Gunnar In The Carrels

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Part 10

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old … (111 - 120)
-The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot

Ginger McNally was having a difficult first day of employment at the Anneville Public Library. It started with the kind looking, older gentleman who told her his wrists were injured in the war and asked that she stand beside him to turn the pages of the newspaper as Barbara used to do. It wasn’t until the man’s friends could no longer contain themselves and all but rolled off their chairs in helpless laughter that she clued in to the joke.

Barbara was her predecessor at the library. Ginger had driven the 45 minute trip from the farm, through still snow covered fields dotted with corn stubble, to attend Barbara’s farewell party last week. She was a stout woman with tightly curled grey hair and a stance that suggested she might once have been a wrestler. Meeting Ginger for the first time, Barbara had taken her hand tightly in her own, looked her up and down and hooted.

"They are going to eat to you alive, sweet stuff,” she declared, seeming quite happy about it.

Then there was the man who literally ran in the front door holding a backpack against his face and wearing sunglasses. Alarmed, Ginger watched from the front desk as he buried himself in the Psychology/Philosophy shelves, wondering if the library was under terrorist attack. Should she alert Janis, the head librarian, who was currently in her office in the basement?

“Hello, Darling, I’d like six tickets for the Mayor’s thingey and I’m in a rush.”

Ginger quickly sized up the horsey blonde woman, who dangled an oversized, acid green purse from the crook of her elbow just so, and knew from long years of student retail jobs that it would be most expedient to deal with her first and then go tell Janis there might be a bomb in the building.

When Mimi Forrestor bade her a brisk “Ta, darling” and sailed out again, Ginger left the desk to hunt down Allen, the other librarian on the floor, keeping an eye on Psychology to ensure the bomber didn’t leave. She wasn’t convinced it was an actual attack. After all, she was new. Maybe this guy ran into the library every day and that’s why everyone else was ignoring him.

Allen was in History of North America talking to a young man wearing a black toque, hoodie and baggy jeans. Ginger tried not to look at the bony rear end that protruded like a bubble from the cinched belt holding the jeans around his thighs, but it was covered in bright yellow underwear and sported a smiley face with a red tongue. She wondered what mousy Allen, with his difficulty making eye contact and dandruff flecked polo shirts, could be discussing so earnestly with him.

“Think about the fuckin’ word, man,” he was telling Allen. “Bomb. It fuckin’ sounds like what it fuckin’ is, right? It sounds like a fuckin’ explosion. Booooooooommmmmmmb.” He drew his wide fingered hands apart from each other in illustration.

Ginger was stopped in her tracks by the coincidence between her thoughts and their conversation. Was this another first day prank? As she hesitated, Allen caught sight of her, looked quickly away and interrupted the speaker.

“Look, sir, I am working.”

He glanced back to Ginger and away again. “I have told you I cannot have these conversations with you while I am working...uh...sir.” And glanced back at Ginger.

The youth in the yellow underpants clued in and turned to see Ginger standing just behind him. His jaw went slack and his mouth fell open. His hands fell to his sides like settling birds. Ginger was surprised to see that his features under the dark toque were naturally joyous, with laughter visible in his eyes and mouth, like she imagined a faun’s might be.

Like a young Mr. Tumnus, she thought at the same time the young man breathed out a slow “Holy fuuuuuuck” as he took her in.

Ginger wasn’t sure how to respond to this, so she ignored it.

“Were - were you just talking about bombs?”

The young man nodded vigorously, opening his eyes wide. “Sha. You into that?”

Allen looked from one to other repeatedly before mumuring in a low tone that trailed away at the end to nothing “I’m going to go do…” and making a hasty escape. Ginger watched him go with the sinking stomach of one who realizes too late they’ve made a strategic error.

“So like when you say bomb,” the guy in front of her was asking, “do you use it like, fuckin’, metaphorically or are you, fuckin’, into the real fuckin’ shit?”

Ginger was considering how to answer this when she noticed the man in the navy ball cap, the one who had run into the library holding up a backpack, had crawled on hands and knees to the end of the Psychology section and was peering towards the front door with only his head extending into view.

