LJIdol - Week 27 Entry
His Brain Makes Its Own LSD
(A Leon Trout Story)
Karma is a real thing. I’m pretty damn sure of it. I used to work in toxic tort. If that doesn’t mean anything to you, then perhaps you’ve seen that Erin Brockovich movie starring Julia Roberts. In it, Julia Roberts plays a spunky go-getter who helps sue a giant corporation on behalf of the townspeople poisoned by the company’s nasty chemicals. Pretty heartwarming stuff, but that’s not what I did. I helped defend companies from the little babies they poisoned. I felt like a bit of an asshole about it, but I still managed to do it for nearly six years before the law firm and I parted ways.
After a few years of trying other things, I sort of fell into librarianship. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I went into the field still thinking public libraries were like the one I visited when I was a kid in the early eighties, quiet and boring. I was an idiot, and karma was getting ready to do its thing:
I’m about two weeks into the job, and I’m the librarian in charge on Thursday nights. Thanks to staff cuts, we’re down to one librarian and two circulation staff at night to run a 15,000 square foot library with 28 public computers. So far, all is well, when a guy in his fifties walks in with branches duct-taped to his fedora. He’s also carrying a three foot metal pipe with bits of scrap metal welded to it. Damn it.
“Sir… Sir!” He doesn’t hear me. I walk out from behind the front desk and scuttle in front of him, but not too close. “Sir, you can’t bring that thing in here,” I say pointing to the cudgel. That’s when I notice the rest of his getup. He’s wearing work boots that he has painted gold, an elaborately hand-painted dress shirt, and cut-off jean short-shorts.
“Do you know why I have branches on my head?”
He reeks of gasoline, probably been huffing the stuff all day. “I don’t have a problem with the branches, sir. It’s the metal club in your hand that I can’t allow you to bring into the library.”
He raises his free hand to point up, “It’s so they can’t see me from the satellites.” Then he leans in conspiratorially, the gas makes my head swim, and he whispers, “I also bury my scat so they can’t track me.”
“OK, listen, it’s the club. You can’t bring a weapon into the library. Take it out right now, or I call the police.”
“This?” He raises the pipe and looks at it as if he only just noticed it was in his hand, “This is part of my bicycle.”
“Outside,” I reiterate pointing to the door.
“But someone will steal it if I leave it out there.”
“I don’t care. You can’t have it in here.”
“My brain makes its own LSD. That’s why they want me.”
“What? No, wait, I don’t want to know. It’s the club.” I point at it, “The club, I don’t want it in here.”
“But I need a book on canine dentistry and a book on seismic imaging for oil exploration.”
At this I pause. This is an actual reference question. It’s an absurd reference question, but he wants actual books. I look around at the library filled almost exclusively with people using our free internet to check Facebook, play Minecraft or Farmville, follow some useless celebrity’s Twitter feed, or search for porn that our filters fail to block. I sigh, “How about this, give me the club, I’ll put it behind the desk until you’re ready to leave, and I’ll help you find some books.”
He shrugs and hands me the club. It’s heavier than I expect, and I use both hands to keep it from dropping. I start to walk toward the desk with it, but then I pause. I turn back around to him and ask, “When you bury your scat, what do you use?”
He points to the metal club, both ends now firmly in my grip, “That.”
(A Leon Trout Story)
Karma is a real thing. I’m pretty damn sure of it. I used to work in toxic tort. If that doesn’t mean anything to you, then perhaps you’ve seen that Erin Brockovich movie starring Julia Roberts. In it, Julia Roberts plays a spunky go-getter who helps sue a giant corporation on behalf of the townspeople poisoned by the company’s nasty chemicals. Pretty heartwarming stuff, but that’s not what I did. I helped defend companies from the little babies they poisoned. I felt like a bit of an asshole about it, but I still managed to do it for nearly six years before the law firm and I parted ways.
After a few years of trying other things, I sort of fell into librarianship. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I went into the field still thinking public libraries were like the one I visited when I was a kid in the early eighties, quiet and boring. I was an idiot, and karma was getting ready to do its thing:
I’m about two weeks into the job, and I’m the librarian in charge on Thursday nights. Thanks to staff cuts, we’re down to one librarian and two circulation staff at night to run a 15,000 square foot library with 28 public computers. So far, all is well, when a guy in his fifties walks in with branches duct-taped to his fedora. He’s also carrying a three foot metal pipe with bits of scrap metal welded to it. Damn it.
“Sir… Sir!” He doesn’t hear me. I walk out from behind the front desk and scuttle in front of him, but not too close. “Sir, you can’t bring that thing in here,” I say pointing to the cudgel. That’s when I notice the rest of his getup. He’s wearing work boots that he has painted gold, an elaborately hand-painted dress shirt, and cut-off jean short-shorts.
“Do you know why I have branches on my head?”
He reeks of gasoline, probably been huffing the stuff all day. “I don’t have a problem with the branches, sir. It’s the metal club in your hand that I can’t allow you to bring into the library.”
He raises his free hand to point up, “It’s so they can’t see me from the satellites.” Then he leans in conspiratorially, the gas makes my head swim, and he whispers, “I also bury my scat so they can’t track me.”
“OK, listen, it’s the club. You can’t bring a weapon into the library. Take it out right now, or I call the police.”
“This?” He raises the pipe and looks at it as if he only just noticed it was in his hand, “This is part of my bicycle.”
“Outside,” I reiterate pointing to the door.
“But someone will steal it if I leave it out there.”
“I don’t care. You can’t have it in here.”
“My brain makes its own LSD. That’s why they want me.”
“What? No, wait, I don’t want to know. It’s the club.” I point at it, “The club, I don’t want it in here.”
“But I need a book on canine dentistry and a book on seismic imaging for oil exploration.”
At this I pause. This is an actual reference question. It’s an absurd reference question, but he wants actual books. I look around at the library filled almost exclusively with people using our free internet to check Facebook, play Minecraft or Farmville, follow some useless celebrity’s Twitter feed, or search for porn that our filters fail to block. I sigh, “How about this, give me the club, I’ll put it behind the desk until you’re ready to leave, and I’ll help you find some books.”
He shrugs and hands me the club. It’s heavier than I expect, and I use both hands to keep it from dropping. I start to walk toward the desk with it, but then I pause. I turn back around to him and ask, “When you bury your scat, what do you use?”
He points to the metal club, both ends now firmly in my grip, “That.”