Page 8 of Love in the Stacks
When we get back to the house, I head upstairs to my bedroom to change clothes, trading my chinos and polo for athletic shorts and a T-shirt. Then, it’s time to eat. I pour some kibble in Joan’s bowl. She sniffs the food, and then, tail wagging, comes over to me, pushing her head into the side of my thigh. I bend down and scratch behind her ears.
“You’re welcome, Joanie,” I croon. Once I straighten again, she goes back to her food bowl and starts eating.
Wednesday nights, I have pan-seared salmon for dinner. I line up the ingredients on the kitchen counter: a salmon filet, extra virgin olive oil, salt, and pepper. I also make wild rice, microwavable in a pouch—not that I can’t make it myself, but it just feels like there’s not much point when it’s just me. Finally, I have some fresh green beans I’ll steam on the stove. Within thirty minutes, I’m sitting at my dining room table with my plate of food in front of me and my laptop opened to aCivilization VIlive stream on YouTube.
After dinner, I relax on the couch with a book. I told Nicole I read nonfiction history, and I absolutely do, but I also devour dystopian fiction novels. As a lover of rules in real life, I find the inversion of order in dystopian fiction titillating, albeit a bit stressful. I can’t abide such a reinvention of rules in ordinary life, but in books I find it cathartic and thrilling.
I like my routines, and I like the comfort of well-defined rules and boundaries. I’ve always been this way. At this point, I figure it’s just part of my personality. I grew up in Naples, a small city insouthwest Florida known for retirement communities, an only child to older parents—my mother was forty when I was born, and my father forty-five. They’d pretty much given up on the idea of having kids until I surprised them. They were kind and doting parents, but also pretty set in their ways by the time I came around. I didn’t spend a lot of time with other kids, except at school—no siblings or cousins, or even really neighborhood children.
My father liked to tell a story about how, when I was nine and he took me fishing from a pier near our house, I brought a little booklet of fishing regulations and a measuring tape with me. Anything we caught, which wasn’t much, I would identify and measure, looking up the regulation for that type of fish in my booklet. We were doing catch and release anyway, but I found the process of measuring and the clarity of knowing the rules to be soothing.
My dad got a real kick out of that story. Loved to tease me about how strict I was about following rules. He passed away about five years ago, now, when he was seventy. My mother still lives in the house I grew up in. Being a good five hours away from her means that I worry about her, but she’s healthy and active and would personally kill me if I moved back home just to keep an eye on her.
Before it gets too late—I do have to work tomorrow—I put down my book and start my nighttime routine. In the kitchen, I pack my lunch for the next day and stash it in the refrigerator. I wash the dinner dishes and wipe down the counters. I take Joan out for one last short walk, checking the locks on both the front and back doors when we return. Then, we head upstairs. In the bathroom, I brushand floss my teeth. After climbing under the covers, I double check that my alarm for the next morning is turned on.
It’s a typical evening for me—quiet and predictable, which doesn’t bother me at all—but also lonely, except for Joan, of course. I’ve built this life—a job I enjoy, a cozy home in an interesting city, hobbies that keep my brain occupied, a dog I’m devoted to—and I’m content with my choices, but sometimes I wonder if I’m happy. Like maybe I’ve focused too much on comfort and not enough on growth and now I’m stalled out in life, plateaued in a day-to-day that’s pleasant, but not extraordinary. I’ve always been one to stay inside my comfort zone, and since my comfort zone does not include talking to women, my dating history is light—a couple of short-term girlfriends in college and graduate school, dates here and there. Not blank, but sparse. I’ve been pining for Nicole for over a year but have never taken any steps to get to know her better.
I think about an old movie calledStranger Than Fictionwhere a man discovers that he’s the protagonist in a novel when he starts hearing the omniscient narrator chronicling his thoughts and actions. Then, the narrator foreshadows the man’s death, and he frantically tries to prevent it. One tactic is to just do nothing. He literally just sits in his apartment, going nowhere in order to avoid anything that might kill him. But that’s a boring story, so the narrator has a construction crane crash through the apartment wall to get the plot moving again. In a smaller, less dramatic way, maybe Herb putting me on this project with Nicole is my crane, forcing me to break out of normal routines and habits. It’s an opportunity. I can harness the momentum to be the protagonist in my own life—acting formyself to make things happen instead of waiting to be acted upon. Specifically, I can talk to Nicole. About more than just the project. I can show her I’m interested in her. Maybe even … ask her out.
