I always thought that if I never married, I’d either be a librarian or a truck stop waitress.
I imagined that librarians read all day, occasionally frowning over their spectacles at loud patrons and sighing at overdue books. What a thrill, I thought, to spend one’s career surrounded by stacks of literature, losing oneself in a remote locale, an adventurous endeavor, an alternate persona in a bygone era.
After a long day traveling the world on the written page, a librarian would kick off her sensible shoes and greet her adoring cat. Then she’d pour herself a glass of wine, release her hair from a ridiculously tight chignon and shake out her tresses. Once savored, she’d toss the empty wine glass into the fireplace where it would break – in cinematic fashion – into ninety seven shards that never flew out onto the carpet and jammed the vacuum cleaner.
Alas, I always a little too loud to be a librarian, hence my alter ego, the truck stop waitress. This likely stems from the feral side of my nature which craved a simple life where I didn’t have to comprehend anything I read beyond the daily luncheon specials. All ‘the regulars’ would be happy to see me and though I’d still have to wear sensible shoes, I’d never be too self conscious to shout “Kiss my grits!” to poorly tipping customers.
I’ll admit I carried these stereotypes in my head until nearly two years ago when we moved to a small town. One afternoon while we were out and about, my daughter waved to a well-dressed, masculine Italian on the street. He smiled and waved back. “Hi kid!”
I stared at my daughter. “It’s the library guy,” she said. “He comes to my school. He’s really funny.”
The library GUY? I had a momentary brain fritz. The ‘library guy,’ who appeared to be more of a ‘good fella’ than a bookworm didn’t have any tresses to shake out and surely didn’t look like a cat person to me.
I soon discovered that ‘library guy’ has a melodic, Italianesque surname which gives me great delight in telling my friends that I know ‘a guy.’ He has a loud dog, a penchant for baseball and love for three dollar screwdrivers. He is known by nearly all the school children in town, employs charming, chignon-less employees and unabashedly laughs and chats with patrons.
Meeting ‘library guy’ has dissolved my romantic notion of a librarian being a bespectacled, feminine marm with sensible shoes. The cat and the wine glass have also flown the coop.
On special town occasions our library serves donuts and coffee. And while drinking coffee in the library is not yet an every day allowance, I feel the gap between my librarian and truck stop waitress personas gradually shrinking.
I have yet to hear ‘library guy’ yell, “Kiss my grits!” to a patron with overdue books, but at this point, nothing would surprise me.
