Johnny Dinklethwaite took a job in a library.
Part Time. Two days a week.
Seemed like a good idea at the time. First of all, he needed the money, paltry as it is. Sad but true. The burden of old age unplanned for.
More importantly, Johnny loved to read. He loved books. That was enough of a justification for him to bullshit his way into the job. He thought that's all there was to it.
In the beginning, it wasn't too bad. Checking books in, checking books out - not much to it. And he got to shoot the shit with fellow readers - his people - people who read and read and read. For whom books are a religion. He had as much affinity with them as he does with drinkers. So it was a kind of sin and redemption thing - sinning with the drinkers, salvation with the readers.
In the beginning there was turnover. The director left. The assistant left. This was even better because he didn't have tyrants looking over his shoulder. It was a small, local library so there were long periods of quiet. Thirty people was a big day and cause for celebration.
Johnny enjoyed long stretches alone, when he could read, daydream, or search for better part time jobs online, jobs that paid $50/hour and required little effort and even less customer contact. That job has still not materialized but Johnny remains optimistic.
Then a new director came on board. And another assistant. Things picked up because the director wanted to make her mark. Who could blame her.
Suddenly there were four or five book clubs. Book clubs that met five feet away from Johnny's desk and spent an hour or two talking about the book. Actually, 20% of the gathering was spent on the book; 80% was spent gossiping and whining and dissecting life's mysteries.
Suddenly there was a summer reading program for miniature humans, which required Johnny to actually have to interact with these kids. Stamping schedules, handing out cheap toys, distributing gift certificates. He had a college education, for Christ sake - this was how he spent his time? Stamping smiley faces for Little Bobby?
Suddenly there was a Mah Jongg group that met on the afternoon of one of Johnny's days - every week. Two to two and a half hours of ten or twelve people meeting five feet away from Johnny's desk, rattling Mah Jongg bones, talking, yakking, loudly and indiscriminately.
The job Johnny Dinklethwaite took expecting peace and reflection, became tumultuous, irritating, and downright insanity-provoking.
When he was alone in the building, which was rare, he would pound his fist on the desk, yelling Fuck This Shit.
It was unprofessional.
He began drinking in the morning on work days. And sneaking nips into the library for bracers later on in the day.
One day a young kid came in with his Mommy and his reading program tracking sheet. Johnny was broken and a little drunk. He said "How'd you do, Little Bobby? How the fuck did you do?, you little shit. Did you read all your stupid little kid books? You want me to give you a cheap, plastic toy? Will that make your life worthwhile, you little asshole?"
The kid cried. The Mommy complained. Johnny was fired on the spot.
Johnny Dinklethwaite moved to West Virginia and took a job in a coal mine. He figured it was healthier for him than working in a local library.
It was a crafty move.
