36/100: The Walking Encyclopedia
This vignette is one of 100 in a series of social observations at my local library
Moustachio is joking around with the lady librarian who mans the desk on the third floor. They’re about the same age, which is younger than most of the librarians on staff — mid-forties, give or take. They whisper and giggle and gesture animatedly and share measured pauses.
This may be a flirtation, but equally likely is the scenario where two colleagues of similar age and opposite genders are simply having a conversation. I’m quick to assume it’s the first one, only because it’s the only instance I’ve ever seen Moustachio act this way. Of course that’s not saying much, seeing as I don’t know anything about the man except what I observe from a distance of at least fifteen feet.
He strikes me as a very serious person; not to say humorless, but deeply focused on his job. In his appearance, he’s the most formal of all the librarians: where most of the staff sport casual collared shirts, often of the checked variety, his is a daily ensemble of chinos, and sports jackets. Only on Fridays does he trade in his buttoned up attire for jeans and a nonchalant neckline.
He’s unbelievably knowledgable. Whenever someone approaches him with a question, whether it concerns a book’s location or a query of a broader scope, he not only has the answer but more often than not will provide extra background information — a fun fact or an anecdote pertaining to the subject at hand. He’s a walking encyclopedia, which is fitting as he spends his days surrounded by all manners of these volumes, albeit the stationary kind.
The other librarians treat him with an air of reverence, as if they have much to learn from him despite his relative youth. When he talks on the phone — a landline which I presume is the library’s chosen mode for internal communication — his tone often takes on an ‘I’m-in-charge’ inflection: business-like and confidently capable. I’ve spotted him in nearly every wing of the building; wherever he is, he moves briskly and with purpose.
When I started writing this series I declared that I would win him over, that given enough time, he would say hello to me upon my arrival. I’ve since given up on this goal. It’s not that he’s unfriendly — when engaged, he’s receptive and helpful. It’s just that you’d never know it by looking at him. He doesn’t smile at strangers, and the only time he involves himself with the library-goers besides answering their questions is when he has to enforce a rule that’s being violated. By this logic, it adds up that his reputation isn’t that of the fun-loving, joke-cracking mensch who may or may not be flirting with the third-floor librarian.
The particularities of this series lie in its wishes to observe social behavioral patterns in a decidedly antisocial environment. The library is a place for self-containment rather than interaction; people come here to be with themselves. What everyone else sees is only a sliver of the whole picture; one side of a multi-faced prism.
Moustachio is in his place of work, and here, he wears his professional hat. To those who share this space with him, he is the sober, dedicated savant who is not to be disturbed lest it’s a library-related matter. This is the image I am accustomed to seeing, and perceiving it from an angle besides the one I’m familiar with is — well, it’s bizarre enough that it merits its own vignette.
Their exchange goes on for five minutes, then ten, then fifteen. They could be talking about anything: gossiping about co-workers or bad bosses, maybe mutual friends outside of work. Without doubt they have their own opinions about some of us regular library-goers:
I wouldn’t have pegged Gold Shoes for reading a book about gardening.
No way Vintage Tees is old enough to know about the California Raisins.
Steel Coffee Mug woman who stares at everyone really ought to have her roots touched up.
I feel as though I’m watching the behind-the-scenes outtake of a scripted production, like when it occurred to me for the first time — after watching the whole of Game of Thrones — that Jason Mamoa’s native tongue is English, and not a made-up dialect created by a reclusive fantasy novelist.
Since the start of this series, Moustachio has played a single role, and a rather one-dimensional one at that: a safeguarder of books who, when spoken to, knows exactly what to say and does so in a cordial, if aloof, manner.
But to see him joking with a friend is a reminder that just as a story is composed of characters, so too are characters composed of stories. And the encyclopedia, though decidedly opaque on the outside, holds within it a treasure trove of stories, each one more surprising than the last.
Thanks for reading!
