The Librarianist

Sandy answered the door in a cooking smock, a cigarette dangling from his lip. “The quiche is cooling,” he said. He led Bob to his den, put on a Martin Denny record, and promptly made a pass. Bob drew away, wiping his mouth and describing his disinclination; Sandy looked surprised, almost incredulous. “You’re telling me you’re not a fairy?” he said.

“Yes, I’m not.”

Sandy sat down. “Are you just saying that because you don’t trust me? Because, Bob? I’m a fairy to the tips of my toes.”

“Yes, I understand. But no, that’s not why I’m saying it.”

“Huh,” Sandy said. “All along and I was sure you were.”

Bob wanted to say he was sorry, but that didn’t feel correct, or fair, or true, so he said, “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

Sandy shrugged, his face reflecting a thorough disenchantment. He said, “What a lot of time I gave you.”

Bob was hurt to learn that Sandy’s lengthy attentions were rooted in something other than fellowship. Sandy saw this hurt and said, “I’m sorry, Bob. I know I’m being an asshole about it. But you have to understand I had a whole story going. I thought this was the beginning of something, and it’s not, and that’s okay, but I’m going to need a minute to recover.” They sat to eat the quiche and Sandy told Bob what it would be like to work under Miss Ogilvie. “Ogilvie the Ogre. People call her a bitch and in their defense I believe she is a bitch. But she’s also the librarianist par excellence. The northwest branch is the tightest of tight ships, which endears her to the top brass, which is why she gets all the new stock and periodicals, new carpeting installed every five years, fresh paint, amenity updates, and all the rest of it. Actually, Bob, you may have lucked into something good here, because the Ogre’s not getting any younger — not that anyone is. But she’ll be gone before too long, and whoever gets her recommendation will likely inherit the kingdom. A word to the wise. Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.”

“Any intelligent young person’s inclination would be to go against her. It’s the correct thing to do in that her ideas are old and awful and in all honesty she probably should be cast aside; but it’s the wrong way to go about it if you want to make a difference in the long term. Don’t battle a battler, is what I’m telling you. When she’s put out to pasture, or when she receives her last reward, then you can slip right into her hobnail boots and revamp the entire apparatus.”

As the evening wound down, Sandy became maudlin in the looking-back manner. “All my life, all I ever wanted was to be alone in a room filled with books. But then something awful happened, Bob, which was that they gave it to me.”

“But that’s the same thing I want,” said Bob.

“Well hang on to your hat, funny face, because it looks like they’re going to give it to you, too.” Later, when he walked Bob to the door, Bob held out his hand to shake and Sandy looked at the hand and said, “Oh my God.” Bob never contacted Sandy again, and neither did Sandy contact Bob, which was fine, actually, though Bob would always think of him with a fondness of almost-admiration. Bob had liked him for his meanness, drollness, intellect, and antiworldness; but he was relieved by his own relative simplicity, if that was what it was.

DURING BOB’S TWENTY-THIRD YEAR HIS MOTHER ABRUPTLY AND unexpectedly died, leaving him the mint-colored house, which she owned free and clear, the Chevy, which was two years old, and an inheritance of almost twenty thousand dollars. He was not very much burdened by her passing but made lonely by his not understanding who his mother had been in life, and why she’d had a child in the first place. She was not in any way a bad person, but disappointed, and so by extension disappointing, at least to Bob she was.