John is a 73-year-old retired UC Berkeley library director. You’d never guess, as he’s humble and full of dad jokes. I’m a Berkeley alum, but never tell him.
He volunteers to shelve books at the public library, where I work part-time as a page. Our circulation room is always roasting hot. Management ignores this as we check in books and process holds, drenched in sweat like we’re running through Death Valley. A lack of fans stifles the air. No one cares, but John.
He was in college in the late 1960s, the era I wish I could have experienced. I want to know more, so I tell myself to ask soon.
This library is a new, 24-million-dollar, 24000 square feet, design award-winning building run by library staff who can’t stand to be here. They sit at the reference desk with permanent smirks, deterring anyone from asking for help. They walk through the circulation room, muttering about their hatred of books, patrons, and especially children. No matter how shiny and new a library is, the staff is the heart and soul, or not.
I’m a graduate student, just one semester away from obtaining my library degree. I want to become a children’s librarian who celebrates reading and lifelong learning with love, magic, and empathy.
John cheers me on, but we talk stories more. We love horror. I share my favorite short stories written by others.
When I’m finally ready to share one of mine, I print a copy, old school style.
I arrive at work with my story in hand.
The librarian, who always ignores me, flatly states, “John died at home this morning.” She walks away.
My eyes begin to rain. The heat suffocates me, and my sweaty hand grips my story tighter, blurring the words into unreadable smudges.
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