I am in movement up the stairs of the U’s library steps 7 beers in my backpack. 4 in my gullet, one in my hand dressed as Arizona ice tea, the kind with the green wrapper disclosing anything on the interior. This is perfectly normal and not at all my fault. I am not an enrollee. I am not of the check out caste. And I must read Bukowski!
I decipher the dewy decimal system while driving my open container down my raspy and throat. There is a thick head due to improper pouring procedure in the parking lot. One dyslexia can wander with dewy for quite some time what with the letters and numbers and all. I am on the right path almost. The dual letters are correct and the numbers growing closer.
Can it not be helped that carbonation especially with big beer head results in the silent belch from time to time? Can this not just be overseen, call it courtesy by the masses at large? Why I do see the nostril of the tall man with knit vest and trousers expand wildly outside the realm of normal? I see this as he passes me. His muscles clank ridged. There is now some mysterious stick in his poop hole. He makes further steps in his venture then thinking he can no longer walk. “Some thing must be done, some act against this boy and his beer” This man composes this thought in a few still seconds. His brain is unhinging. Then he realizes that he has stopped, and it startles him. I amused continue the watch. His heads turns with all the grace of a rusted bolt to make my eyes then he rubber bands back into action. Out the glass doors he goes and towards the stairs. Then wait. His squirrel brain freezes. He holds his nuts in his throat and changes direction. To this it is clear he is to be the pansy nark.
Now please do not think me slovenly in these actions, I do have proper respect, I am after all in a place of literature. To show my class I cap and close the bottle when passers by do their task. I do have manners, I am an upstanding citizen. It is un-American as to read the good works of Charles Bukowski with out beer, wine, or whiskey, this would be disrespect to the author who died in 1994. I am not here to see to the turning of graves.
It is my imagination that he reached the information counter, and with peril proclaimed the injustice to this institution of learning. The woman with fat acknowledged his message of espionage and this sent her fully stocked brain cells a flutter. She is bumbling with the telephone and at the same time thanking this good Samaritan for his service to the community. He taps the table twice and is relieved by his tattle tale, but would he expect he remains a half cup jittery? He walks away rubbernecking for explosions or blood. “What a day- whew”.
This woman’s phone reaches 35 feet form her where in cubicle of position, a man the caliber of a green bean responds with quick action. The tele-commutations transpire: “OK fat Doris, first you lead in, figure out what isle he’s in… don’t stop, pass him as normal. Then turn and wait my instructions. OK?” “Okay Darren” click. The trap is set. Uncertain endorphins soar in the thick yellow chub and in long thin lank of our heroes as they enter the area where the criminal was last seen.
Though the spaces between books and shelves I am spotted before I spot her. It is my luck that merely my sight in the flesh causes Doris to freeze up. Darren should have known. She too is stopped in tense formation. Deep below butt flab is a small set of sit-muscles clenched in half step. Despite my non-army experience I react with tact I’ve learned from movies. I crouch down out of sight. To this the shark has moved into the dark waters and the swimmer Doris panics, my eyes can still see her. She turns around to retreat. Down low I have the upper hand. To this I take a victory swig. She is the deer in the headlights Darren must have urged her to continue so she turns and tip toe to pass me. I am ready.
With big wave and a roar “hello” teeth in friendly smile, she quickens her steps and continues along 6 rows away. To this my humor is pleased. Then the man I imagine his name to be Darren walks up to bat with cool and calm motion, yeah he’s ice. If it wouldn’t be against dress code he would be wearing dark glasses. Like ice in a drink he waits where she once stood. His cool doesn’t mix well with the hot flashes of fat Doris and steams there communications of hand signals. Nothing is clear. Her hands flap with fear and frustration. He is telling her where and how to go in attempt to corner me in. My grin is huge. This time I let the suds sink fast to the bottom of the bottle creating a noise that freezes Mr. Darren and his ears perk. As he starts the move in retaliation she follows suit. He comes toward my row and Doris fats down her row to head me off at the pass. This puts myself into motion staying low and I have just enough time behind the thick of the shelf to miss Darren as he passes and just miss Doris as she enters the long of the rows. I keep moving as they do and stop as they stop to see each other. Confusion in the mouse maze. How have they made it in the rat race? I could make the move for the exit, they would surely look for me there. So I head on the outside and pass in plain view of the man but he is transfixed in whisper to fat Doris. I stay at the end of my shelf with them on either side on the other side. The man walks down the long isle away from us Dorris heads my way. I scoot around with expert skill and like clockwork she is late for our lunch. I can tell by there torso there distraught when they again find each other. I can not keep form laughing but I do so in my coat sleeve. I decide in my drunken ego if I cant touch the back wall and back to the front doors with out being discovered then I shouldn’t be allowed to drink in the library ever again. So with this at stake the dance continues though gets slightly harder through the thicket of books what with the long isles the only way of advance. Others of few see me with inquiry on there eyes, to them I shake it off and keep moving. The near misses excite me. Dash when backs are turned and dart when they might be near. I reach the end and look into the pit, almost there. I move across the wide row and can see the doors at the far end. I run and touch the wall like a relay race. I am an Olympian. With my about face I see Darren looking to his right. I side step tight against the books missing the eyes of genius. I have finished my beer. As I pass I leave the bottle as a calling card. One patron sitting thinks me rude, I pause wanting to properly catch him up on the game and the points and the stakes, then he would route me on. But I don’t. I worry other would be good Samaritans may put the math together and join the ranks with Hitler. With zig zag and laser tag skills I duck and dive to the finish line, I push open the front doors and make the stairs. I imagine confetti of red white and blue photographers taking my finish. 4 stairs down I turn around to see in a small space the fat one lurking with caution upon every row, I reach in my bag and arrogantly extract another. On the steps I crack it and exit the champion.
