The Librarianist

“Possibly you had plans when you came here, but then mislaid them?”

He thought about this. “I don’t believe I did, no,” he said.

“So you just were passing by and washed up here?”

“Well, I’m not enamored of your wordage, but yes, I’ll play along and tell the truth, because really, that’s exactly what happened. In passing, I paused, and then could not move on, and so was washed up like detritus, and on the seashore to boot. It was a funny thing. I had made my retirement and enacted my plan, which was to leave North Dakota and travel by bus all through the Americas. I experienced a high optimism at the commencement of my voyage, but by the time I arrived in Oregon I had been on the road some five weeks and had long since come to grips with the truth of the matter, which was that I disliked most every single feature of my life aboard that slum on wheels. No matter what the advertisements had promised me, I was not ‘accumulating life experience,’ nor was I ‘seeing the country.’ I was trapped in a state of thorough mediocrity, and escape was the only option. But where? I had no friend or relation outside of the Dakotas, and was not at all eager to return home. Days went by and I sat looking out the dirty window, a prisoner studying his cell for some weakness he might exploit to make good his getaway. It was an August afternoon when the bus stopped here, and I got out to stretch my burning back. When I looked up, there was Mr. More, standing on the porch of this hotel, and he waved at me, and I waved back. ‘Are there any rooms available?’ I asked, and his reply: ‘Nothing but rooms, yes and you bet.’ I asked the cost and he said it was so close to free that I wouldn’t believe it. Now he crossed the highway and we made our introductions. He asked after my mood and I explained in shorthand my dissatisfactions and he asked if he might fetch my satchel from the hold of the bus and I allowed it, and then he did it, and that was how it all was started. It’s been, what, three years now? Four? And still no plans to leave except by pine box. I find the hotel perfectly charming. There is a feeling of waiting that at times can be oppressive, but likely that’s not inherent to the location but rather is a part of the particular era of my life. The end era, you know.” As if speaking to himself, he said, “No, I don’t want to leave the hotel, and I hope I shall never have to.”

He finished the last of his wine and stood, speaking of a tiredness brought on by the unanticipated but very much appreciated dining diversion. He thanked the assembled for their friendly company and excused himself. After he left, Alice asked if she might also be excused as she had, she explained, plans to see a movie with a friend. Mr. More said that it was important for a young lady to keep her appointments but wondered if she had been getting quite enough rest these last days. Alice countered that young people did not need hardly any rest at all to carry on, and she quoted a doctor she’d heard on the radio who made the claim that sleep deprivation, in moderation, was actually regenerative. Mr. More said he wasn’t buying what Alice was selling but that he admired her spryness of mind, and Alice said thank you, and departed. Ida asked Mr. More about the possibility for coffee, as she and June planned to rehearse into the night, and Mr. More raised a finger and went away to the kitchen, soon returning with the coffee and cups on a tray. He poured out one cup, and then another, while June and Ida watched him, liking him.

Ida said, “How did you lose your arm, Mr. More?”

“I lost it in the First World War, Ida,” he answered, passing her her coffee. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

“I must have, and yet I’m surprised to think of it. What a thing that must be, to lose an arm.”

“Very much a thing, yes,” said Mr. More.

June said, “May I ask if it was your good arm?”

“Anyway it was not a bad one. I think the truth is that once an arm is taken from you, you can’t help but recall it as the arm to end all arms.”

Ida said, “Where do you think they put it?”

“I don’t know. Some pit somewhere. But it’s not like I wanted it back later. What am I going to do with it? Swaddle it? Wear it like a stole?” He made the face of amused suspicion. “I do hope that our conversation isn’t moving in the pacifistic direction?”

Ida drew back in her seat. “Me, pacifistic? Honestly, Mr. More, how could you say such a thing? Why, when I think of the violence that exists inside my own heart.”

Mr. More shook his head, and he said, “I fear you’re being clever with me, dear Ida.”

“Cleverness I’ll admit to,” she said.

June asked, “What do you think of this current concern, Mr. More?”

“Which concern do you mean?”

“World War the Second.”

Mr. More said, “I think standing under the chill shadow of any nation’s flag is a dicey proposition, is what I think.” He began stacking dirty plates. “Now, why don’t you both take your coffees and get to your rehearsals.”

“May we help you with the dishes?” Ida asked.

“You may not.”