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Library Man
I knew a man, who prowled the library halls every Sunday, at the eve at noon. He schleps along a tank full of air, as if he is dragging his ball and chain. And I can't help but notice from the safety of my corner chair, the way he growls at his daughter, when he has found a book. And she comes, swinging babies in her arms and dangling cigarettes from her mouth, trying to catch up to her father. I peer out over my books as he grasps the soft paperback in his arthritis riddled hands and shoves it towards the girl. She takes it with grudging despair and reluctance, and just when she is about to place it on the counter, in front of the check out lady, he shakes his scruffy, white-clad head and mumbles something about it not being the right one. The girl sighs, wishes the check out lady a happy Sunday, and follows behind, stepping in the shadow of her father. I long to know what their names are, the daughter who is short and stubby and never seems complete without a chuby baby hanging off her meaty arms. The old man who drags his ball and chain through the forest of books, growling like a tiger. And the baby, who screams at the top if her lungs when her mommys cigarette smokes swirls through her nose. This ragtag family entertains me far beyond the confines of my silken pages, and i yearn to know their story more than the fanciful characters draped before me. On the second Sunday of February, he was there right on time, his ball and chain moaning like a ghost as it glided down the carpeted floor. His daughter came in, cigarette lounging in her mouth, baby lounging on her arms. In her hands she clutched a pack of Marlboro, and flicked ashes about the floor. I peered over the hard cover of my book. The old man paced through the fiction section, and his tank purred alongside him. Down through the fantasy books, wrinkled hands massaging the bindings on the edges. He stalks through biographies and fables, letting his hands ripple over their leathery bodies. He grumbles at the daughter when she has fallen too far behind. His hands stopped over an old copy of Tuck Everlasting and his tounge flicked quickly over his cracked lips. "Some books are timeless" he grumbled. I looked out at him, searching the forest of rows to see who he might be talking to. His daughter and her child had long since disappated out the jangling door laden with bells, where they stood swirling in Marlboro smoke as the soft white flurries coated them. The old mans eyes flicked to mine. He repeated what he had said. I nodded slowly. His old, worn out hands picked up the book. It was old, with a brown cover and a faded picture of Tuck with his girlfriend. The two were bent over a pool of water nestled underneath a tree. "If only I hadn't aged." He sighed. The man took rumbling steps over to me, his tank full of life beside him as always. He stopped in front if my chair and stood. "Tuck was my hero, and I always wanted to end up like him. You cherish being young. It's not as fun As being old." His old, blue eyes twinkled merrily in their sunk-in sockets. I nodded as he strode away. He signaled through the window to his daughter to get the car, and she rushed out from under the red and white awning. Five minutes later and he was gone.
He died the next week, on a Sunday at noon. Apparently it was an open casket. Both my parents went, but not because they knew him, but because we all went to the same church. And while they respectfully dressed in black, not a tear was shed for this old man. "He died of old age," they said. But I knew better, though he needed a tank to breath and arthritis laced his fingers, he was young at heart. And that made him everlasting.
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This article has 20 comments.
Should be,
“And the baby, who screams at the top of her lungs” And, “i”
Should be, “I” And, “It's not as fun As being old."
should be “It's not as fun as being old." Etc. They are very trivial mistakes but they can irritate a lot. So I advise you go through your work once or twice after finishing.
The story, on the other hand was good. Keep it up!
