The LIBRARIAN and the WRITER by Pat O'Regan
By Pat O'Regan
Image by DreamStudio
The Librarian and the Writer
By Pat O’Regan
Ann, a librarian, didn’t just love her job. She adored it. Just to walk into the library at the start of the work-day surrounded by all that knowledge lifted her spirits. To know that she knew more than most people how to access all that knowledge and, furthermore, could use her expertise to help others was gratifying to her. She loved helping people, not to say being the one in charge of the relationship in that regard. Throughout the day, people came to her – sometimes with esoteric problems – and she took keen satisfaction in setting them off in the right direction to find what they needed to solve the problem they were having with this or that resource. Not just well-read, she also had a knack for teaching. For her, managing piles of information and making her insights clear to others was not just a good job, but a noble way to spend one’s time. Truly the light of other people’s knowledge shone brightly in her. Why, once, the mayor of the suburb in which the library was located called to get a point of information. How she sprang into action! In a short time she could return the call, giving the mayor all that he needed to know and then some.
One patron, in particular, attracted Ann’s attention. It was a guy of about her age – 26 – who came to the library every evening and stayed till closing at nine. He always sat at the same desk and always seemed to be writing. She had been aware of his presence for some weeks, though they had never yet spoken. Seeing him almost every day, cherishing the prospect of meeting him soon only added to Ann’s love of her job.
The young man Ann had noticed was a burgeoning writer named Arthur. As much as Ann loved being a librarian, Arthur loved to write. The sweetest thing in the world was to be lost in the world of a story – where the mind was free and quiet and ideas and their words came to mind as naturally and effortlessly as breathing in the fresh air of a meadow at dawn. Even as a young writer, Arthur had learned to be patient. When working on a piece, it took time for the subconscious mind to do its work – much of the work of writing – and he had learned not to force the issue, but to let it happen. When he had enough material in his head, the words flowed from his pen like they were meant to be written by him. And then, when he had a good draft, O, the sense of satisfaction that came from completing a piece that he had slaved over for weeks! As he put it, it was like being borne aloft by a flight of angels. He could never turn away from writing. It would always be a part of his life. He loved the process as much as the result. Four days a week after supper, he spent the evening writing in the library.
But one had to make a living. During the day, Arthur worked as a technical writer, interviewing engineers and scientists, making clear to others what they knew, but could not clearly express. But this was just to make a living. Being a starving artist did not appeal to him at all. Money didn’t interest him much, either, except he had to have what he needed to live. He could walk into a grocery store and purchase what he needed, without a worry of having enough to pay for it – and the same went for the apartment and the car. Perhaps someday he would be rich – he would write a novel, of course – but until then he was content enough with the little he had in the bank. The only troubling matter was the necessity of spending his days writing dry technical material. But he actually didn’t hate it, and he did have that wonderful, free-wheeling, rich and interesting three hours in the library after supper in the evening. For now, he was not unhappy with the way his life was going. The writing was moving along, and that is all that truly mattered to him. More than a few times, however, he thought, “Maybe I am missing something in life. I sometimes think it would be nice to share my thoughts with a lady friend who could share her thoughts with me. Isn’t life better shared?” But he accepted his lot as it was, and was not unhappy.
As Ann noticed Arthur, so, of course, he noticed her. He would secretly watch her as she moved about the library or sat at the service desk. He was taken by her obvious energy – everything she did was done emphatically, as if it mattered to her greatly – showing her love for her work and for others. Little by little, this led to him taking notes on her, with nothing in particular in mind at first, but then, little by little, he began to write a story with her as the model for the protagonist. He ended up using her name – which he had overheard many times – for the young woman in the story. Ann was such a nice, simple name, which somehow seemed so apt to the story he was writing.
* * * * *
In a short time, as fall changed to winter, Ann and Arthur began to exchange greetings. Each day, when Arthur came in and Ann was around, they greeted each other like old friends. Sometimes Ann would walk past his desk and say, “How’s it going, writer?” To which Arthur would reply with a different response every day, such as, “What a struggle, but I’m trying,” or “I must be crazy, but at least fully alive.” She’d smile and say, “Keep it going, buddy.” When they encountered each other elsewhere in the building, at the water fountain, perhaps, they’d say a few words, about nothing in particular. Finally, when Arthur came to the desk to ask for the key to the quiet study room, they had this exchange:
“You look like you’re working all the time,” Ann said.
“Actually, I do have a day job – technical writing – but I like to come here after supper to do my own thing. It’s a sweet place to work, isn’t it? – so quiet and serene, and yet with some company, which I don’t get in my apartment.”
“No pets?”
He regarded her closely. “Oh, no, I don’t have a dog. What would he do all day when I’m gone?”
“You’d need two dogs.”