They’re brave thoughts as I lie in my bed in the dark, but what I’ll do with them in the light of day is another story.
A week later, I’m sitting at my desk in the library cataloging what seems like an endless list of new e-books. The morning dragged on, but now I’m back from my lunch break and getting antsy. Nicole and I have another meeting scheduled this afternoon about the graphic novel project, and once again, I’m both dreading it and counting down the hours. In the week or so since Herb paired us up, Nicole and I have emailed back and forth a lot, but I’ve barely seen her around the library. I mean, I know she’s likely to either be in her office or at the reference desk, but I haven’t yet thought of an excuse believable enough for why I would emerge from my cave to seek her out in either of those places.
I shake my head, checking the time on my computer screen. 1:30. I’m meeting with her at three. And it’s Wednesday. Dr. Parker should be in his office.
I push my rolling chair away from the desk and stand. I make my way to the front of the library and when I turn toward the stairs, I may or may not glance over my shoulder at the reference desk. No luck. Looks like Samantha and Ben are on duty right now. I take thestairs two at a time and quickly arrive on the third floor, just around the corner from Dr. Parker’s office.
Dr. Henry Parker was one of the founders of Harkness back when it opened in the 1980s. He was the first president—a position he held for twenty years—while also being a faculty member in the history department. In deference to his years of service, Harkness has since awarded him the honorary title of chancellor. He keeps a permanent office space on the third floor of the Parker Library building, which was named for him. He’s kind of a fixture in the library, known for walking through the main lobby from the front door to the elevator with his dog, Beans, at his heels. Students go crazy for a Beans sighting.
It was Beans that brought about my unusual friendship with Dr. Parker. One day I was on the elevator, heading up from the first floor, when I heard “Hold the elevator!” and Dr. Parker and Beans joined me. It was pretty intimidating, to be honest. But then Beans nudged my hand with his nose, and of course, I scratched his head.
“He likes you.” Dr. Parker smiled over at me.
“He’s probably smelling my dog, Joan,” I said.
“What kind of dog is Joan?”
“She’s a pit-mix.”
And then we talked about pit bulls, then dogs in general, then American history and World War II and books and restaurants and life. Not all on the elevator that first day, of course. But over time, we formed a friendship. An odd one, I’ll give you that. He’s seventy-five and I’m twenty-nine, so in many ways, he’s more of a mentor to me than a friend. Actually, now that I think about it, Dr. Parker (asmuch as he insists I call him Hank, or at least Henry, I am really not capable of calling him anything other than Dr. Parker) is the same age that my dad would have been now.
Huh. Maybe I’ll save that nugget to dwell on later.
The third floor is not really a library-controlled space but holds several classrooms, a technology lab, and a writing center, plus a few scattered faculty offices, including Dr. Parker’s. When I get upstairs, his door is open, and I knock lightly to announce my presence. Beans lifts his head and pants in greeting. He’s a large dog with fluffy white fur. Dr. Parker says Beans is a Great Pyrenees, but it looks like he’s mixed with something else too. His ears aren’t as floppy and folded over as most Great Pyrenees I’ve seen. As usual, Beans is lying on his own doggie couch, which given his size, is only slightly smaller than a loveseat for humans.
“Adam!” Dr. Parker booms. “Come on in.”
“Thanks,” I say, coming through the door. “Can I close it?”
He cocks his head at me. “Sure. Something important on your mind?”
“Kind of.” I take a deep breath and sit down across from him, scratching Beans behind the ears as I talk. “I got assigned to work on this project with a colleague I haven’t spent much time with. It’s a passion project for her, and she kind of resents me working with her.”
“That’s tough,” he says after a minute. “What’s the project?”
“Graphic novels. They’re—”
“I know what graphic novels are, Adam,” Dr. Parker interrupts. “I have grandchildren.”
