A library worker's fantasies

"It's the 'R' day," I say to my husband as I leave the house.  

When he asks what I mean, I tell him part of my library job is to "weed" the magazine racks one letter per day and today is "R" day.   Then I have to stamp the outdated issues with "DISCARDED".    That way the racks don't topple over from the weight of the new periodicals that arrive in each mail.

In his distorted sarcastic tone he says, "Good luck, I hope none of the R's get too exciting."

"At least," I think, "I won't have to write a script on nail patterns for roofing shingles like you'll be doing today, you failed documentary film producer."  

But in the interest of marital harmony, I just smile and say, "Thanks for the encouragement."

At work I roll the little wire cart to the stacks and start sorting the out-of-date R's.

I double check the date and hit them with the freshly inked rubber stamp – THUMP.

RANGER RICK is now off to the landfill of words somewhere in another state.   But wait.   As I'm putting it in the DISCARDED bin, I hear a little voice from the magazine.   "Not me, I'm the best issue on Wacky Mail Boxes in the history of the world.   Let me live so I can liven up the front of houses in these stale, artistically sterile neighborhoods near the library."

Although startled I feel this appeal for clemency deserves an answer, I know, I whisper back, you could spice up my neighborhood, but mail box art with fantasy animals will have to go to make space for the new issues on animal babies.  Out you go.

 THUMP.

"Not me," ROLLING STONE cries out.   "I've got the best Tommy Hilfiger ads with semi-nude male underwear models with unprecedented strategic bulges ever photographed.   Do you have any idea how long the stylist worked with the fake rubber bulge to create just a hint of enhanced manhood?   How could you throw me out?"

It's my job.

"Wait, you prim and proper library worker with the rich fantasy life about making love to the colonel on StarGate. If that argument doesn't grab you, how about this? My political article warns people the Attorney General's Patriot Act defines terrorism so broadly the new law can be used to go after political dissenters like Greenpeace, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals and anti-globalization protestors."

No one cares.   Off you go to join the "DISCARDED" ideas of history.   Maybe some archaeologist will dig you up undecomposed in the land fill and say you warned us.

THUMP

THE RING EXTRA, The Bible of Boxing gets a rubber right jab right in the solar plexus of the cover star heavyweight champion Hasim Rahman.  

That'll teach you to promote THE blood sport to our young.

"You're just doing this because I can't fight back," THE RING shouts.   "You're going to miss seeing the huge belts with medals on our winners.   It's the next fashion trend in the ghetto."

They look like chastity belts to me.   Off you go.   Fight it out in the landfill—you pulp violence-promoting intellectually deprived drivel.

THUMP

THE ROTARIAN gets it right above the picture of Stonehinge.  

"Wait don't throw me out.   I've got a great article on the Rotarians work with foot and mouth disease in the British Isles.   Don't you want to know about our other great humanitarian projects?"

If you do so much good work, why does Hamas, the Palestinian liberation group consider you part of the Zionist plot to "control imperialistic countries and instigate them to colonize many countries in order to enable them to exploit their resources and spread corruption"?

"Just because our members wear ties and our organization gets major corporate support, they think we're lackeys of the world capitalist conspiracy.   They should see the smiles on the faces of the children we help."

I'll let history settle that debate.   I've got more R's to do before my shift on the circulation desk.

THUMP

A good blow landed squarely on Christie Brinkley's right breast just below REDBOOK'S  masthead.        

That'll teach the publisher to use Christie's immaculately coifed head to cover the two O's of REDB**K.

"Stop you can't toss me!   I've got advice for all the disgruntled housewives in my article on "Five Secrets of Foxy Wives".    These tips could save marriages all over town."

Getting a paycheck saves marriages.   Let me get back to my job.

 "You'll never get shiny, healthy hair if you toss me."

I'll take my chances.

THUMP

ROMANTIC TIMES gets the black ink of periodical death.

"That's not very subtle.   You should build up some suspense and tease like we do in the stories before you let the black ink penetrate my fibrous pores."

There's no time for subtlety here.   I've got years of magazines to go through.

"Don't you want to find out what happens to the heirs who inherit the vast windswept ranch, wrested from the wilderness with blood, sweat and tears.   Don't you want to find out how the family members cope with their shining legacy of scandal, lies and hidden lust that's burning out of control?"

I'll save that revelation for our patrons.   Now I've got to start my shift on the circulation desk.   The rest of you R's will get a one day reprieve before you go into my little literary moving basket.  

"How are things at the library, Mrs. Rogers?" one of the patrons asks as she checks out a stack of travel books.

"Oh, fine. Nothing much happens around here," I reply as I scan her books' barcodes for checkout.

Copyright 2005 Sam Love