The Dude Just Wants His Library Card Back

By DAMIAN WEST

Sweet Baby Amnesty!

The love of word on page dips Dead Sea low.

So much so that the printed word’s $$$-dependents now huddle.

They scream at it to “Breathe, Damn You, Breathe”.

But it’s only when its eyes grow frost and when library fines are waived that you know it’s Code Red.

That the ally of last resort must be summoned.

That the common scoundrel, repeat disappointment to the interests of the herd – the one who returns shit late – is called upon and told that all is forgiven.

And screamed at to “Read, Damn You, Read!”

Anything, everything to help flatten out the inexorable trend.

The Brisbane City Council’s Library network introduced a December reprieve to win back fallen readers this year; the erasure of accrued fines and the restoration of borrowing privileges in exchange for canned goods to feed The Poor this Christmas.

And I for one was delighted by my new fortunes stumbled on by chance in Stones Corner two weeks ago.

(*I had been gazing in awe of an oversized and very interesting looking catfish swimming in broad fancy circles; my vantage point the Logan Road bridge spanning the upper tidal limits of Norman Creek. Surrounding the catfish were shoals of mullet and bream swept upstream in a king tide that, in my mind, at least, dissolved and rendered meaningless concepts like land and ocean and nature and civilisation, like fresh water and salt water, like mangroves and gumtrees and concrete and lawn clippings and Ford Falcons. The symbol that tied everything together was a giant koi goldfish; half a metre at least in size and most likely once a diminutive pet in a fish tank in Greenslopes. My path to the nearby library was chosen for me by a man who interrupted my solitude, complaining to me about ‘four more years under Labor’.).  

This development signaled justice. I once loved and lived a Right-On girl who shared freely my things with a Right-On friend, and this Right-On friend disappeared with a stack of my library books as tall as a tall child.

It took a breakup, a dead dog, a job resignation, a breakdown and many more months to recover those books. And when I did, I did not like the hundreds of dollars I was pressured to pay.

And so I never did.

I pleaded my innocence to the powers that be. I used flattery, humour, and charm. Goddamnit, I even used reason.

And then I gave up.

And so here I am now, three years later in Stones Corner and staring justice in the face.

A slate wiped clean by corn and beetroot.

I would buy my five hundred dollars for the lowest possible price, and I would push that envelope past the point of human decency.

The Scoundrel was their own creation, I thought.

“I’m here for two reasons,” I announced as I sat before the judge, jury and executioner.

“I need a replacement library card,” I said, before adding, “And I’m here to claim Sweet Amnesty.”

I placed the Edgell’s Four Bean Mix on the librarian’s desk and slid it seamlessly her way.

She frowned at the beans, then studied my face.

I studied her face in return.

I did not like her face.

It was the kind of sour face that caved in on itself slightly in the middle, as though a vortex stood behind her.

I don’t think she liked my face either.

Or perhaps she liked it too much.

She very much liked my face.

She wondered if one day she would have the nerve.

To borrow 20 books and return them one year later.

Then years later still,

Have all debts wiped away….

With a can of beans.

She punched my personals into a computer database.

Her eyes returned then to the beans.

“Beans,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “THE POOR will love them.”

She frowned at the beans.

“I had a poor upbringing,” I said. “They bulk out mince meat, add volume. That’s what my mother did,” I said, before adding, “They’re full of protein.”

Silence.

She placed in front of me a key ring punched through a bunch of plastic cards.

Templates for the library cards of sweet Brisbane City.

I filtered through those cards.

The event reminded me of the toilet keys handed out at restaurants with a dessert spoon or boxing glove attached.

The Storey Bridge card is what I chose and of course it was. The alternatives were wrong.

She plunged my Storey Bridge blank slate card into a red dumb machine to wash my details  over it.

The machine rejected it.

She fed it in again, this time more carefully.

The stupid red machine spat it out.

She lifted the lid of this dumb red machine, placing the card at a point longer down its stupid long chain of production in hope of leapfrogging the middle man.

She slammed the lid down hard.

Children and parents turned their heads.

I smiled.

The ditzy machine returned it.

At this point she muttered something, and paced over to another machine a few metres away.

I looked down at my phone as so not to cause embarrassment (I’m nice like that. I’m the victim here, after all).

She handed me my new Storey Bridge library card and I celebrated. I knew I could now play my part to stop this downward spiral. I could defend the printed word. I would save her job. And win book royalties for the sweet sweet Council of the Sweet City of Brisbane.

And better my own mind and mental health. And learn something new.

“You know,” I said, “I was watching Jamie Oliver’s 15 Minute Recipes (i.e. 60 minute recipes, am I right?) last night. He reckons the whole fresh plumes thing is bullshit. Reckons the best bang for buck is with the canned beans. Rinse them well and they do just as well as the fresh plumes. THE POOR will love this donation,” I said.

We both stood in unison.

Our bonding theme was hate.

She motioned towards the door in a vague gesture.

“Alright,” she said.

“Merry Christmas, and a happy new year to you and your loved ones,” I did not say.