Encouraged by her silence, the bomb enthusiast whose name she would shortly learn to be Nelson, spoke more rapidly. “Cause some people, like, fuckin’ say bomb, right, when they fuckin’ mean like street fuckin’ art, ya know? Like, graffiti and shit. Oh, man, I read this fuckin’ awesome fuckin’ book. Aww! What was it fuckin’ called? Something about fuckin’ bombs, anyway. Awww….fuck, I wish I could remember!”

For now, Ginger decided, this conversation gave her the perfect position to covertly watch the man in the ball cap’s furtive actions. She flashed her best I’m-so-interested smile at Nelson, who was violently pounding his fist against his forehead, and then watched as the FBI-looking guy, now without his sunglasses, stood up to his full height and surveyed the entire library, finally ending with her.

They made eye contact across the distance and she swallowed. Handsome, she thought, but dangerous. She allowed her eyes to pass by him as though she were looking for something else and finally return to the - she was starting to think he was older than he looked and therefore - man in front of her, who rewarded her eye contact with even more animated gestures.

“Bomb the suburbs!” he shouted, jumping into the air and making a wide X with all his limbs.

“What?” Ginger was starting to think Barbara was right. These people were going to eat her alive.

“Bomb the fuckin’ suburbs,” he shouted again.

Ginger pressed a hand to her forehead and watched, covertly, as the FBI dude crept silently into the row of shelves directly beside theirs. History of Africa.

“That’s the book,” Nelson crowed, still making aerial jumping jacks. “Oh, dude, if you’re into this fuckin’ shit, ya gotta read this fuckin’ book. Especially fuckin’ you, if ya get me.”

Ginger turned her head ever so slightly so she could see the FBI agent out of her peripheral vision. He stood absolutely still, facing away from them. A sudden thought occurred to her. Could he be here for this guy she’s talking to?

“Nelson,” said Nelson, standing suddenly still and extending a hand. “I gotta say, you’re fuckin’ hard core for a lady-dude.”

“Ginger,” she said automatically. Had the FBI guy just moaned? This was getting out of hand, she reflected, and realized that, as staff, it was up to her to do something.

“Excuse me, Nelson,” she said firmly, “It’s nice to meet you and I’d like to hear more sometime but just now I need to do something.”

Nelson lit up even brighter.

“Sha, like, fuckin-A, Ginger. But quick, like, were your folks like English or something?”

“Scottish, I think,” said Ginger. “But that’s way back. Why?”

Nelson looked hesitant for the first time.

“Nothin’. No, nothin. Just...like...your hair is red, right? And they named you...fuckin’...Ginger?” Nelson made a wincing face.

Ginger contemplated the explanation she usually gave about how her dad wanted to name her after the spice but using the Latin name Zingiber and, luckily for her, her mom intervened, insisting they at least use the English version which had the additional benefit of already being a name. But the strange events of the day were finally catching up with her and she suddenly resented the personal question.

“Excuse me,” she said briefly and escaped around an open mouthed Nelson into the main aisle just in time to see the FBI agent dive into the poetry section at the far end of the library. She headed in that direction and was half way there, sweeping her eyes across the floor in search of more blue windbreakers, when she became aware of further inexplicable events.

In the sunny children’s story circle beside the front door, a large white rabbit had suddenly stood up and also watched the FBI agent scramble into the Poetry section. Ginger now followed the Easter Bunny who was starting to edge towards Poetry while keeping a close eye on the FBI agent. In a forest of DVD towers, the rabbit stopped, took a phone out of its basket and sent a text, working slowly to accommodate its furry fingers.

Suddenly, as both Ginger and the Easter Bunny watched, the FBI agent slunk out of the poetry section with one hand clasping a small grey cloth bound volume to his chest and the other pulling the brim of his hat down to hide his eyes. He looked fixedly at the wall beside him as he skirted a table and plunged up the stairs to the reading carrels.

That’s it, Ginger thought. She had to tell Janis now. What if it really is a bomb? What if he’s a sniper? What if...but her thoughts screeched to a halt as she watched the Easter Bunny, who she now remembered someone had called Joshua, head for the staircase too - hopping all the way.

Curiouser and curiouser, she thought and followed the white rabbit.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9