, I ran my fingers over the metal hinge plate and then looked up to confirm what I had already started to suspect. More hinges. This section of the bookcase could swing open, perhaps to close off the corridor, or more likely than not…

Finding the far end of the shelf where it butted against another identical row of old books, I gave a cursory tug to test for sort of resistance and was more than a little bit surprised when the bookcase itself, swung freely open. Behind the shelving, hidden from view was a fresh layer of dust and cobwebs, and a plain brown, unassuming door.

A forgotten janitor’s closet? Some sort of secret room? My mind spun with the possibilities as I pulled out my cell phone to document my adventures for the modest number of followers that I could normally reach, only to find the battery mostly dead and U2’s “Songs of Innocence” playing on silent loop.

I hate that album almost as much as I hate the phone that stubbornly restored it every single time that I tried to delete it. It was a stupid promo, and more than once I had to explain to someone why I had two half naked men hugging each other on my screen.

Cursing both Bono’s penchant for nudity and his name, I dropped my phone back into my pocket and tried the doorknob, which of course was locked. Loose and wobbly in my grip like it was about to snap off, I gave the knob another quick jiggle before remembering the silver key in my hand. Sliding it into the lock just to the side of the doorknob, it fit perfectly and turned with such ease, that for a half second it almost seemed to be doing so with a will of its own.

Peeking cautiously around the door’s frame revealed the small, boring room within. Lit by a round skylight and little else, it contained two comfortable looking but old chairs, a table, a dusty throw blanket, and a thick, leatherbound book.

I had found a reading room, in a library. Huzzah.

Pulling the bookcase closed and quietly shutting the door behind me just in case this room was off limits, I found myself alone in the tiny study, marveling for a moment at how well the sky light really illuminated the place. Like the blanket, the chairs and tables were dusty, and the book looked old and worn.

“Every Book Ever Written”, I read out loud as I picked up the leatherbound tome. What a stupid title. I smirked, cracking it open as I flopped heavily into the incredibly soft and inviting chair.

“The sun did not shine, it was too wet to play, so we sat in the house all that cold, cold wet day.” I read with bemusement as patters of rain began to fall above me, slapping against the skylight in clear, wet smudges. Even without the illustrations, I remembered the words from my childhood and found myself smiling at the familiarity of them.

“Why do you sit, sit in that chair?” A friendly, sing-song voice inquired, shattering the silence I hadn’t realized I had been enjoying. “Why do you sit, and at that book, stare?” It finished as I looked up, my eyes widening in heart pounding mixture of surprise and fear.

Towering above me stood the Cat in the Hat.

This wasn’t some cartoon or illustration, nor was it some actor in a suit. Looming over me, trying to read the very words on the page I held in my hands was an undeniably real, extremely large black and white cat-man thing. Upon its head, the creature wore a red striped hat and around its neck, a matching bowtie that it adjusted with two cat-like paws as it smiled down at me, awaiting my answer.

So, I screamed.

That was my only answer.

I screamed, loudly.

Panic inducing flight, I scrambled frantically over the side of the chair, falling to the floor. Leaping to my feet, I quickly skirted the room, avoiding the beast and flung open the door. The already loose doorknob rattled in the frame as I slammed it behind me, locking it as quickly as my frightened fingers would allow.

And then I ran.

I ran until I was out of the library, out of the building, out of the parking lot, and off school grounds. Fingers trembling, I sat in the coffee shop window, shakily holding a drink that I didn’t even remember ordering as I tried in vain to make any sense of what had just happened to me. Hallucination? No. That was real, I was certain of it. I’ve always hated the “dreaming” trope from television and movies, and I knew in my heart that nothing that big, or that real could be a hallucination or my mind playing tricks on me. I could hear its voice, smell its fur, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was real.

The Cat in the Hat.

Obviously, I told no one. In fact, I avoided the library for at least solid week before my curiosity finally got the better of me. What if I had been hallucinating? What if I hadn’t? I had to know, and the only way to get any answers was to go back. Steeling myself against my own better judgement and fear, I stood up, resigned myself to my foolish bravery, and then waited another week and a half before finally working up the nerve to go back.

The library looked exactly the same as it had the day I fled, and as I hit the older section where I had stumbled upon the secret room, the only disturbances in the dust and debris that coated the floor were my footprints arriving, and hastily fleeing. Craning my neck and ensuring that I was still indeed alone, I reached for the bookcase and the now even more wiggly doorknob, unlocked the door and once again entered the small reading room.

Two chairs, a small table, and a leatherbound book, but no Cat in the Hat.

Still on edge, but overcome with relief, I cautiously made my way to the chair and reached for the book.

“I’m going to open the book now.” I announced loudly, my voice echoing the empty room. “And I’m going to read it.” I cautioned, but my warning fell to my ears alone.

Opening the book, I frowned slightly as I looked down at the blank, empty page. Flipping through the book only brought more of the same discovery: it was blank.

“What the hell?” I grumbled, sitting in the chair as I closed the book at looked at the leather cover and title. “Every Book Ever Written” still embossed the dark binding, that hadn’t changed. Was I insane? Had I hallucinated? Opening the book with more than a little disappoint, my heart immediately began to pound.

Words graced the pages once more.

“Call me Ishmael?” I read out loud, the opening statement sound more like a question in my confusion.

“I knew a fella by that name.” A gruff, calloused voice informed me from the vicinity of the other chair. “Green hand. Was some sort of teacher, I think.”