“Now you’re complicating my life.”
They shared a laugh and he went off with the key.
With that meeting, the story Arthur had been writing about Ann got a boost. He charged ahead with it – getting stuck, repeatedly, which only indicated to him that it had merit. He became convinced that it would be one of the best stories he had ever written. Ann’s presence in the story fairly glowed. He thought she would be impressed by it. “Someday she’ll know about it,” he thought. “How proud she’ll be!”
As it was, Arthur had had a book of short stories published by a small, local press the previous year. In light of this, he came to think, beyond any doubt, in the weeks that followed, that the staff and even some of the patrons of the library knew who he was. The book was on Amazon, for Heaven’s sake! He fancied he had a knack for recognizing the reactions of people, even when they scarcely knew what they were thinking themselves. But even beyond that, in this case it was obvious. A young staffer would walk by him and, at a distance, turn and look at him with a broad smile. When he walked by one of the older librarians, she would look up from her work at him quickly and then, just as fast, look down again, as if she didn’t want him to know what she knew. And, of course, Ann knew about his book. He could sense the intensity of her mind working whenever she passed him by. Once, coming out of the men’s room, he almost bumped into her. That was not just an idle acquaintance in the bright, smiling expression that lit up her face when she saw it was him, but someone who had given him some heavy thought. As a matter of fact, no one among the staff of the library, including Ann, knew about Arthur’s book. They had just come to see him as a fixture in the library. But that would change. One of the staff, a man of about 40 named Robert, had long had his eye on Ann.
One day Ann mentioned to Robert that she was finding Arthur a rather interesting man. “Oh, I know who you mean,” Robert said. “I found out his name, using a little subterfuge, from a book he checked out, and looked him up on the Internet. His name’s Arthur Wentworth. He’s a published author.” “Oh, is he,” Ann said, clearly impressed. “Yeah,” Robert said, “it’s a collection of short stories called Children of Destiny. Don’t know if he’s sold anything.” “How impressive!” Ann said. “One of our patrons…a real writer.” “Yeah,” Robert said. Within minutes, Ann checked for Arthur’s book on Amazon. It was there! She ordered a copy of it, straightaway. When it came, in a week or so, she read it through on a weekend. When she came to work on Monday, she brought it along and gave it to another member of the staff, whom she was sure would be interested. It was passed around.
A week after that, Ann had occasion to help Arthur again when the PC he was using refused to cooperate. She got it going again. He thanked her profusely.
“We have an exchange of services here,” Ann said.
“How so?” Arthur asked, eyeing her.
“I read your book,” Ann said.
“Oh, thank you,” he said. “Did you like it?”
They chatted for some time. It was important to her to convince him that she had read his stories carefully. For the rest of the day, she walked with a spring in her step and a bounce in her stride; she hurried up the stairs with a jaunty ease of motion, a person of natural, vigorous energy, brimming with a sense of gladness in herself. In the days that followed, she dressed sharper; her makeup was striking; she moved about the library with even more poise and confidence. Ann thought there was something about Arthur that appealed to her immensely. Clearly, he had imagination enough to set him apart from the great herd of the human race. Who knows, someday he may be famous, and in the meantime wouldn’t it be fun to be with him a lot? Just to talk to him about…most anything, would be a treat. Sometimes, as she looked at him, she thought, “How wonderful it would be to have a partner. Not to have to go it alone at every mishap and trial. And what about the joy I hear others talk of? Could it really be there for me, too?”
* * * * *
As for Arthur, after learning that Ann had liked his book, the story he was working on, with her as the protagonist, caught fire. He pushed on in the direction he wanted the story to go, without hesitation or restraint. Called First Love, the story was about the sexual awakening of a young woman. Though certainly not graphic, it did contain scenes of a strongly sexual nature. Ann, for instance, in one scene, is alone at the family cabin on a lake. She dawdles about the cabin and in the woods, languidly, takes a nap, dreams of making love, then goes off on a boat ride. She stops near shore across the lake and goes skinny dipping. Later, Guy, Ann’s friend and former college classmate, joins her for the weekend. They make love at the cabin, a scene strongly suggested in the text. Ann is a librarian. Arthur thought it was a fine effort. He spend a weekend brooding over every word before finally thinking it was done, the best story he had ever written. Straight-away Monday morning, never thinking for a second that the story would cause him a problem in any way, Arthur sent First Love to a local literary magazine called West End, which had taken two other stories he had written, which were in the book. He felt certain the story would be published. He checked his mail eagerly every day, expecting the notice of publication would be there. It took two weeks, during which his regard for Ann took on an aura of brightness, but the notice finally came. The story would be published in the next edition of the magazine, due out in a month. He was proud and happy. His reputation as a writer was growing. Any connection to a problem with Ann never got into his head. With regards to dealing with people, Arthur had two rules he lived by: First, people are highly intelligent – they will figure everything out, eventually – and very sensitive – they never forget an offense, ever. Second, people will defend themselves. In a word, you get back what you give in life, in roughly equal measure. Especially at work, keeping these rules in mind saved Arthur a lot of trouble. Unfortunately, Ann was different. With her, he forgot himself, letting his spirit soar.
