Part Twelve
To the editors at Nonzine, Mike: You’re probably beginning to think that this entire episode – my entire life as relayed to you, really – is pointless. You’re probably right. And yet, I have this urge to get it all down onto paper, no matter what kind of paper it is, toilet or otherwise, and send it out there into the void, no matter what will happen to it. I envision a day, a windy, overcast day when I might rewrite this story on a single roll of toilet paper, roll it back up, sneak up to the top of this miserable dormitory, and let it unfurl across the august sky, a tendril of exquisite corpse come feathery in the wind. The aide who used to report back to me the status of my story in Nonzine is no longer here. Truly, every time I send out another section to you, I have no idea what happens to it. And I don’t care. I’m just getting it all out.
When I worked for the library what I did for nearly fifteen years was label books. Every day, hour by hour, I would type up hundreds of labels and tape them to the books. At the insistence of the catalogers, every single book had a unique call number. No two books were labeled exactly the same.
Do you see where I come from? Do you see what I am? How could a person not snap in such conditions, if snapping was what happened to me?
Perhaps I wasn’t made to work in such a place. There were many before me who never took on the heroic mission that I have. And yet, I never met a cataloger who didn’t tend to classify everything she laid her hands on. They just weren’t as proactive as me. But that was never all. Every librarian at every branch library had her specific feelings about which books needed to be specifically marked for certain customer groups. So, in addition to each unique classification, we had genre labels – mystery, sci-fi, romance, christian fiction and on and on and on. This way most customers didn’t have to look a book up. They could judge a book by its cover with as little work as possible, which is what they always wanted anyway. They didn’t have time to pick up and look in every book. I think this was how they looked at people too, and it bled over into the library.
So, I had my job, my mission. To help these people out. To take on the job that no one else wanted, that no one else would or could do. To label everything.
And I would have begun sooner, if not for being tied to an aluminum cot with baling wire by a young lady. I called out to her for hours, but without a response. She came in near nightfall with a bottle of vodka and a new box of sharpies.
“By now, you may be wondering why I’ve tied you down, what I might be up to,” she said, setting her new purchases on the table beside me. “I promise my intentions are pure.” She began to disrobe again and I could do nothing but lay there and watch or close my eyes and pretend nothing was happening. But I was a little worried, having been tied to the bed the way I was, so I watched her every move. I was happy to see my scrawlings over her body had neither faded nor been washed away.
“You could untie me now,” I said when she finished.
She grabbed her bottle of vodka and opened it, taking a drink straight from the bottle. “I’ve got plans for you, honey.” She winked at me and took another drink. “At this point, you’re feeling pretty anxious. You think about asking me questions, trying to find out what I’m planning on doing, but you realize how useless that would be.”
When I worked for the library what I did for nearly fifteen years was label books. Every day, hour by hour, I would type up hundreds of labels and tape them to the books. At the insistence of the catalogers, every single book had a unique call number. No two books were labeled exactly the same.
Do you see where I come from? Do you see what I am? How could a person not snap in such conditions, if snapping was what happened to me?
Perhaps I wasn’t made to work in such a place. There were many before me who never took on the heroic mission that I have. And yet, I never met a cataloger who didn’t tend to classify everything she laid her hands on. They just weren’t as proactive as me. But that was never all. Every librarian at every branch library had her specific feelings about which books needed to be specifically marked for certain customer groups. So, in addition to each unique classification, we had genre labels – mystery, sci-fi, romance, christian fiction and on and on and on. This way most customers didn’t have to look a book up. They could judge a book by its cover with as little work as possible, which is what they always wanted anyway. They didn’t have time to pick up and look in every book. I think this was how they looked at people too, and it bled over into the library.
So, I had my job, my mission. To help these people out. To take on the job that no one else wanted, that no one else would or could do. To label everything.
And I would have begun sooner, if not for being tied to an aluminum cot with baling wire by a young lady. I called out to her for hours, but without a response. She came in near nightfall with a bottle of vodka and a new box of sharpies.
“By now, you may be wondering why I’ve tied you down, what I might be up to,” she said, setting her new purchases on the table beside me. “I promise my intentions are pure.” She began to disrobe again and I could do nothing but lay there and watch or close my eyes and pretend nothing was happening. But I was a little worried, having been tied to the bed the way I was, so I watched her every move. I was happy to see my scrawlings over her body had neither faded nor been washed away.
“You could untie me now,” I said when she finished.
She grabbed her bottle of vodka and opened it, taking a drink straight from the bottle. “I’ve got plans for you, honey.” She winked at me and took another drink. “At this point, you’re feeling pretty anxious. You think about asking me questions, trying to find out what I’m planning on doing, but you realize how useless that would be.”
© 2006Labelman
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