Penalty Kill

Harper

"Excuse me?"

It takes every ounce of self control I have left not to turn around and immediately bark out a short, loud and effectual "WHAT?" to whoever is bothering me for the umpteenth time in the past five minutes. I should know better—I really, really, should. Tonight, Friday night, is the busiest night of the week at one of the largest public libraries in Manhattan. It's our most program-heavy evening, with a ton of options for both kids, adults and the greater community.

One might think, "How the hell can a library be busy on a Friday night?", and the answer would be that tired parents want easy ways to entertain their kids after a long week of simply just surviving, and the other answer would be that the written word is just simply not as dead as the media would like you to think it is. There's a women's lit group discussing War and Peace tonight, along with a local author who's doing a book talk and a meeting about how to prepare for retirement.

It's one barn burner of a Friday night, I tell ya.

And I, Harper Clark, get to be here to facilitate the dozens of questions about where these groups are meeting and any other questions that crop up about where to find particular books or the bathroom or if I have recommendations for good "spice" to read. The last one always earns whoever is asking me a good-natured chuckle. I wouldn't say I'm spice-adverse, I'm just spice ... indifferent? I'm always committed to do my due diligence, however, so I try my best to keep up with what's trending online as best as I can so I can guide people in the "right" direction.

I'm more of a poetry, non-fiction, autobiography girl, reserving myself to read about other people's thoughts, feelings and lives in as concrete a way as possible. Time and experience has taught me to avoid putting my head in clouds—steering clear of any whim or folly that might convince me that unrealities could possibly occur in the stark black and white truth of my day-to-day existence.

My life isn't bleak, by any means, it's just, well, it's entirely predictable. And that very fact is what has me huffing and puffing my way through this unavoidable Friday night shift at the library. I would've given anything to be in this kind of sulky, irritable mood in the middle of a Tuesday at 2 p.m., when the library is mercifully quiet and full of people who know exactly why they are here—to read, to study, or to find a book.

"Excuse me, I'm just trying to find the book reading for kids that's going on tonight."

With an audible sigh through parted lips, I resign myself to the fact that I will not be able to simply ignore this man until he goes away. Instead, I'm forced to subject the innocent patrons of the public library to my foul mood. And whoever the man is asking me a question now is unknowingly opening himself up to the unrelenting sourness I'm oozing. For that very reason in and of itself, I decide to keep my back turned to him as I respond, instead choosing to focus on the so-called filing I'm doing in one of the many drawers on the wall.

"Do you have a child to attend said reading with?"

I hear a small scoff, but the noise doesn't detract me from keeping my eyes and fingers trained and glued onto the drawer full of files before me. Did we actually do any paper filing these days? No. But the relics remained behind most all of the desks in the library, and they offered many a librarian a convenient way to make oneself look busy when needed.

"I'm actually here to be one of the people doing the reading, and I'm cutting it awfully close to the start time, so if you could please tell me where I'm supposed to go, that would be great."

There was no missing the slight edge of annoyance in his voice. With another unbridled sigh, I turn my head over my shoulder, wisps of my bangs and hair fluttering and flying around my face as I lay my hard, indifferent gaze onto whoever decided to show up almost late to actually read at the kid's reading.