The Book Whisperer
The Simmons public library was a melting pot of the haves and have-nots, a mixture of homeless people and the wealthy older residents of the nearby neighbourhood. Cravings for Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and sometimes heat, have that sort of universality. That kind of mix really stood out these days. Obviously, it wasn’t the case at any given hour, let alone on any given day. One had to know their schedule to figure out their crowds; no one could be blamed for mistaking a hipster for a homeless person these days. If I can spare you a pro tip, the eyes are usually what one should be aiming at to clear out any confusion. The latter often had, to my great despair, something gone dull in the eyes, as if they couldn’t be surprised with anything life had in store for them anymore, good or bad. Back in the old days, the age was another reliable hint… Still, nowadays, people in need of a safe place were getting younger by the minute. During opening hours, the library had become a shelter to some of them, whom Darryl, our security guard, and I, grew particularly fond of. Some of their stories rivaled with the biggest bestsellers we had on the shelves. They appreciated the company, the kindness, and so did some of our older wealthy regulars. I guess that having loneliness as a common ground could be enough to enjoy each other’s presence. As long as they whispered, I would let them chat; letting this uncanny human connexion unfold before my eyes was much more valuable than my golden silence rule. Over the years, we had had our share of heart-warming stories, with a rich user offering a person in need a job, helping them get back on their feet. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t all happy endings; some people we had seen for years we stopped seeing from one day to the next, others we were compelled to ban from the library, when they started mistaking it for a drug injection room. Reading this, I can see how compiling forty years of history makes it look so much more tumultuous than it actually was. Most of the time, it was the quiet, well-oiled, uneventful machine that is a public library.
In addition to these two types of crowds already covering the whole social scale, Mondays to Fridays were essentially populated with students during lunchtime and after school, with exam season getting as busy as it possibly could. It was the only time in the year when I needed to end fights over a table or a book. The tension would fill the room in its entirety. I would see faces I had never seen for the whole year, or maybe once in September. Over the course of my time here, I had seen so many faces, yet I would pride myself on remembering most of them. Students who came in just before exams would come and put on the table more books than a heavy reader could read in a month, hoping to be done with them within a couple of days. They would rely on the place to fill their minds, as if the sole fact of entering a public library made you cleverer. The trust one grants a public library is very unique in that sense. Yet, in the last decade, cell phones had ruined it all. Nevertheless, not caring about being seen as a tyrant, I had made the decision to ban them, and I was very strict about that. At first, some people stopped coming, but most of the users quickly grew very keen on being in a quiet, phone, music, and problem free space. Entering the library was like putting your life on hold for a while; it was as rare as it was needed these days.
On Wednesdays, Saturdays, and one Sunday a month, it was family time with readings; sometimes, I would even organize little meets and greets. We had a few children books authors in the area that we loved and followed closely. Twice a year, I would treat myself and I would read the children a story or two myself. I would put a sign on my desk, and I would ask Darryl to come and get me, should I be needed. He would always roll his eyes and repeat that it was not on his job description, but he would do it anyway; I would cook him my famous mac and cheese with pecorino, a family recipe with a twist I will not reveal here, and all would be forgotten. Darryl was a grumpy old thing at first sight, but the sweetness in his dark green eyes said it all. The two loners we were had become acquainted to one another, step by step, one pot of mac and cheese at a time. Being on my stool, at the centre of the circle, with all these little faces before mine, paying close attention to me for a solid fifteen minutes, was my happy place. Their parents, mostly moms, but recently more and more dads, were standing behind the circle, looking relieved not having to be the entertainment for a while. I would sometimes catch them listening to me, and, with the right story, and the right tone, for a split second, I could see their inner child pop up. I had actually known some of them as children quite well; four decades here had given me the opportunity to meet three generations of one family. The kids I had read stories now trusted me to help the imagination of theirs grow. I had purpose.
As you might have guessed by now, I’m not one to make stereotypes lie. Indeed, I am your typical librarian: I wear glasses, I am petite, and I am very discreet, so much that I am almost imperceptible to human eyes outside my Simmons kingdom. I was a very shy only child. The stories my father invented for me were my whole world and the thing I was looking forward to as soon as I got up every morning during all my childhood. I urged my parents to teach me to read as soon as it was physically possible. They obliged. Soon enough, books became my best friends. Do not get me wrong: I was not the total loner in the schoolyard. I had friends, but I always felt that books were safer. The local public library of our small suburban town, much smaller than the Simmons, had revealed most of its treasures to me by the time I entered high school. I was a promising student, not brilliant, but I definitely had potential. Thus, when the time came to go to college, I chose…literature. Shocker, I know. I hope you weren’t expecting a huge plot twist; I have always been more of a linear kind of storyteller. During my senior year, one of my professors made me think I was talented enough to pursue writing professionally. I had the terrible idea to believe him, and the even more appalling idea to fall in love him. For the first time in my quiet life, the emotions I had devoured in so many books were finally echoing, both the good and the bad. I felt alive. After graduation, after a bunch of refusals from publishing companies, and after finally realizing he would never leave his wife - witnessing him welcome twins into the world was what carved it into stone for me – I decided that both love and a writing career weren’t in the stars for me.
