Gifts

Oh man. I am in a bad mood today at the library. You do not want to mess with me. You probably shouldn't even look at me. I am a terror. I am ferocious! Tread softly. Thank me quietly and in soothing tones even if all I'm doing is angrily bashing together library carts and bins. But better yet just give me a wide berth, or go get me a cappuccino, but only a good one, and don't expect anything more than a Nero Wolfe-like grunt of acknowledgement if I find it acceptable.

For most of the afternoon I'll be upstairs "shelving". You're better off forgetting about me for a few hours while I'm up there disgustedly correcting the alphabetical errors of my co-workers and the public. But mostly I'll be staring for long periods of time into a blank and indefinite space. Yes if some man wants to know where the true crime books are I will direct him to them. If some cane supported old lady drops her glasses clatteringly to the ground I will scrabble across the aisle on my knees to retrieve them for her. But today, above all days at the library, you must remember this fundamental, elemental truth about me here: 

The library owes me a living. Every shred of work I do here is a gift.