Read The Incident Report Online
Authors: Martha Baillie
“Sir, I must ask you to stop what you are doing,” Irene insisted.
“Why should I?” he retorted. “Is it written somewhere in your Rules and Regulations that a person can only consult a certain number of books at one time? If there's a limit, you show me where it's written down.”
Irene, as recommended in the Manual of Conduct for Encounters with Difficult Patrons, stood at a respectful distance and spoke in a tone of unyielding politeness.
“You are right,” she admitted. “No set limit exists to the number of books you may consult on a given visit. But I am asking you to demonstrate moderation. These books on the floor constitute a safety hazard. I am politely asking you to refrain from taking anything more off the shelves until you've carried these items you've chosen to a table and looked through them.”
Her appeal failed. He continued with his mission.
“Sir,” she warned, “if you refuse to stop stacking books on the floor, I must ask you to leave the library. What you are doing jeopardizes the safety of others, and obstructs the smooth functioning of the library.”
He paused in his labours, and in a tone of mocking authority he warned her, “The disruption I've caused so far has been pretty small. But if you refuse to follow the Rules and Regulations, which clearly state that no limit exists to the number of books I can consult on a given visit, then I'll go get a few friends and come back and show you a real disruption.”
Irene, unperturbed by his threat, stated that, as of the present moment, he was evicted from the library for the duration of three weeks and must not reenter until granted permission to do so. Without further comment he left.
On the following day he returned. I was alone at the desk. It was Irene's day off. She'd reminded me that, should he reappear, I was within my rights to call
the police and have him escorted out. She'd prepared a letter of eviction. I could give it to him, or, if I preferred to avoid a confrontation, I could let him come in but keep a close eye on his behaviour.
“How may I help you?” I asked.
Bitter with injury, he stood at the desk and told me of his unjust and wrongful eviction. He spoke with such force his face became flushed, and he threatened, as before, to gather together some friends who'd eagerly bring true havoc to the library. I listened. I did not possess Irene's courage and calm authority. I nodded and made sounds of sympathy. He asked me where he might find a book on how to play the piano. Together we walked to the shelves and located the book he was after. Until closing time he sat, reading the slender volume of musical instruction.
At 7:00 this evening, a group of men and women, all speaking a language I did not understand, entered the library together. They were approximately thirty in number and apparently looking for a Tenants' Association meeting. As we were very busy at the desk, a Pageâa university student hired to shelve booksâleft her regular duties and came to their assistance. She suggested they try the story room and pointed the way.
Inside the story room, a policeman sat on a folding chair behind a folding table. He greeted them cordially. A few minutes later the group reemerged and asked the Page if she could show them the way to a different room.
The policeman came out and explained that his sole purpose in visiting the library was to help innocent citizens wishing to report an incident of police brutality or other police misconduct. He could be of no help, regrettably, with complaints concerning landlords. His was a specific and one-time offer, part of a special programme taking place, on this particular day, in libraries across the city.
The Page, having glanced at the desk and observed that we were even busier than before, proposed to the
lost tenants that they try the upstairs programming room, and she pointed the way. She then promptly returned to her shelving, which she carried out in an accurate and timely fashion.
On the second floor, the thirty or more lost tenants entered a room full of people all passionately singing and clapping. A vigorous, white-haired man waved them in, delighted to see his congregation grow twofold so unexpectedly. He threw himself into his sermon with renewed faith and ardour.
The tenants, after several minutes of immersion in song, excused themselves and returned downstairs. At the desk, during their absence, a sudden calm had prevailed. They came forward, described in halting terms their experience upstairs and asked to be shown to yet another room. I explained that sadly there were no other rooms. I expressed my hope they would visit the library again, having reserved a room in advance. They departed, talking loudly amongst themselves in a language I could not understand.
At 2:05, Nila burst into the workroom. “My God, what a cow of a woman,” she shouted. “The one all in purpleâyou know who I meanâwith the drooping eyelids. She spat at me, I swear she did, what a cow, and they think I'm paid enough to stand out there and serve bitches like her? Like hell I am. I'm not going to take any more of this shit.”
I sat very still in my corner. It is how I used to sit when I was a child waiting for a storm to passâa storm raging either outside or inside the house.
I looked down at the awkward mask I was making in preparation for the Saturday afternoon family programâ“Stories and Masks.” I was constructing it from a paper plate, and had cut crude holes for the eyes and mouth by means of blunt scissors. I'd glued on feathers and buttons, odds and ends from the library basement. Soon I'd be holding up my mask in front of a gathering of children and parents. I'd give each child their own pristine paper plate, and promise them, “Yours doesn't have to look like mine. This is just an example, only an example.”
There was silence in the workroom. Perhaps Nila had taken herself off to the washroom to recover from
Lavender Lady? I looked furtively, from behind my paper plate; I peered through its two ragged holes. Nila hadn't gone far.
Seated at her desk, she was working. She was piecing together tomorrow's schedule, writing our initials in all the little boxes, assigning to each of us hour upon hour of orderly activity.
At 7:40 this evening, a blissfully mild spring evening, one of our Pages informed me she'd found a “sticky mess.” She led me to a table at the back of the library. A number of books were arranged in an upright position upon the table. They appeared to have served as a screen. Several more were lying in the “sticky mess.” The perpetrator was nowhere to be seen.
The books, soiled by what looked like common semen, we bagged in clear plastic and I withdrew them from the collection. No other actions were taken.
