I work part-time at a library. It’s something to do during my semi-retirement. I’m that person who silently pushes a cart around, placing returned books back on the shelves.
Weaving the book cart between library patrons, I often wonder about those who sit alone, reading, writing, staring out a window. What is their life story?
When you’re old like me and life is mostly memories, you think about such things.
I remember how last year, in the morning when the library opened, a man wearing dark glasses and dressed in a suit and tie would always be waiting outside. Feeling his way forward with a white cane, he’d come through the door. Silently he’d navigate past the front counter, past the biographies and travel and reference books, and settle in a chair in a corner.
And he’d sit there for hours, alone.
As I moved through the library shelving books, I’d occasionally glance toward the man and wonder about his story. From where did he come? And what was he thinking about as he sat there with an unreadable, expressionless face. I couldn’t see behind those dark glasses.
One afternoon I felt courageous.
I approached him.
“Hello,” I offered. “I was just putting one of my favorite books back on the shelf. And that made me wonder–do you have a favorite book?”
“Yes I do,” replied the man so suddenly I nearly jumped.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I’ve always loved that story by Tolkien–The Lord of the Rings.”
He spoke with an even, intelligent voice, but his face remained strangely expressionless. I wished I had seen a little emotion. I happen to love Tolkien’s fantasy, too.
“When was the last time you read–” I caught myself. Of course he couldn’t see to read. I was unnerved by my stupid slip, embarrassed. But he might read Braille . . .
The man explained: “I read it a long time ago.”
“I love The Lord of the Rings, too. Do you mind if I sit here and read you a few pages? You might enjoy it.”
After a long pause, he replied, “I would.”
I found The Fellowship of the Ring, sat down in a chair beside this mysterious person, whose face remained impassive, and I began. “Concerning Hobbits…“
The man listened for half an hour that day, and again the following day, and for many days that followed.
Whenever he heard me approach his chair–he must have recognized my footsteps–he would greet me politely.
“Where were we?” I’d ask.
“Making our way through Middle Earth,” he’d affirm.
As I started to read, as he listened to more pages of the bright, bounding fantasy, his face would remain a mask, eyes hidden behind those dark glasses. Was he far away traveling through Middle Earth?
Near the end of the story I thought I could detect in his face a minute betrayal of emotion. It was that scene where Frodo, Bilbo and others who’ve borne rings of power finally depart Middle Earth . . . sailing away to that distant place beyond the sparkling curtain . . . where eyes can behold white shores . . . and beyond . . .
When ordinary, faithful Sam finally returned home to his normal life, and The Return of the King closed, I saw a tear escaping from behind dark glasses.
“I’m sorry– I didn’t mean to–” I said.
At once the man reached for his cane and shot up, almost tipping his chair. I had to quickly sidestep as he lunged past me for the library’s front door. He departed without a word.
I never saw him in the library again.
But the next day I did see him in front of library. He was sitting in the sunny courtyard by the library’s entrance. He sat near the bed of roses on a bench facing our bright sparkling fountain.
Every day that followed I saw him sitting there, behind dark glasses, like a statue. He seemed to be listening to the whispers of the splashing fountain.
Even when it rained he sat on that bench, slightly sheltered by a flowering tree, and I wondered if I should be happy I read that story with him, or sad.
Short Stories by Richard 