Under the glare of a winter day’s dismal attempt at being sunny, in a
glass cage, over by the trendy new ruby-coloured lounges and just opposite the
daily rack of newspapers, sits a man. His eyebrows arched in constant surprise,
tapping a rhythm on the table and bopping to another with his feet, he turns
each page of his paper with enthusiasm. He continues his eager movements again
and again, only stopping occasionally to adjust the collar of his loose
flannelette shirt, apathetic to the world around him, but delighted by the task
of reading.
“CHRISTOPHER! CHRISTOPHER! Mummy said NO!” The small child, unaware that
his actions and mother’s subsequent scolding has drawn almost the entire
library’s attention to him, drops his defeated shoulders and starts following
his mother towards the exit. He knows he’s lost this round, but as a final
gesture of pre-kindergarten angst, he swings his arm out, brushing it along the
towering stand, pulling out pamphlets for the librarians to clean up after he’s
long gone. “CHRISTOPHER!!!!!” Even happy-reading guy has come out of his inner
world and looked up to see what the fuss is about.
Outside, the water feature washes away the sounds of the irritated
mother and brings an unwelcome reminder of the cold that awaits departees of
this heated asylum. Automatic glass doors, serve as the entrance to warmth-seeking
people on a chilly July morning. Just next to the doors, two women are in deep
dialogue about the books they are returning. They slowly empty their canvas
bags, one heavy book at a time, inserting them into the chute, stopping in
between each one to discuss it more keenly than the one before. Laughing and
gesticulating with their glove-wearing hands, they continually hit the sensor
to open the door, sending a hit of chill throughout the front of the building.
He’s stopped tapping now. Happy-reading guy cranes his neck around to
see what all the cold fuss is about. Disappointed by what he sees, he sighs to
himself and returns to today’s (or is it yesterday’s) headlines, turning the
next page and the next and the next. But his focus is lost. He pulls his shoulders
up towards his head, feigning the universal sign for “I’m cold”, but it goes
unnoticed to the two women oblivious to the mood-changing ability they have not
only on him, but other patrons who have now all, at one stage or another, shot
them the look of death. The look: that can only happen in a library, on a cold
winter’s morning, with someone setting off the sensor to open the door and let
the bitter cold in. The look that screams: “Put your books in the chute and
move the fuck away from the door!”