The time was 2:07
PM
. Wire Stripper Man entered the library in great haste, talking and swearing volubly to himself. He made his way, in quick strides, to his chair.
The time was 3:09
PM
. Wire Stripper Man got up from his chair by the window and sauntered over to the Reference Desk. He asked me if I might provide him with a copy of the Lord's Prayer.
“I know the words,” he assured me. “It's the line breaks I need.”
The skin at the edges of his fingernails was tinged green from oxidized copper. I Googled the Lord's Prayer and printed it out for him in Old English, Middle English and several other Englishes as well. He professed particular pleasure at the sight of the Middle English, which he claimed bore a resemblance to Celtic. Ebullient, he returned to his seat.
At 7:48 this evening, a rainy and cool evening, a female patron came to the desk to inform me that a man was “amusing himself with his genitals” at the back of the library. I made my way briskly to the 970s (History). The man in question, not a regular, having just experienced satisfaction, was rearranging himself. I issued the man a letter of exclusion. The affected books were bagged in clear plastic and withdrawn from the collection. These included:
A Story with No End: Conflict in the Middle East
The Agony of Palestine
In the Beginning: Conversations between Rabbi Bernstein and Father O'Sullivan
The Agony of Israel
We have no reason to believe the patron found these titles particularly arousing. It is true, however, that the books most favoured by determined masturbators are those located at the back of the library. These include Fine Art, Poetry, Plays, Literary Criticism and History.
At 3:45 this afternoon, Irene Frenkel, our Branch Head, emerged from her office and noticed the newly delivered children's picture books, piled on the workroom table. She picked up each one and flipped through a few pages. Two of them she took upstairs to read during her coffee break. I followed her. If there's anyone on staff that I consider a potentially close friend, it's Irene.
When I think of Irene, I picture her falling, tumbling through the unclouded blue of a summer sky. She grew up in Chile, the eldest daughter of educated, middle-class parents. Once, when she was seven, she was taken out for lunch in a fancy hotel with a garden. Partway through the meal, realizing she needed to pee, she asked to be excused. A waiter showed her the way to the washroom, and politely left her there. She closed the door of the cubicle, locked it, emptied her bladder, dried herself, pulled up her underpants, straightened her dress, then tried to open the door. It would not open. For several minutes she struggled with the handle.
A well-brought-up young girl does not cause a disturbanceâthis much she knew, even in her panic.
Children are to be seen not heard. She did not call for help or bang on the door with her fists. She looked for another way out. High above her, a small window admitted a pleasant breeze. By climbing onto the toilet seat she succeeded in peering out the window. When she'd hoisted herself up and sat perched in the frame, she looked down. Directly below her rippled the metal roof of a garden shed. It didn't look far at all. Half an hour later, one of the hotel staff found her crumpled and unconscious in the dirt, next to the garden shed. Her left leg had broken in two places, her shoulder was dislocated and her right wrist fractured.
For several weeks Irene lay in a hospital bed, and once a day her mother and father came to visit. They brought her a book, which she read from cover to cover, repeatedly. It was not her place to ask for another, and they did not bring her a second or a third book. They did not believe in excess.
Once, a marching band came down the street and the nurse wheeled Irene over to the windows so she could watch the band march past.
At 2:14 this afternoon, a man dressed in a suit of the sort a man might wear to an office to fulfill a role of little distinction refused to pay for the pages he'd printed from the Internet. Not only did he refuse to pay, but he clearly intended to print out more. I approached and requested that he refrain from using the library's printer unless prepared to accept the cost. He became rude, accusing me of greed, sloth and dishonesty. I ignored his taunts, sat down at my desk, disabled his computer and immersed myself in my work.
At 2:35, a Page reported that a man clothed in a nondescript suit and wearing glasses with heavy black frames was distributing religious material in the 640s (Cooking). By the time I arrived on the scene the man was working his way through the 910s (Travel), thrusting his religious printouts at anyone who happened by, and slipping the rest between the books on the shelves.
Despite his glasses, I recognized him as the same man I'd spoken to earlier. I now presented him with the choice of desisting in his behaviour or leaving the building. He chose to leave.
Once outside he opened his briefcase, and extracted a videotape cassette which he hurled into the air, aiming so that it landed on the library roof. Next he reentered the building and wrote a brief note on a piece of scrap paper, which he slid to me across the desk. His handwriting, contrary to my expectations, was generous, well-formed and easy to read: “To Her Majesty: if you want your video back, look for it on the roof.”
He is not Rigoletto. Whoever wrote the
Rigoletto
note had a pinched and slanted hand.
When I was a child I used to admire the loose ease of my father's penmanship. He kept a box of filing cards on his desk in his insurance office, and on these cards he wrote the names, phone numbers and addresses of his clients, and noted down a few personal details about each of them, so that when he spoke with them over the phone he could ask in an informed and friendly manner about their children and pets and family life. That he knew their dog was “Tibs” and inquired about Tibs's arthritis made them want to renew their Life Insurance plan.
He sold them every type of insuranceâcar, house, life, bicycle, boat, racehorse and violin. He kept the cards in order. I'd stand in the doorway of his office and listen while he leaned back heavily in his chair, the crucial filing card held, nonchalantly as a cigarette, between two fingers, and asked in a tone of genuine concern, “And your lovely daughter, Gertrude, she's eleven now isn't she? Soon she'll have her braces off? Still playing flute in the school band? Wonderful. It must take a lot of discipline to play an instrument.”