Locked in the library

 It started out as a normal enough Saturday. I woke up ready to go. I needed to get a documentary on a Spanish speaking country for school as well as write a report. I had a brilliant idea. I asked my Dad if he would drop me at the library. He consented. Too bad I couldn’t find my library card; Oh well.

“(something something) I’ll come pick you up,” my dad called from the car as I walked down the steps and through the glass doors of the Provo City Library. As I opened them, the initial burst of cold air told me that the air conditioning was still going strong despite the freezing temperature outside. I was glad for the tightly stitched scratchy green wool sweater my mother had handed me that morning as I had gone out the door.

         I walked in toting a small blue nylon bag over one shoulder. It held a notebook for writing my report, a pencil for the same reason, and the book the report was on. The too-wide waist of the sweater scraped the fuzzy arms as I walked past the information desk, past the movies, and up the stairs to the silence zone where biographies sleep, and encyclopedias prowl. That is of course, the non-fiction section. I almost tiptoed as I passed studying college students on the way to my destination. Then there they were: the two big couches and a chair that sat in the big window with the horrible view. I decided on the chair, stuck my bag on the side, and sat. There was a poof of padded leather that was much too loud by far. I sat completely still for an instant as I ascertained whether anyone had heard. I relaxed after a moment. I leaned over to get my bag. As quietly as I could I took out my notebook, even bending it into a crescent to avoid the scraping sound the rolled metal binding might make on the zipper. I decided I could not stay up there. If simply sitting was so nerve-racking, I could not write in peace.

         I quietly descended the stairs into the more comfortable fiction section. I walked across to the videos and rummaged through the documentaries. I pawed each that had even the possibility of being about a Spanish country. I finally found two; they were way back in the VHS section. I kept them both. Now I could write to my heart’s content, until my father arrived to pick me up, heroically whipping a library card out of his pocket and checking the videos out. I smiled at the thought. What a great idea I’d had.

         This of course could not last. After all, I was a bibliophile left to my own devices in the library. I went to the big window downstairs that had the exact same setup as the upper floor had. I sat in the (thankfully cloth) chair and set to writing. At least that’s what I meant to do. Almost unconsciously I stood and walked in a straight line to the comics at the southern edge of the library. I picked out a few random manga books with cool covers, a Calvin and Hobbes collection, and an illustrated Gulliver’s Travels. I walked back over to the chair I had selected and sat. I placed the books by my feet where I could shove them under my chair if my father showed up. I sat for a minute staring blankly at the half-paragraph I had written the night before. I placed the tip of my pencil on a line of the notebook. I finished the paragraph.

Well, I rationalized, I’ve got plenty of time. One book won’t hurt. Thus came the beginning of the end for my highly productive homework time. I bent over, wool sweater scratchy against my skin as I moved my arm down to pick up one of the mangas. I sat cross-legged on the chair as I read since my legs did not have the benefit of a wool covering.

For the first three books I would stop and write about a quarter of a paragraph between each book. After the fourth through sixth, I only wrote a sentence or two before moving on again. I stopped writing altogether after that. I moved myself, my documentaries, my bagged writing materials, and all my books to a fluffy green chair that was half a shelf away from the comic section. I put all the mangas and the Calvin and Hobbes collection back now that I had read them and settled down cross legged in the cushy green chair with the illustrated Gulliver’s Travels open on my lap.

It faintly registered that the lights were flashing as I read, Oh, five minutes left, I thought, Someone will tell me to go when it closes. This thought rose almost to a conscious level, but it slipped away as I continued reading. Gulliver was just pulling an entire battalion of lilliputian ships back to where they belonged when I noticed half of the lights had gone off, taking the majority of the light with them.

Hmm, I thought, I wonder why they did that? Oh well. Someone will tell me when it closes. I shifted slightly so I could see the front desk. Yup there were still people there. As I began to read again I was once more engulfed in the adventures of Gulliver.

I was just finishing the part where Gulliver is showing extreme signs of psychological trauma after his trip to the land of horses and yahoos when I heard my name. I stopped reading; I looked up for a moment and waited. I heard it again.

“I’m over here,” I said before going back to the book. A moment later my dad had walked over. I looked up.

“Time to go?”

“Xela, it’s 8:30 pm. The library has been closed for over two hours.”

“What?” I had accomplished next to nothing. I had two written paragraphs for a five-paragraph essay. At least I had the two documentaries. Except, I couldn’t check anything out. The library was closed and so were the checkout stations. My brilliant idea had completely backfired. Slowly we walked to the front of the library where the security guard who had let my dad come find me locked the big glass doors behind us.

As we walked out to the car, I asked my dad,” Why didn’t you come sooner?”

“You didn’t call; remember what I said when I dropped you off? ‘Give me a call when you’re done, I’ll come pick you up.'”

“Oops.”