Robert again came into play here. After the magazine with Arthur’s story came out, he searched on Arthur’s name again – and there it was – First Love – being trumpeted as the work of a fine new writer of short stories. He ordered a copy of the magazine and eagerly awaited its arrival in the mail (it was not carried by the library). He would get it in two weeks.
Arthur never missed a day now from Monday to Friday and sometimes he showed up on the weekends, too. He would sometimes look up from his writing to see Ann sitting at a desk before some work or standing among the stacks and regarding him with a steady gaze. He waved; she smiled and turned away. Soon they looked for each other at the library every day. The first thing Arthur did when he came in the door was look for Ann. If she was not in sight, he wandered in the stacks to see if he could find her. His day felt complete when he saw her and they exchanged the usual greetings. By now they chatted often. One time, when Arthur came in, she asked him for a ride to the bank because her car was on the mend. He was delighted to comply. He thought about telling her about First Love as he waited in the car, but decided not to. Each felt lifted up in the company of the other. Time flew for them.
When Robert got the magazine, he read Arthur’s story the same day in the evening. The next day, when he saw that Ann was not preoccupied with her work, he came over to her. She had come to work that fateful day with even more energy and imagination than usual. She had half a dozen items in her mind to be done by noon. Furthermore, she was assigned to write an article on the library for a suburban newspaper. This captivated her. Besides, it was something to talk to Arthur about. Her cup was overflowing.
Then Robert came to her, holding a copy of a magazine. “I have something to show you,” he said. “What’s on your mind?” she asked, sensing by the look on his face that there was a problem. “Lots,” he said. “I checked out our writer and determined that he recently published a short story in West End literary magazine. The story is called First Love. It’s about a librarian. Guess who that is?” “Who? Not me!” “None other. The character’s name is Ann.” “What! What does he say about me?” “Lots.” “Let me see.” She grabbed the magazine from him. Letting it go, Robert said, “It’s all yours.” “Of all the nerve,” she said, glancing at the pages. “Let me read this.” “Go ahead,” Robert said. Ann left to find a private place to read the story.
After reading the story, all Ann’s bright buoyance and brimming self-assurance turned to lashing anger and an uncontrollable desire for retribution. She was still rushing around but now it was in a fury. In short order, she determined to confront him when he showed at the end of the day. As much as the happy feelings had been bright, so were the dark ones dark, the only difference was the tone: dulcet to jarring, sweet to sour, luminous to dreary, happy to hurtful.
“He has poisoned the air in here for me,” she said to herself. “I can’t breathe freely with him around. Even the prospect of him walking in the door takes away my enjoyment of the work day. I don’t have to put up with this, but I do have to work here.”
That evening Arthur didn’t show up. By the next day, Ann had calmed down somewhat. She wasn’t waiting for him to show up at the library the next time he came, she had work to do; but a steely determination to resolve this thorny issue was just beneath the surface of her apparent calm. When he showed up the next day, she regarded him as if from a distance and with an air of getting it over with. She secured the magazine with the offending story and, as determined as any soldier going into battle, went to the desk he always used.
Standing before him, she held the magazine up for him to see that she knew. Arthur knew at once what he had done to get her attention in this way. The shock and the surprise of it hit him like a blow to the head. At once, he knew what his fate was – never to come into this library again. Beneath her hard, unswerving gaze, clearly not meaning to move until he did, hanging his head, he collected his things, put on his jacket and headed off, taking a direction that led away from her. He knew he was never to come back to the library again. His life had turned a page, finally and irrevocably. Ann went to the library entrance.
“And don’t come back,” she said, as he walked out the door.
* * * * *
For weeks, Arthur lived in exile from the library. Going to work and coming home, he drove past the library twice a day, every weekday, and often on weekends, too. He missed it terribly, but never considered going in again. Taking the matter up with the library director was not an option, simply because it never entered his head. The idea of bringing it up with Ann, of course, was out of the question. He frequented another library, somewhat farther away, and tried to put the matter behind him. For a time, his peace of mind was shattered. His lot was to drive past the library every day, for punishment, so as never to forget. Often he would think that nothing compares to what one human being can do to another without even a touch.
As for Ann, after a week or so she was back to the routine of her life. To be sure, something had gone out of it, but she was too busy to be bothered much by that.
© 2022 Pat O’Regan