On a pleasant afternoon long long ago, the neighborhood mail carrier delivers a letter to me, a brief missive from someone who has never before seen fit to write to me.
Namely the public library.
Adopting what I’m sure it thinks is a lighthearted, nonthreatening tone, the library informs me that a book I have borrowed is significantly overdue and that I should consider returning it because other patrons might want to read it.
Oh, and by the way, the library has placed a “stop” on my card.
And what is the title of this great work of literature that I am accused of holding hostage?
“Japanese Decorative Art.”
Now I have nothing against the Japanese.
And I have nothing against art.
And I have nothing against decorations — as long as nobody is asking me to put some up.
But present me with a book that combines all three of these elements and you will see a yawn that is wide enough to easily accommodate the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
And I have a hard time believing that other patrons are clamoring to get their mitts on this opus.
But I need to make it clear to the library that I don’t have it. More important, I need to get the “stop” removed from my card in case I might someday want to borrow a book that is not called “Japanese Decorative Art.”
As I head to the downtown library, I suspect I know what happened.
In those days, whenever I took out a book, a clerk would open it and run a penlike device over a little code — the forerunner of what we now know as the ubiquitous Universal Product Code. I can’t help thinking that someone ahead of me in line borrowed “Japanese Decorative Art” and somehow it wound up on my card because the clerk screwed up. (Not to be uncharitable, but on previous visits to the library I have had the impression that when it comes to brightness, some of the clerks aren’t exactly operating at the highest wattage.)
But the woman in charge of the desk today obviously has no problems when it comes to brightness — or that pesky little thing called humility. When I tell her that I don’t have and never have had the book, she checks the stacks and says they still don’t have it. And when I tell her my theory about what really happened, she tries to humor me by saying that it could have happened, but it’s extremely unlikely. A computer making mistakes? Now really.
But she deigns to do me the great favor of taking the “stop” off my card anyway. “And if you happen to remember that you lent the book to your Aunt Minnie, you can return it then!”
Hmm. Here I thought I was supposed to be patronizing the library, not the other way around.
Some weeks later I present my theory to a longtime friend, a veteran librarian who works at the Albany Law School. She says that yes, the scenario I put forward is quite possible.
On later visits to the library, I never happen to see the woman who was at the desk that day.
Perhaps Aunt Minnie is holding her hostage.