I came back home, self-pitied during countless weeks, tested my parents’ love and patience. Yet, I never stopped reading. Books prevented me from stopping to feel, which seemed at the time a very tempting pit to fall into. They came to the rescue, sometimes by leaving my soul crushed, as I grew more and more aware of the gap between the talent of my favourite writers and my supposed one. Other times, they would leave a sting of betrayal in my eyes, in my fingers turning the pages, as the story wasn’t resolving to the ending I had wished for. They also and mostly filled me with complete and utter joy as I marveled at other brilliant minds crafting the perfect stories, as I fell in love with their characters, and as my range of emotions got larger and larger. After a few months, still not knowing what to do with my life if I wasn’t going to write, my friend Janice offered me to move in with her. Thus, after a bit of thought, a few boxes filled with books and to be honest, pure fear, I moved out of my parents’ house to a nearby town where a lot of our friends from school now lived. That was when it hit me: lovers and friends came and went, but books had been the constant in my life; it only seemed logical to make a living out of it. Soon enough, I found a job, my first and my only job, the very job I am leaving today.
I fell in love with the Simmons public library almost instantly; its wooden shelves and desks, its warm lights under a green glass, its revolving doors, and its countless books. Countless is a lie: there are 3,887 books in the Simmons public library as of today. A librarian needs to keep count, even though computers can do that for you now. When I started out, most of my time was spent entering new references into our filing system, managing books getting in and out, dropping reminders on people’s answering machines because they were late returning a book, organizing small events to make the library an anchor in the neighbourhood, and advising people on books they should read. This was my favourite part of the job; based on one or two references they gave me, I would pride myself in getting the best next book to one person. I made no errors. What I preferred were teenagers coming to pick their first book on their own, not dictated by their parents or by their school; their minds had no pre-conceived ideas of what a good book was yet and I could have fun with my recommendations. The Book Whisperer. That is how I grew to be known in my little kingdom for a moment. I would dissect the new publishing season like some people do the stock market, making my predictions on best sellers, writing down little notes, jotting down names of users to propose them to, and building my own categorization system. I wanted to live up to my small reputation. Parents would come to me to give their children the love of reading. And I would. Every. Single. Time. Make no mistakes, there were crappy times as well, especially when most of my day was spent shushing disrespectful users, referencing new editions of Encyclopedias, being yelled at after a fine for a late return, or worse, being compelled to send someone in need back in the cold. Yet, at the twilight of my time here, I thought nice memories should prevail.
My book whisperer era ended with the mass access to computers and to the Internet. One the one hand, they made a lot of what I love less in my job easier, and on the other hand, they also made it almost non-existent, reducing it mostly to shushing people. What a treat. Who would care about the recommendations of an old librarian when they could join ten online book clubs, have thousands of reading lists and let algorithms pick their next book for them? That is if people kept reading at all… I have nothing against algorithms, but they prevent you from being surprised, from reading something you hadn’t thought about, from expanding your horizon and stepping out of that comfort zone millennials can’t stop talking about. I was lucky to spend most of my career without algorithms, and with a true meaning to it. What an appropriate timing to take my final bow.
I’m removing my life outside of these four walls from the narrative. A good writer must always choose an angle. Trust me when I say I chose the most interesting one. I am leaving this story, my story, inside several of my favourite books, written by authors from all eras, so that I know we already have something in common. If you have gotten this far, I bet we have more than one. I wanted to leave it to my replacement, a little handover if you will. But I was told there probably would not be for the time being. Apparently, a computer and another “mobile security guard” can replace me at a lower cost. These are the sign of the times. For so long in my youth, I wanted to be first at something, I wanted to be something else than average. As it turns out, I will leave a mark as being the last librarian of the Simmons public library, and its only book whisperer… Life is ironic like that sometimes. I bet you know what I’m talking about. So, which book did you pick? Tell Darryl, he will roll his eyes, then tell you where to find me, and I’ll gladly advise you another book or two over some mac and cheese, with Pecorino.
