The Librarianist

“Mightn’t you take solace in the unlikeliness of that event?” Mr. More asked.

“I might not!” answered Mr. Whitsell, and with a surprising bitterness.

Alice emerged from the small door behind the front desk, pulling on her cardigan and smoothing down her hair. Mr. More asked that she heat up some milk for Mr. Whitsell, but she said no, she was sorry but she couldn’t, she was already late.

“You are not going to that movie again?” he said.

“I am.”

“But how many times can you see the same story unfold?”

“However many times it takes.” She ducked under the front desk and threaded her way through the group, poking Bob in the stomach as she passed.

Mr. More went to heat up some milk for Mr. Whitsell, who stood forlornly to the side of the others. Ida and June and the dogs returned to the auditorium to resume their rehearsals. Bob went away to his room and changed into his pajamas and sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the coverage of the Bay City situation, which in darkness had devolved to riot proper: “The five-and-dime’s on fire,” said the newscaster. “No one’s paying it any mind, it’s just — on fire. Across the street, meanwhile, a group of men is working to overturn a jeep. Their faces are very red, and there’s much shouting going on among them, determined to get the job done. Now another group is attempting to set the post office alight. Why? And where is the fire department? Okay, hold on, the first group has got the jeep over on its side, and they’re pleased with themselves. Yes, congratulations all around, men, my goodness, what a sight.” There came a wail of sirens, men shouting in the background. “The National Guard are assembling in a line at the end of Bay Road. It is inevitable that the lumbermen and Guardsman will meet in the street.” The newsman began shouting question to the Guardsmen as they passed him by but was ignored or rebuffed. Bob heard someone say, “The town’s burning down and this jerk wants my impression of the scene.” The newsman took this in stride. “Emotions are running high tonight,” he explained.

The coverage droned on. Bob stepped away from his bed and to the window. Alice was standing out front of the movie theater, wrapped up in her own arms and peering down the road. Above the theater marquee and to the south Bob could just make out the tiny, flickering fires of Bay City. He was looking at an epicenter of violence from his safe distance while hearing the sound from within the violence through the radio. Alice looked miserable, huddled into herself; Bob was opening the window to invite her to listen to the riot in his room when she stood up straight and waved, and now here was the young man from the market, Tommy. As he approached, Alice spun around and rushed to the ticket booth to purchase their tickets. Walking into the theater, Tommy draped a lazy arm over Alice’s shoulder, while she clung to his midsection. Bob couldn’t see if they climbed the stairs to the balcony or not, but they certainly had the look of the balcony bound.

This sorry little narrative infected Bob, so that a blue mood came over him. For the first time since his departure he found himself thinking of his home in Portland, in particular the cosmos of his bedroom. He turned off the radio and shut off the lights and lay down in bed. It was a long time before he fell asleep and when he woke up it was seven o’clock in the morning and the window still was half open and the curtain was puffing its belly out at him and a great noise of commotion was coming up from the street.

A GREAT NOISE OF COMMOTION WAS COMING UP FROM THE STREET. Voices calling, shouting, automobile horns honking, endlessly; Bob assumed the riot had arrived and lay in bed asking himself how to prepare for and react to such a thing. Then he began to wonder why the voices didn’t sound angrier. He stood away from the bed and moved to the window; he caught the puffed-out curtain in his hands and drew it to the side.