Fear vibrating through my heart, I somehow managed to turn my head to the man now seated beside me in the second chair, but my own voice lay frozen in my throat.

He was a big, burly man, but noticeably older and greying. His skin was wizened and cracked as if he spent each and every day staring directly at the sun. A large, wicked looking scar ran the length of his face, before disappearing beneath the black, heavily button coat that he wore. He seemed almost comfortable as he wiggled in the chair, testing it with a few simple bounces before sinking back with a satisfied sigh.

“Captain Ahab.” I managed to squeak, my voice cracking.

“Aye.” He nodded, closing his eyes as he spoke.

“Am I going insane?” I asked, pulling myself to the furthest corners of my own chair as I studied him.

“Human madness is oftentimes a cunning and most feline thing.” He smiled, and I had no idea if he was quoting something or referencing the Cat in the Hat from before.

A shadow of something large passed overhead, blotting out the light from the window and drawing my eye upward just in time to see a massive black form as it crossed the glass that now appeared to be at the bottom of some vast ocean. Glancing down at the book in confusion, I was amazed to find my hand turning the pages as Captain Ahab continued to speak, almost as if I were providing the mechanism that allowed him his story; a child’s hand winding a toy.

We spoke for hours, and he told me of his life, his journey and the great white whale that plagued him. He knew of his own folly, his gruesome death and as I reached the final page in the book, he stood, smiled, and advised me to never let hate rule my heart.

And then he was gone.

From that moment on, I was hooked.

This room, this book; together they somehow brought to life the very world of whichever story appeared on the old, dog-eared pages. I had no conscious memory of ever actually reading, but instead learned the stories from the characters themselves as they narrated their own tale and my hands moved from chapter to chapter. I spoke strategy with long dead Generals, learned of wormholes and the cosmos from Space Pirates, laughed with jesters and fools, cried with every tragedy, and just between you and I, the day a steamy, smutty, trashy, romance novel appeared, let’s just say I developed a passion for reading.

As I learned, I felt myself beginning to change. My grades improved, my teachers were impressed with the knowledge that I had gained, almost as if I had witnessed the events firsthand. The lauded my insight, encouraged my reading, and on most days, I was all but sprinting to my secret study in hopes of furthering my thirst for knowledge and adventure.

How could I have been so naïve, so wrong? Print isn’t dead, it’s life itself, and I felt foolish for ever having thought otherwise.

As I greeted Alice, the Librarian, I made show of taking the long way to my studies, never once asking or inquiring about the room. It was mine now, and I had no interest in sharing it with anyone but the bevy of characters I had come to know and love. Thermos and two porcelain teacups in one hand and a full package of Mega-Stuffed Oreo cookies in the other, I crept down the forgotten section and quietly moved the bookcase.

The tea was something that I had stumbled across while reading. Mary Poppins herself sang of their merits and while most characters were content to share their stories, a spot of well-mannered encouragement as she put it, would go a long way in loosening them up. The Oreos however, were a happy little accident, and from the way Napoleon had polished off a whole sleeve in under a minute, I made a vow to never come here without them again.

Pulling open the bookcase, I produced the key and inserted into the simple lock as I had done a dozen times before, only to have it fall to the floor the moment I attempted to turn it. Frowning, I juggled my reading supplies and retrieved the key. This time it turned without fail and the door unlatched with a reassuring click. Smiling in anticipation, I turned the old brass knob, but to my dismay, it gave one last weakened wiggle before coming loose in my hand.

The screw bolt that held it in place was stripped. I had known for the last few weeks that this was a possibility and that I should repair it, but in my haste to read, I let it go. I had wrongfully assumed that if it were to break, it would have done so by now, and that more likely than not, it would last forever.

Carefully lining the metal tube on the end of the knob with its receptacle, I slowly and gingerly turned the doorknob, and to my relief, the door opened without further incident. Making a mental note to stop by the hardware store on my way home, I stepped into my now very clean, very comfortable room and gently closed the bookcase and door behind me.

Almost as if performing some sacred ritual, I placed the teacups upon the table, each close to one of the chairs, and poured two cups of perfectly brewed tea. Exchanging the cookies for the book of “Every Book Ever Written”, I pulled the blanket close around me, snuggled down into the chair and smiled as the pages came to life.

“The terror, which would not end for another twenty-eight years – if it ever did end – began, so far as I know or can tell, with a boat made from a sheet of newspaper floating down a gutter swollen with rain.” I read slowly, my heart thumping in almost immediate recognition.

An icy ripple of pure fear blossomed up my spine like frost slowly overtaking a pane of glass. Slamming the book closed as quickly as humanly possible I shot a panicked glance to the other chair and then around the room to confirm that I was still alone.

Only silence, an empty chair, some cookies and two steaming cups of tea answered.

“Well, this isn’t happening.” I vowed as I leapt from the comfortable chair, bolted the short distance across the room and yanked on the doorknob with strength born of fear.

To my absolute horror, it came off in my hand. From the other side I heard a clatter and a heavy thud as the second half of the doorknob broke free.

I started to curse, but my blood ran cold as a giggle rang out behind me. Light, amused, and almost musical in its notes, the disembodied laughter was more than enough to cause my vulgarities to fall from numbed lips. Eyes closed, my breath refusing to leave my chest, I slowly turned towards the direction of the sound and forced myself to look.

Beyond the normal furnishings, the room was blessedly empty, and I felt my heart begin to beat once more. It was still just me, the tea and cookies, the two old and battered chairs, and the very top of the object that was slowly rising from behind them.

A single red balloon.