This week, instead of a topical blog, I’m posting a short story. Enjoy!
THE DARWINIAN CO-OP LENDING LIBRARY*
by
Vivian Lawry
We have all these people waiting in line, see, because we always have long lines for the holidays, and I had to tell this woman all the turkey basters are out. So she just goes off on me—like, “What kind of a lending library is this? First you don’t have a meat grinder and now no turkey baster?”
I’m, like, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you have to request meat grinders through inter-library loan.”
And then she goes, “That’s no excuse for the turkey baster!”
I’m like, “It’s five o’clock on Christmas Eve, ma’am. All the turkey basters are out.”
And she goes, “I’ve belonged to the Friends of the Library for thirty years, and this is the treatment I get? Who do you think donated the Santa suit, Bozo, the scuba-diving equipment—not to mention red sheets and heart pillows for roll-away beds. Just see if I donate anything else!”
Everyone behind her shifts from foot to foot and rolls their eyes, trying to balance punch bowls and tinsel and stuff. But co-ops run on donations. The head librarian invites her to have a cup of tea, says she could check out a nice lemon zester, or a fish poacher. I think the old days I’ve heard about, when people borrowed books and seldom came in around the holidays, weren’t so bad. But once we started lending tapes and CDs and children’s puzzles, there was no turning back.
The next person in line’s a repeater. This’s his third year checking out a puppy on Christmas Eve. He’ll renew for a second two weeks, until his kids shirk their puppy chores. Word’s out about our pet collection—we do a brisk business in rabbits and chicks for Easter—but puppies are tops. So I hand over the collie mix, yap-yap-yapping and wiggling his butt. The man says, “Do you have a goldendoodle? The kids would like a goldendoodle this year.”
I’m like, “This is our last puppy.”
He eyes the wriggling furball and goes, “How about tropical fish? Or a bear cub? Hey, I’ve got it. A de-scented skunk. That would be really festive.”
So finally I’m like, “We’ve had a run on pets. It’s either this puppy or a cat, your choice.” He reaches for the puppy. No one ever checks out a cat.
We expected the run on pets. But the really hot item—totally took us by surprise—has been kids—preschoolers, mostly, old enough not to wet the bed and young enough to be cute, suitable for photos and not too picky about presents. The parents who donate them mostly head someplace warm, and require a two-week-minimum loan. I turn to the couple picking up twins, and slide the informed consent form across the counter. The little girl says, “We get Cocoa Puffs for breakfast and Coke before we go to bed.” The boy kicks the man in the shins.
I’m like, “Read the parts about allergies and bedtime snacks carefully before you sign them out.”
Then this woman rushes in, navy banker suit and pearls, and budges in front of the line. I think there’ll be a blow-up. But everyone just stands there while she goes, “I need a family.”
I’m like, “You need to wait your turn.”
She goes, “I don’t have time to wait. My parents called from the airport—‘Surprise, we’re here for Christmas with you and Joe and the kids.’ I never thought this would happen, never in a million years.” She leans closer and lowers her voice. “Look, years ago I told them I eloped, to keep them off my back. Then they wanted grandkids, so I made some up. But now they’re here, and I’ve got to have a family for Christmas!” Someone behind her snickers. She blushes. “Surely you have one. I only need one.”
I go, “You are so in luck. We have a father with three kids left.”
She looks startled when they come out. Then she laughs, tucks a blond curl behind her ear, and goes, “Perfect! I don’t even have to make up a reason for keeping them apart, for not sending pictures.” She laughs again and leaves, arm in arm with the tall black father, the three kids trailing like ducklings.
Someone says, “What kind of woman would lend her husband and kids over Christmas?”
And I’m like, “Lots of Jewish families are okay with it. And single-parent families. And sometimes psychotherapists. Therapists are really pressed for time around the holidays.”
The next woman leans in and goes, “I reserved the Chinese grandparents.” As if I’d asked, she goes, “My children need exposure to Mandarin before we visit the homeland—and to the whole female subservience thing.”
So I’m like, “Whatever.” I run her card, hand her the due date slip. “Remember, back by Boxing Day or you incur huge fines. Merry Christmas.”
A teenage girl edges up to the counter, eyes skittering sideways, and whispers, “I don’t really need to check out a whole person. I just need—you know—parts.”
I stifle a laugh. I’m like, “What exactly do you need?”
She glances at her flat chest and goes, “I need a couple of pounds of body fat—just till after New Year’s.”
I print her due date slip. IMHO, body parts are going to be our next high-demand items.
I glance at the clock. Nearly six. A short man in a black coat and homburg steps forward and goes, “Do you honor cards from other libraries?”
I’m like, “We have reciprocal agreements with all the regional libraries.”
He goes, “Great! I want a book—T’was the Night Before Christmas.”
I don’t know what to say, so I’m like, “Let me check with the head librarian.”
The head librarian goes, “I’m sure we have a copy somewhere. Let me check the antiquities index.” She heads off at a half trot, the man in the homburg hard on her heels.
The clock strikes six and I’m like, “Yes.” I leave her to it, check out my own two pounds of body fat and my escort for The Nutcracker, and head home for the holidays.
THE END
*This story was originally published (without pictures) in the Clackamas Literary Review, 2011, Vol. XV, 124-127.