Page 3 of The Librarians
“Yes to chips, always.” She reaches into the bag and grabs one. “Unfortunately, I’ve only ever looked like a younger version of Mrs. Weasley—like when she’s had two kids, rather than seven.”
Her Swedish genes have not endowed her with either height or svelteness, and the pale hair she was born with turned brown sometime in her teens, a common enough occurrence for those of Scandinavian heritage.
Jonathan recoils in mock horror. “How dare you! I’ll have you know Molly Prewett Weasley is and has always been an absolute babe.”
Astrid laughs and thanks him. They chat another minute while Astrid’s lunch heats up in the microwave oven. Then Jonathan cleans up after himself and goes back to work, leaving Astrid to slurp down her chicken chow mein by herself.
When she first arrived at the library, she ached for Jonathan to become her long-awaited gay best friend. But while Jonathan has always been kind and helpful, a special bond has not blossomed between them.
The gay men of the world are too busy with their own lives to revolve around her, and the hetero ones have no use for her if she isn’t willing to immediately proceed to the “chill” part of Netflix and chill.
And the one exception, a man she met at this very library, crushed her as if he were a junkyard compactor and she a 1982 Datsun.
One does not become a librarian dreaming of luxury and acclaim. Astrid wants to be useful and she wants to achieve quiet contentment. But quiet contentment is beginning to feel like the hardest boss level in the game of life.
At least the noodles from Trader Joe’s, a store famously geared toward the “overeducated and underpaid,” of which librarians form exhibit A, are chewy and flavorful.
Astrid wonders what Hazel is having for lunch. Something low-key molecular, she hopes.
Hazel returns from lunch in perfect time to sit down for her first desk session, an hour at the checkout station facing the public.
Not every librarian enjoys dealing with patrons. Astrid does. Other than an occasional best-forgotten battle with the toilet—what exactly is the correct way of retrieving a loaded diaper that has been knocked inside?—she likes the “public” aspect of working at a public library.
Patrons don’t need to tell her why they need to use the library’s terminals, but their tales of visiting grandchildren accidentally destroying the CPU with a water-soaker rivet her.
She has good conversations every November with those who need to prepare a Thanksgiving feast that accommodates every dietary restriction under the sun.
And she loves helping people find correct tax forms and fill out employment applications.
Obviously, iffier members of the public show up too. But early afternoon on a Monday, with kids still in school, isn’t a heavily trafficked time slot.
Hazel, who, like all new hires, has received training at the central library downtown, checks out books like a pro and processes two new library card applications without a hitch.
She even fields an I-don’t-know-the-author’s-name-or-the-title-but-can-you-help-me-find-this-book inquiry with panache.
Astrid, the list Hazel generated in hand, takes the patron to the stacks and the older gentleman exclaims with excitement at the second book she pulls out—precisely the one he’s been looking for.
Her delight in Hazel’s excellence is polluted by a bit of melancholy: At the rate Hazel is going, she won’t need any help from Astrid. But when Astrid returns to the circulation desk, she finally has a chance to be useful.
A youngish South Asian couple want to know about Game Night, taking place the next evening, and Hazel, new to the branch library herself, puzzles over the flyer the couple hand her.
“Oh, I can answer your question,” Astrid says eagerly.
“The library will provide all the board games; you only need to bring yourselves. Because it’s so close to Halloween, the inaugural Game Night will be murder-mystery themed.
We’ll have Halloween decorations and snacks, and you can even come in Halloween costume, if you’d like. ”
The wife, whose lavender headscarf matches the embroidery on her cream tunic, does look tempted. But she frowns a little. “Do we need to sign up and commit?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Astrid reassures her. “You can sign up via the library’s website, if you’d like, but you don’t need to. Just show up tomorrow evening. And you don’t have to dress up either—only if you feel like it.”
The couple promise they will think seriously about attending and disappear beyond the stacks in the direction of the work gallery.
“Can I come too?” asks Hazel. “I like board games.”
She smiles a little, as if to herself. And Astrid feels as electrified as when a Christmas tree appeared in the house by the lake, tinseled and festooned, lights gently twinkling.
To Astrid, tabletop gaming is like gardening: something she might look into later in life. But if Hazel will host board game nights, then Astrid doesn’t mind taking it up right away.
“Of course you can come. You’ll be most welcome!”
“Does the library have that many murder-mystery games?” asks Hazel.
The central library downtown has a decent collection of tabletop games, but their little branch does not have that nice touch yet.
