When I first saw the title of this one I thought William Collen had decided to go against my preconceptions of him and write a simple, practical, how-to guide sort of post. I was ever so slightly disappointed but of course I trust his judgement and his body of work speaks for itself.
But still I was relieved (and indeed delighted) when it turns out that what I had before me was in fact an excellent short story. He had me going for a second there.
Enjoy.
TJB.
Some really freaky stuff happened to me yesterday. It was all because I need to do some research about Jasper Johns for an essay I’m writing. I went to my local public library website but they had almost nothing. One old video from the nineties about Jasper puttering around in his studio and making prints, and then maybe two books. That was it. These days it seems more and more like public libraries are succumbing to some sort of mission creep—now it seems they are more community centers or places where homeless people can use the internet. And I don’t begrudge the homeless people at all—they are welcome at the library, in my view—but all the space devoted to computers could be used for books. And my hometown public library has an annoying habit of selling books that they consider “excess.” If they’re always going around getting rid of books, the library isn’t worth much as a research institution. So what’s the point of going to a library then?
The university library, on the other hand, has an absolutely enormous, utterly comprehensive collection of books. They also have periodicals, in these cool sliding shelves that move in and out from each other when a button is pressed. The cataloging system is rather arcane, though—I’m a Dewey decimal man myself, and the university library is organized by the Library of Congress system. But with a little effort, it can be broached. When I went there I found like fifteen books about Jasper Johns and his art—biographies, critical evaluations, exhibition catalogs—they had everything I needed. But here's the problem: since I don’t attend classes at the university, I’m not allowed to borrow books.
I’ve bumped into this rather annoying rule in the past and I’ve tried to get around it before. When I was taking classes at the local trade school I had no problem checking out books at the university library, because the two institutions had a reciprocal agreement. But now, there was nothing I could do. One time I tried calling them to see if there was any way I could be allowed to borrow books, but the person on the other end of the line didn’t seem to be understanding my question. This time my patience was about worn thin. I had a huge pile of books that would be perfect for my research—but I wasn’t allowed to take them home and read them! I decided to go to the help desk and make a desperate plea for access. I was willing to do whatever they wanted short of enrolling in classes—if they wanted me to pay money for a special library card, I’d do that.
So I went up to the desk and immediately I was beset by a sociological / political problem: how to phrase my request? The only person at the desk was a guy who looked about my age. Should I be all business, no small talk? Or should I chat the guy up a bit, maybe frame the question as some sort of a guy-to-guy favor? You know—"help a fellow man out,” that sort of thing? Which approach would get me the results I wanted? As I was thinking, another clerk came up to the desk. This one was a young woman of college age—20 or so. This complicated things. Should I ignore the girl and talk to the guy? Would that be perceived by both or either of them as misogynist? On the other hand, maybe I should I go up to the girl and maybe flirt a little? What if I do that, and the girl gets creeped out and calls campus security? What should I do? What if they secretly have crushes on each other and they both want to be perceived by the other as cool, sexy, suave, etc., etc.? Depending on who I approach and what tactic I take, would they appear flatteringly in the other’s eyes? What if it’s the other way around and they hate each other? The sexual / interpersonal / political / psychological situation was quite a delicate one. Maybe I should just do my research online.
I had been staring at the help desk for a few minutes (at a discreet distance so as not to attract attention to myself) when fortunately the desk phone rang and the girl answered it, so the choice was made for me. I went up to the man.
“Hi,” I said. “I wonder if you could help me with something. I’m doing some research and I’ve found quite a lot of books [I had brought the entire pile of Jasper Johns books with me to try and garner some sympathy] but since I don’t take classes here I can’t check them out. I really need to get this research paper done since I’m due to give a talk at a symposium in a few weeks [this was a lie, but I figured some trumped-up urgency wouldn’t hurt]. Is there any way I could get borrowing privileges here? Is there any sort of annual fee I could pay that would allow me to check out books, maybe even on only a provisional basis or with a monthly limit or something like that? Do you have any such program?”
They guy looked at me, looked at the books I had piled onto the counter, and then looked at me again. He moved his mouth like he was going to say something and gave a sort of half-sigh. Then he said “um, let me talk to my manager. She’s in the back room. I’ll just go get her and then I will be back in a few minutes.”
I thought this was going well; I hadn’t received a flat-out no. The girl at the other end of the counter got done with her phone call, looked at me and my books, and then proceeded to start typing really fast on the computer in front of her. (Have you ever noticed that all a public functionary, DMV employee, bank clerk, or any person with that sort of public/ private work environment needs to do to look extremely busy is just type away at a keyboard? I mean, they could be typing random gobbledygook and you’d never know, and they can do it for as long as they want with impunity, and there’s nothing you can do about it.)
