âDo you have that book?â a patron asks. You reply, âIâm sorry, could you be more specific?â âThe book,â is the only answer you get. This happens with three more patrons today. âIâm sorry,â you say to them all, âI donât know what book youâre talking about.â The book. The book. The Book. Should you know The Book? Should you have The Book?
An elderly couple comes in every morning for the newspaper. Nobody remembers a time that they didnât. They have always been elderly. Thereâs a faint foul smell in the library when theyâre in.
There is a branch on the system map that youâve never heard anyone talk about. Youâve never seen books with their branch sticker come in and youâve never sent books to them. You asked a co-worker about it once, but they just smiled and asked how much shelf reading you got done that day. You tried to find it once, but kept finding yourself in the same grocery store parking lot over and over.
You weed for hours. There are no fewer books on the shelves. You weed for days. There is still no room for the new books that have come in. You weed for months. You feel like youâve withdrawn a lot of these books already. You know you threw this stained, tattered, moldy copy of Bleak House in recycling a while ago. You weed for years. You weed forever.
(You never weed books on witchcraft. In fact, you put ten brand new ones on the shelf yesterday. They have already disappeared.)
One day the elderly couple doesnât come in. The library has a much fouler smell that usual during the time theyâre regularly in.
You go through a box of donations and at the very bottom you find a copy of Ramona Quimby, Age 8. You loved that book as a child, and it looks like the same edition. You open it to check the publishing date and there is your name and childhood phone number written in purple crayola marker in your 8-year-old selfâs handwriting. You did not grow up around here. Your family is not close.
You go through a box of donations and at the very bottom you find a book with a photo used as a bookmark. You take it out to let the patron know they left it in there next time they come in. The photo is of a child at the beach and you would swear that it was a picture of you, but you have no memory of that swimsuit and no memory of that beach. The patron does not return.
You go through a box of donations and at the very bottom you find a book written in a language you canât identify. You pass it around to your coworkers, and none of them know either. You upload a picture of the cover to reverse google image search and there are no matches. You open the book to double check for copyright information and you donât know how you missed it until now but there is your your name and childhood phone number written in purple crayola marker in your 8-year-old selfâs handwriting.
âDo you have that book?â a patron asks. You reply, âIâm sorry, I donât know what book youâre talking about,â even though this time you get the nagging feeling that you do.
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