Astrid is about to explain that the difficulty they’re having with Game Night is not the number of games required but a lack of interest on the part of the patrons when a man north of seventy makes a beeline for Hazel.
“Why, hello, are you new here?”
Oh, no, not this guy. If this were a cartoon, his eyeballs would be bouncing all over Hazel, maybe even stuck to the front of her shirt.
Hazel smiles—for someone who feels so enigmatic, she has a very friendly smile. “Yes, today is my first day.”
“Welcome to the library!” The old dude, his pale skin slack and crepey, returns an unctuous grin. “I love this branch. All the librarians here are so nice and helpful.”
Yes, and all the nice and helpful librarians would love it if he never came back.
“That’s wonderful,” says Hazel in her low, soft voice. “How can I help you?”
The man sets a pair of reading glasses on his nose and pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket. “Let’s see.”
If he doesn’t say Fifty Shades , then the enshittification of the internet ends today.
“ Fifty Shades ,” says the man, glancing up as he smooths his stringy comb-over. “That’s the book my lady friend recommends.”
Social platforms erode, water is still wet, and Astrid will bet her collection of BTS photocards that said lady friend is of the inflatable variety.
Calmly Hazel taps on her keyboard. “We have a great many titles that begin with the words ‘Fifty Shades.’ What is your book’s subject matter, sir?”
“Really? I thought there was just the one.”
“There are a lot of them. There is Fifty Shades of Grace , which looks to be a spiritual memoir. Fifty Shades of Bipolar , for essays on the subject. And in the realm of cookbooks, we have Fifty Shades of Kale and Fifty Shades of Chicken , if you are interested in trussing poultry.”
Astrid suppresses an urge to laugh.
“Oh,” says the old guy. “I see. I see.”
Is the troll wondering whether he is being trolled? Yes, you are, troll!
“I think mine is fiction,” he adds gamely.
“All right. Let me adjust my search parameters, then,” answers Hazel, clicking and scrolling. “Still a ton of titles. Fifty Shades of Crystal . Fifty Shades of Haiku . Fifty Shades of Hell . There appears to be a fifty shades of everything.”
The old guy clears his throat. “Maybe there’s a color in the title?”
“ Fifty Shades of Black ? Fifty Shades of Greyhound ?”
Astrid coughs so she won’t giggle.
“Gray, yes. That’s the color.”
“ Fifty Shades of Dorian Gray , Fifty Shades of Earl Grey , or plain old Fifty Shades of Grey ?”
“Plain old Fifty Shades of Grey ,” mutters the old guy in relief.
“And would you like to read it from the point of view of the female protagonist or the male one?”
“There are two versions?”
“Yes. Or perhaps you’d prefer the cinematic version instead? We have it on DVD.”
“I…” The old man perks up a bit. “Do you have any recommendations as to which version I should go for?”
“Ah,” says Hazel, “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I’ve never read the book or watched the movie.”
“But I thought librarians read everything.”
“Maybe some librarians do but I haven’t yet. And when I do read erotic fiction, I prefer the male-male variety. I can recommend many good titles in that subgenre. Would you like a few, sir?”
Ah, what joy to behold the unwelcome patron’s hasty retreat.
The 1812 Overture —or whichever tune plays on Fourth of July right before the fireworks start—should be blaring out of the PA system right now, all pomp and triumph.
Serves you right, dirty old man, wasting public servants’ time for your stupid titillation .
The automatic doors open. The old man wobbles out. Astrid at last allows herself to grin openly. She sits down at the idle terminal next to Hazel and looks into the library’s catalogue. Hazel has not exaggerated: The system does own all those titles and more for the delectation of the public.
It would be rude to discuss patrons out in the open, so she leans toward Hazel and whispers, “Do you really read male-male erotica?”
Hazel smiles a little. “Librarians read everything, right?”
What a mysterious and unsatisfying answer. Can Astrid press a little—maybe even confess that she has read more than a few fanfics on what BBC Sherlock and Dr. Watson get up to after hours at 221B Baker Street?
Or maybe that would be too much, given that they met only this morning.
Reluctantly, Astrid straightens, tells Hazel that she’s doing a great job, and flounces out of the circulation area.
There’s a middle school less than a mile from the library.
After school a fair number of kids come to the library, and Astrid usually spends part of her afternoon in the children’s area, supervising and helping with homework.
Her path takes her near the front entrance, the automatic doors of which part at that exact moment to admit the man who made her feel cherished and understood—and then ghosted her without a backward glance.