After about five minutes the guy came back with . . . the manager, I guess? He had brought with him a woman who was abnormally tall—about six and a half or even seven feet, maybe. And I’m not joking when I said she looked like an angel. She had very long wavy blond hair which cascaded down her back and shoulders; she was wearing some kind of white silk floor-length dress with long sleeves and lace cuffs; and she was wearing a crown. A crown! I’m serious! Diamonds and rubies and everything! She looked like Galadriel from that Peter Jackson Lord of the Rings movie. She was holding a long staff with a golden orb on the top of it. She stared straight at me. “What is your wish?” she asked. “Uhhh,” I said. “I’m wondering if there was anything I could do to get borrowing privileges here. I’m, uh, writing an essay about Jasper Johns [still staring at me with this completely indifferent imperious gaze.] and, um, I need to . . . check out these books . . .” She looked at my pile of books. “Do you mean the painter?” She asked. “Yes,” I said.
She furrowed her brow, for a bit, then: “Come around to this side of the desk and then follow me.” Okay, I thought, what now? Where are we going? We can’t just sign some papers here at the desk?
After I came around to her side of the desk, she led me into the room where she had come from. On the other end of this room was a door leading into a stairwell. It was one of those old, backrooms-type stairwells with cinder block walls and metal stairs; the door echoed when it closed. We walked quickly down about three flights of stairs and then went into a dark passage lit with torches. I’m not kidding! Torches! We hurried down this corridor I don’t know how far. I noticed that the guy from the help desk wasn’t with us.
“I’m taking you to see Clio, muse of history and scholarship,” she explained as we went on. “When we reach her presence, you are to kneel with eyes averted until she gives you permission to look at her. You are not to speak unless spoken to first. You will be asked a series of questions to which your answer must always and only be ‘I will.’ Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. What am I getting myself into? I thought. Maybe it would be better if I just took a night class at the trade school again?
We reached the end of the corridor and came to an impossibly huge and heavy old oaken door. The lady pounded on the door twice with her staff, and it opened from the inside.
There was room, dimly lit with more torches. The walls looked like raw stone, like in a cave. On the far wall of the room was some sort of raised platform with bowls of smoking incense, and above them . . . I said this first lady was tall but the lady we now in front of us was tall. Like maybe nine or so feet tall. But I could only see her head and shoulders—everything else was obscured by all the smoke.
“COME FORWARD!” the lady shouted to me in a clear, cold tone of voice that wasn’t really a shout, but more of a command. I walked towards her and at the last moment remembered to kneel—and to avert my eyes. Previously I had been staring right at her.
“LOOK UPON ME!” She said, with the same tone of voice. At that moment I noticed the first lady, the angel, leave the room. The door closed behind her. Okay now what??! was all I could think.
“Will you solemnly swear to use your gift of scholarship to only pursue what is Good, True, and Beautiful?” The nine-foot-tall lady said. I think by this time her head was glowing. Her auburn hair was flying around in some sort of wind; the whole thing was getting spooky. “WILL YOU??” She said, louder.
“Aah—I will!” I shouted, startled into clarity.
“Will you promise to devote yourself to the greater good, eschewing partisanship and intellectual factions, and pursue an objective, unbiased search for the facts?”
“I will,” I said. Objective? Unbiased? Is that even possible?
“Will you affirm that you are devoting yourself to research for the pure love of the craft, and are unmotivated by pecuniary concerns or the greedy lust for material gain, including the lust for prestige and fame?”
“I will,” I said, although with some mental reservations; I mean, I’m hoping my article makes a big splash once it gets published, and I wouldn’t mind getting paid for it.
“Will you solemnly promise never to mark, underline, scribble, annotate, dog-ear, or otherwise mutilate and deface to books of this University, and to return them in a timely fashion when due?”
This one was easy—I never do any of that stuff, to library books at least. “I will,” I said, with more confidence. Actually there have been a few times I kept books way past their due date; but our local public library doesn’t charge late fees and allows automatic renewals, so I don’t think it’s really a big deal.
There was a flash of light and the smoke got thicker; the woman disappeared. The door opened, and there was Galadriel from before. She had a clipboard in her hand instead of a staff. We walked back down the hall and up the stairs. “Fill out this form,” she said, handing me the clipboard. Once we got back to the desk, she and the girl (the guy wasn’t around anymore) conferred for a minute. The girl ticky-ticked away at the computer, and then a printer behind her made a noise. I was done filling out the form and gave it to the lady. She handed me a library card; it was about the same size as a credit card but not as stiff, and it had a bar code on the back and some long number. There was a line where I could put my signature. “Sign here,” said the lady as she took back the clipboard. I signed the card, and she took my books.
The girl pushed them one by one across something that looked like a big mousepad and handed them back to me. ‘These are all due on the twenty-fifth,” she said. The Galadriel lady wasn’t behind the counter anymore.
“Thanks,” I said. I noticed that the card had an expiration date of three years in the future. “So . . . will I have to do all that again in a few years once this expires?” I asked the girl.
“Do what? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. I . . . don’t think I believe her? Anyway, I got my books, and so now I get to do my essay about Jasper Johns. I don’t think I’m going to keep them past their due date—just to be safe.
Been there. Loved this!
Ha, if it wasn't for your intro, Tom, then i would've been duped myself since William and I share a hometown and i kept thinking, yep this sounds like the university library. . .until the Angel arrived ha! Here's to pure intentions in all our recreational scholarship.