OMGJeremy

With Your Pubs and Your Clubs and Your Ministry of Sound

I love libraries. Something about them is immensely appealing to me. A massive variety of books mixed with the sort of people who choose to spend their afternoons in a library make the average public library a fantastic place to visit. For the last year and a half, I’ve only really been going to University libraries which are full of students and books of learning. They are nice enough places, but a bit bland. Everyone is there to work and there’s only so many times you can change the last search on all the library index computers to “Trapped in library index computer. Send help!” before you are arrested by the humour police. University libraries are just SO BORING!

Public libraries on the other hand, are awesome. I visited my local public library today with the intent to work on an impending essay. The plan was to plagarise heavily from my earlier writings and any obscure books I could find. The fiction section beckoned me alluringly in a manner which I found alluring and I found its allure too alluring to resist. As I browsed the A-Z of authors, two oddities became quickly apparent. First there seemed to be nothing at all by Stephen King and second I was being followed. I judged her to be about middle aged. She had a harelip and she talked to herself.

An accurate visual

It all brought to mind an incident that had occurred a week earlier. I was walking down the high street and I heard a man coming towards me having a very angry conversation with someone I couldn’t see. I assumed he had one of those newfangled phone earpieces and I took a moment to reflect on the forward march of progress. As he got closer I realised he was mad and I took a second moment to reflect that he was probably enjoying his conversation far more than anyone who actually had a mobile earpiece. I’m not sure why, but this put me in a fantastic mood for the rest of the day. Anyway, back to the latest crazy person.

She wasn’t being too obvious about following me, but if I turned down an aisle, several moments later she would join me. Then when I left, she would wait for a short time and follow. I wasn’t sure what to do. When I listened to her muttering it didn’t really give me any clues. Judging her harmless, I resolved to ignore her until I had solved my first mystery – that of the missing Stephen King. I have mentioned before how I have been reading his Dark Tower series. It’s fun stuff and, unlike many series, has now been finished. However, according to the many bookshops I have consulted on the matter, the books will not be out in paperback for a very long time. We’re talking years. As a consumer, this annoys me. Generally I prefer to buy books that I enjoy, as I will re-read them many times and be able to lend them to people to broaden their literary horizons. I do not enjoy paying £25 for one book, especially as it is heavier to carry than the cheaper versions. It strikes me that I am paying extra for a feature I do not want. You won’t be weighing down MY hand-luggage, Mr King (or your publishers), no sir!

I’m sort of the Patron Saint of Paperbacks.

My library quest was a way to read these books and achieve closure without betraying my principles. I could read them for free, wait a couple of years until they are out in paperback, buy them and complete my collection. A good plan, no? But it was being foiled by my inability to locate any Stephen King at all. Not even a Shining! In most libraries and book shops there are whole shelves dedicated purely to King, that beautifully prolific monster. Not this one, it would seem.

Perhaps they were all out on loan?

I gave crazy lady the slip and veered dizzily at the nearest computer. The venture proved fruitless as the computer did not work. Well, not entirely fruitless. I noticed what looked like stale banana smeared over the casing which, on reflection, may have contributed to the non-functionality of that particular terminal. I love public libraries.

It was back to the aisles to search the old fashioned way. Crazy lady was nowhere to be seen but, like the Peter Pan crocodile, I was certain I would be able to hear her coming. I scoured those damn aisles for ages. You’d think Stephen King would be filed under K, or maybe even S if the librarians were stupid, but no. Both places bare. I tried to put myself in the mindset of a small town librarian and veered uncontrollably towards a frighteningly tall stack of Jane Austen novels.

Just as I was about to give up I heard the detached mutterings of my old friend and wobbled dramatically into the nearest aisle. It should be noted at this point that in a nasty twist of fate I am currently exceedingly ill and my symptons chiefly involve a high fever and a penchant for falling over. Needless to say it made the entire trip hugely exciting. As I took stock of my booky hiding place I suddenly realised with delight that I had located the Stephen King section, sensibly categorised between comics and Fantasy, next to books with titles like Elven Queen Luscioux’s Quest To Get Her Kit Off. Or at least that’s what I surmised the title was from the possibly terrifying and definitely creepy cover drawings. The actual number of King novels in evidence was disappointingly small and I was unable to locate either of the books I wanted. It was time to go upstairs and do my essay.

I turned to leave and who should be making her delightfully insane way toward me? Who else but crazy lady? I realised that I would have to deal with one more issue before I could work. OK crazy lady, you want to follow me? THEN FOLLOW ME ALL THE WAY TO HELL!

I walked into a toilet, had a fantastic poop and when I emerged she was gone. I love happy endings.

I found myself a desk and began to scribble notes about Interest Groups in my chicken scratch cavalier scrawl. I hope that last sentence establishes in your mind that I do not have good handwriting. Because that was what I wanted. Now those of you reading this who also have bad handwriting will relate more to the story. It’s a clever technique that often works when you aren’t made undeniably aware of it by lazy writers.

Hello. I am being watched. No wait, he’s not actually looking at me. He’s looking sort of through me. I turned around. There was nothing but blank wall behind me. Has someone managed to switch my t-shirt for one that has a Magic-Eye puzzle on it without me knowing? A quick check proved that this was disappointingly not the case. This particular gentleman was quite short, quite stocky and I assume, based on the evidence at hand, quite mad. I decided to ignore him.

ditto

This proved tricky as he honestly seemed to have nothing better to do than stare at some imaginary point exactly three inches behind me. Every so often I would look up, try to catch his eye, fail completely and, defeated, go back to working. I began to notice that every five minutes or so he would wave around a book he had in his hand as if to say, “Look! I am holding a book therefore I am using the library and therefore I have every right to be as sinister as possible!” Then it was straight back to the staring.

After an hour and a half of this, yes, 90 minutes of creepy stares, I managed to catch his eye. He was surprised, I think. He was definitely flustered. He spun on the spot for a while in what I assume was either his attempt to look casual or his attempt to drill through the floor. It took him a good few minutes to decide on a plan of action. He strode purposefully all of three metres to a nearby photocopier, placed the book he was holding on the transparent bit, held it down as if he intended to photocopy something and resumed staring at the same point three inches behind me. I was filled inexplicably with admiration.

Now every five minutes he would raise and lower the lid of the photocopier as if to say, “Look! I am now using library facilities to photocopy from a book I located within the library. This excuses everything!” As yet another dizzy spell struck me, I realised something that I should have realised a long time ago.

It was time to go home.

As I left my desk I watched Staring Guy continuing to stare and raise and lower that photocopier lid. A part of me likes to hope he’s still there now, stood alone in a dark library, a thin trickle of drool decorating the determined jut of his jaw. Bless you, Staring Guy. I pray one day you find what you’re looking for. I also pray that no-one ever wants to use that photocopier because, well, the toner cartridge is probably full of yoghurt.

I love public libraries.