Ladies Of The Library by Will Mayo

Musty books, aged with papyrus and Philippine dye. Shelves coated with dust after a day's browsing. Passersby carrying books in arms, in satchels, in book bags on loan, sometimes even clutched between the teeth of a small child.

There is a feel to a library: the odor of bodies perspiring over books on a summer's day, the rustling of pages as leaves sweep through the streets outside while crowds wait for Octoberfest to open its wares, even winter snows piling up while homeless people leaf through yesterday's newspaper and wait for spring to begin.

I recognized this years ago. Having given up the bottle some time ago, I began in the course of my job as a flea market salesman to look for new ways to spend free time and to exert used energy. The answer seemed easy enough: a good book. I found respite at first in the pot boiling bestsellers of Stephen King and Sydney Sheldon and then moved on to Shelley and Williams' History Of Frederick County.

In time I became a bibliophile. While I never acquired the analyzing abilities of a school teacher, I found I could recite page number, title, publishing company and overall summary of the most reread books one could come by.

That is in fact how I came by the second of my chosen hobbies. Sitting in one of those roundabout sofas that modern libraries seem to come by. I glanced up now and then from my worn copy of The Third Reich, on at those transient browsers from one of the remade areas of our town. Some were, obviously, in the high tech firms of the Post Cold war era with degrees in computer science and how to mail order a Roman pillar. They were beyond any talents I might have in conversing over the orders of a tailored business suit or a Civil Service appendum. Others, however – my heart jumped at the unsteady thought -were just the right touch to remedy a separation from the worn out, plastered housewives I'd known before.

Some were still, of course, housewives but were more of the cottage industry variety. I could see them poring over the latest Danielle Steele (while, beneath, a genuine variety of the Victorian era marble topped tables glimmered steadily in an oasis of modern furnishings, their eyes glancing up and down the page as their busts slowly, and then quickly, rose and fell. Looking at them over the oases of A to C, I felt like I might need another bypass, a triple this time.

And none of them were like the kind I'd seen before, the kind who'd go from storyteller to barmaid to madam, all in one day. These were women who fantasized about another life, whether in the pages of Barbara Cartland or in the poetry of George Sand. And for some of them I felt I could provide it.

Slowly, I moved up the aisles, on past Richard Adams and Edward Abbey to Beardsley and on for Gardener.

There seemed to be someone waiting for me, leaning over some thick atlas, a roadway for lost travelers such as myself. I glanced uneasily at the reference desk across the way where an old, gray bearded librarian sat upright in a Civil War uniform left over from one of Frederick County's reenactments. He saw where I was headed and merely winked with a strange look on his face. I winked back and headed on my way.

Finally, I reached my destination. There was a brunette, tale and slim like one of Edgar Allan Poe's beloveds,, standing over a copy of the legends of King Arthur's Court. I eased over, my feet sliding over the recently waxed and cleaned floor like one of Aladdin's fortunetellers from a lost era. Looking up at her – I'm, well, about 5 feet 5 inches in height, diminutive in the eyes of most men – and said, a bit too loud, “Did you know Marion Zimmer Bradley has a book on Arthur? Best since Malory, I hear.”

A few shhhs rang out from nearby readers and I held my breath. Seconds passed by like so many footsteps lost and then she turned her head and said, “Really?” her eyelids fluttered a bit as some that hair slipped out of her bun and in her eyes. I knew I had a chance.

“Sure,”I said, with my confidence in my voice. I pulled the battered volume out of my pocket, where it was conveniently located, and into her waiting hands. “Take care to the first and last pages.”
“You're sure you don't mind?”

“Not at all,” I said with a pause. “But I think we'd better talk elsewhere...I'm Tom Horner by the way.”

We met over coffee at the Village Restaurant, and I explored King Arthur and his merry court with the rising and lowering voice of an antique salesman at an auction. It was as if we were exploring the fields of glory and the had the mythical Grail in my hands, cupped gently and running over with desire.

Afterwards, a quick catnap and it was back to the library. My hobby was on full force now. Punk rocking girls, recently graduated from Narnia. Beauticians who were into the horror of Barker and Straub, and the comedy of errors in the shelves. Worn maids who read the latest romance. My world seemed made: by weekday, a flea market salesman; by weekend, a Don Juan of the library. It was something many a man would envy.

And no longer did I have to worry about causing a commotion in the process. I simply sidled up to a lady and whispered, “Page 419. Best lines you'll find.” And away we'd be, tossing and turning among the Romantics of literature.

Of course, like all collectors, I could never hold onto a piece too long before letting go. A lover of medieval literature quickly gave way to one of French poetry. And so on. I hoped on day to find the ideal bibliophile. But my cause seemed lost.

Then one day, I appeared to find the ideal bookworm. We ran into each other among the corridors of Books In Print, staring at all those myriads of titles and authors and aliases seemed to set our hearts on fire.

We met afterwards over our favorite brand of sushi, whale bone marrow set in oyster oil. “Immediately, she started talking. And that's when the trouble started.

“What's your favorite book, Tom,” she asked, wrapping her long blond hair around a pencil that seemed at any moment about to break.

“That's easy,” I said. “The Rise And Fall Of The Roman Empire. An excellent study.

“And your favorite part?” “Tapping the pencil against the whale bone while yellow hair flew in all directions.

“The end,” I quivered, realizing that something was going wrong. My voice, normally low, flew into a high register.

“You liked the end?” she asked. “With the barbarians storming in and al civilization at stake, you liked the end?” Her voice sounded indignant.

She rose quickly and left quietly, her feet sliding noiselessly over the vinyl tiles. Behind her, I could not help but repeat the words “I don't know” over and over, my words sinking slowly into the back of the whale and then to the oyster oil below.

That was one year ago. Nowadays, I take my books to the restaurant across the street. Still drinking coffee, I now know six dozen varieties, along with five hundred brands of coffee cake. The waitresses seem to appreciate that.

I now search for the perfect coffee lover.