#tonya freck

[bannedlibrary]

Good Looking Junk

Community history fills the library.  Or it should.  History of a local area should be as much a part of the information as the bestseller is to the entertainment.  A problem with hiring from far away, from hiring impressive resumes without a connection to the community.  They care less about the history.

Not their fault.  They don't know the people.  Don't have blood mixed into the dirt like some of us might.  Nobody in their past worried over the land, felt proud when a building was added to the skyline.  Not their fault at all an impressive resume came with a cold stare when you mention the shoot out at the A&P or any other small town event that the national news forgot to get excited about.  

Tonya Freck's got that stare.  As circulation librarian she's warmed up to most of the people, remembers a few of them and what they like.  Local history is a mystery.  No matter how many old people come in asking, Tonya can't seem to remember which part of town is the oldest.  Which piece of land the Yankees wanted more when they took over.  

Probably gets mad at that last part.  Smiles, but in a way that is full of sighs of New York skyscrapers and resentment about being stuck here.  But you can't stop the old from recalling, even in jest, how the boys in blue killed their daddy's daddy and set up camp along the river.  How there ain't no good or evil side in war, just people murdering each other over ideals.  Morality doesn't enter into it.  Just blood.  This town's got plenty in its soil and Tonya just does not see it.  She's used to concrete that washes easier.

Concrete don't have much of a memory.

Benny Ginn came in and talked to her for a bit.  He's about her age, but his eye is on a different Freck, though.  Another story for another time.  Benny came in today to talk about local history, a box full of it.  Tonya put on her vacant smile and they talked.

"Don't you have a book or something," Benny said.

"Not really," Tonya said.  She picked up a cigar box.  It rattled.

"Choctaw arrowheads," Benn said.  "Box full of them.  My great-granddaddy used to gather them up when he plowed.  They gotta be worth something."

"Maybe if you went to the college?"

"No, they said it would be another month or two.  They're backed up because of that stuff out in the woods with the burial mounds.  Ain't got nobody that can help me.  Ain't you got a book?"

"We can look in the antique books, but they're a little out of date…"

"That's fine.  I just want an idea.  You know, how much so I don't get jipped.  Those eBay bastards don't tell me its worthless and take all my money like they do to those suckers on that TV show."

Tonya did not listen to him.  Let him talk.  She pulled a stack of books from the reference area, all at least a year or two old.  "Okay.  Well, Mr. Ginn, try these out and remember that a thing's only worth what someone will pay for it."

"Don't I know that.  How's this book work?  What's all the numbers mean?"

She explained the grading system each book used, showing him the tables in the appendix.  Tonya was not able to answer many.  Later when she asked me if I could help, I gave a few locals and a name of a man in New Orleans.  Benny was grateful, but his things went unappraised.  Good looking junk, though.

[bannedlibrary]

Beginning Again

We open the library to bring information and entertainment to the community.  One would believe that would be a simple mission to complete.  Supply and demand.  

The world would be so simple if the library could have what its patrons wanted.  The world would be so simple if we could inform and entertain.  Everyone would bring back and understand when others needed to wait.  The world would work.

The library is back, circulating its wares.  Books are being checked out.  DVDs are flying off the shelves as the spirits of deceased patrons are angered by all the activity.  Long months pacified them.  The cries of small children make the ghosts rise.  The anger from a ten cent fine makes them curse the living.

The world is no longer simple for the living or for the dead or for the undead.  We are no longer free to do what we want, and I feel trapped. Trapped and broken in this shell of a library where nothing entertains or informs for long.  The people are lost.

Tonya Freck does not know.  She has not worked here long enough, not had her master's degree for long.  She holds down the circulation department and smiles and wears a dress.  The dresses are pleasant to look at, at least.  She is divorced from Nikia Freck, but he walks in here more often in better skirts than her.  Better shoes, too, more often open toed and showing leg.  Nikia is in the business of selling things and has sold himself in her new body very well.  Almost too well for some.

Our lives in the library are complex and interesting.  I watch from behind the desks, the reference mostly, and collect the stories.  The dead dance before me and I keep them back with the news of the living.  

Brenda Banks is a fascinating case.  I hired her before Christmas, before Tonya.  Brenda came recommended with a well-worn diploma and the ability to quote whole sections of the Guide To Children's Literature.  She also made a mean origami crane.  Its wings flapped.  Too bad about her brother, though.  His wings won't flap anymore.  Sad.  She's so sad.  Does not talk much anymore, only coming alive for the story times.  Maybe I should put her on the podcast.  I brought it up, but she says she doesn't have time to read.  So it goes.

At least Brenda has Liz.  They don't know everyone knows.  Maybe Liz knows.  She knows more than Brenda pretends not to.  At least they can comfort one another when the night gets cold.  Liz only works here as an assistant part time but takes all of her lunches with Brenda in the break room.  I like them both as a couple and distinct.  I get my pot from Liz.  Another thing Brenda might not know.  She might.  So she knows.

Only one other life that rattles around the library with a mop and bucket.  Dave Ginn cleans up after the community, after the staff, and after me.  At night when he empties my trash, I always do the awkward motion of pushing away from my desk.  I always hide the bottle.  He walks around, moving like he's older and saying, "Don't bother, sit back and don't bother with Dave."  He can't be thirty but acts in his sixties.  Friends with Liz.  Says he's a member of the Ginn family, but doesn't resemble them at all.  Who can tell, though?  Families mix around here, colors combine on the rainbow.

And last there's me. Nothing really to say. One day at a time, informing and entertaining. Trying to get by. We shall see. Wish the world was simple. Wish folks would bring back their stuff on time. Wish in one hand and you know what to do with the other, as my father says.