It’s amazing how little one needs to subsist in the world.  I am moving across the country in two weeks and have been wholly packed for the previous two, totaling a month in transition.  The biggest trick has been biding my time whilst not spending money and it has meant copious hours on my computer surfing the net and taking long walks in the park.  The crazy fashionista in me is crying out desperately for my hitherto boxed wardrobe, but other than that all is well—I read, I write, I research, I observe, I fantasize, and I’m content.

Today, however, sparked an episode of minor inconvenience: I had to print a theatre ticket for admission to a friend’s show but have already stowed my printer.  Thankfully, the library is very accessible and printing a few pages is free.  (Herein lies the minor.) 

So on this perfect summer day, I sauntered out of the houseto the local NYPL branch to snag a computer. The only trouble was that the nearest reservation I could secure was 55minutes out.  (Herein, the inconvenient.)

Dawdling a bit and hovering for an available terminal I could squeeze into early, I meandered through the inconsiderable printed material - some classics, a few periodicals and a smattering of test prep; none of the studious persons showed any sign of an early departure.  Being that I had no agenda for the afternoon, I stuck around and started reading an anthropological history book.  My patience was rewarded by a an uncanny observation.

A librarian—a tall, thin, mousy woman on the threshold of the Gothic who would undoubtedly satisfy any man’s cliché librarian fantasy—was assisting a middle aged woman at the PC reservation station.  Unable to secure her own computer reservation, the librarian escorted her to the information terminal to get to the root of the problem.  It seemed the woman (let’s call her Agnes, shall we?) owed $19.99 in library fees and the computer would not allow her to make her own reservation until the fees were paid to within $15.  Thrice did the poor librarian have to explain this situation to a belligerent Agnes. 

At this point, the conversation ceased to carry for a moment but I gathered that Agnes denied the charges and refused to pay for them, citing the possibility of a stolen card or the practice of lending her card out.  At this point, the librarian explained that she was still responsible for the fines, citing the terms and conditions on the back of every issued library card.  Granted, Agnes appeared to under no internal moral imperative oriented to the truth, but I couldn’t help wondering how Agnes could know what was inscribed on the back of her library card if it was missing and, secondly, how she was attempting to make a computer reservation on her own without said card. 

The obvious aside, I was blown away by what I heard carrying through the library next.  Upon hearing the librarian remind her of the terms and conditions of her library membership, Agnes proceeded to defend herself by proclaiming “I can’t read.” 

For once, I think I believed her as I felt the chill of bitter irony blow through the library. I shivered and dropped my jaw—in disbelief, horror or amusement, I’m not yet sure.

“I can’t read,” she says as she argues with the librarian about her library card. 

“I can’t read,” she says after making attempts to secure acomputer reservation.

“I can’t read,” she says with a smug dismissal that might as well have suggested she didn’t like coconut milk.