by M J Marstens
That is until this past November, whilst mindlessly Cyber Monday shopping (I don’t know who made this day up. . . but I hate them and simultaneously love them- Black Friday shopping without ever leaving the house. . . Seriously, only an evil genius could have done this), I realized I only had a little under $10,000 in my account. While that sounds not-so-bad, I pay nearly $2,000 a month in bills.
Student loans. . . like herpes, that shit just keeps following you everywhere.
Knowing I would be out on my ass come March, I started using the fireplace and lighting a lot of candles. I also started trying to build an online clientele for my astrology and numerology business. I bet you didn’t know they had master’s degrees in those, huh? That’s because they don’t. Like 90% of every other college graduate, I don’t use my college degree. But I plan to, someday. . .
In the meantime, I have been reading natal charts, tracking transits and solar returns, and doing tarot spreads since I was fourteen. I made a pretty penny in college, too. Drunk people were way more spiritually open and college campuses had those in spades. (Drunk people, not spiritual openness.) Unfortunately, my small town filled with obstinate, religious dogma did not want anything to do with my ‘craft’. Sheesh, you threaten to curse someone once in your youth and that crap will haunt you forever.
People don’t forget. Not in a town of five hundred.
My parents commuted to work about an hour away, but this weather makes me cringe just thinking about it, let alone driving in it. I might have grown up here, but eight years in the south has made me soft-bellied. (Metaphorically- not physically. Physically, I’m a brick house of abs. Alright, that might be a slight over exaggeration, but I also didn’t pack on the weight like so many other college goers.)
I figured that this is why the internet was invented- so lazy people like me could do their work and never leave home. . .
Or shower . . .
Or get dressed. . .
Or even get out of bed.
What I didn’t know: everyone wants to work from their beds naked- hence the eighty thousand online astrologists, numerologists, and tarot readers.
Getting my foot in has proved nearly impossible. Until today. Today might be the first sunny day I have had in two years.
CHAPTER 2
ZAHRA
I get ready and wait for Edgar. My duffle bag looks like I’m having a sleepover at the library, but everything I own has a different cord and charger. . . technology, right? In the distance, I see snow shooting skyward at a brisk pace and my heart rate spikes up in anticipation. Edgar is almost here! I’m finally about to get out of this house!
When my folks first passed, I don’t think I left the house for nearly two months. Now, I go a little stir crazy even thinking about that time in my life, but again- I was running on autopilot. Nothing like your survival skills giving you a kick in the gut to motivate you. Either you have money to pay the bills and eat. . . or you don’t. And those student loan sharks are aggressive as hell! Those fuckers wouldn’t even cut me a break after my parents passed and I ran out of forbearance.
Twatwaffles.
I hope karma bites them in their asses.
(Also, please do not ask me what a twatwaffle is, as I myself really do not have an idea. I read it in a novel once and like the way it sounded. Therefore, I can only hope I’m using the word accurately. Again, there is no need for judgement.)
The blinking lights of the snow plow crest over the hill and I trudge outside to meet my sturdy limousine. And when I say ‘trudge’, I mean literally. . . like feet sinking knee deep in snow, lifting said feet out, and repeating. I miss you, eternally warm state of Mississippi. When I finally make it to the snow beast, Edgar is already out and opening the door to the cab. What a gentleman- and I mean that. Not a lot of guys today would come to pick you up to chauffeur you into town and open the door for you. . .
Oh- and bring you chocolate donuts (I sat on them first, but they eat the same).
Sometimes I really wish Edgar was dating material. Regrettably for us both, I don’t feel the spark- but damned if he doesn’t continue to try. Brownie points for him. (Oh, and FYI, I have never led this boy on- not once. . .
Except for that one time.
When I really wanted to go see that concert.
But other than that, I have been very upfront about my interest- or lack thereof.
Unfortunately, Edgar did not seem to get my ‘just friends’ memo. Making out with him that one time might have also blurred the lines. Grief can make you do funny things. (And there is really no need to point out that I may have allowed the situation to become misconstrued on his end. I’m working on it.)
“Hey, Gorgeous! Glad I could come pick you up. Wanna go out to eat tomorrow night?”
A free meal?
“Sure!”
Fuck, so much for working on it.
Okay, I’m going to try harder- later.
Scouts honor.
Edgar and I make small talk while driving into town. The library is really only a five-minute drive from my house, but with the roads all iced over, it takes closer to ten. Even in a plow. Edgar’s hand keeps brushing mine which is resting on the center console. I quickly deter him by shoving it inside the donut bag and stuffing my face. Really lady-like, but I’m hoping it turns him off. . .
Judging by the look on his face, he’s more impressed than repulsed by my ability to hork down four donuts in three bites.
I cannot catch a break.
When we finally pull into the library (which is miraculously open, thanks to Edgar’s awesome plowing), I lean over the console and give him a quick hug, before hopping out and scurrying inside.
“Text me if you need a ride home?” He yells.
I’m already half-way inside the building and give him a thumbs up. Wearing a dopey grin of happiness, he rolls the window up and drives off. Damn, he looked way too happy about potentially picking me up later. I really need to address the ‘just friends’ thing. . . but I’m putting it on the back burner for now.
I walk over and sign-in to take the only study room (not the only one available. . . the only one in general) so I have a semblance of privacy. Phone calls here are frowned upon. They actually kick you out of the library if you make one. It might have happened to me once or twice (maybe more). . .
I’m kind of surprised I’m welcome here.
(I also notoriously run up their electricity bill, but there is no sign limiting how many electronics you can have plugged in at one time. . . five might be a tad much.)
So, to not get in trouble by Head Librarian Grinch (not her actual title), I take all my phone calls in the study room. I think that is both fair and generous of me considering the temperature is in the single digits. Besides, it’s one in the afternoon- no one is here studying anyway.
“Good Morning, Mrs. Gerty! What is the Wi-Fi password again, please?”
I try to sound as chipper and non-rule breaking as possible. Mrs. Gerty is not buying my shit, if her thinning lips and narrowing eyes are any indication.
“You asked that last time.”
“Uh. . . um-” She cuts off my floundering.
“And the time before that.”
“That is because I’m not trying to take advantage of the system! I want you to know I’m only using the library Wi-Fi at the library.”
I say this like I’m scandalized that someone might steal the library’s internet. For the record, I’m not. But only because I’m too far out of reach. She scribbles the password on a sticky note and hands it to me acerbically.
“Remember, there is a two-hour limit for the study room!”
I nod sagely, like I’m taking her warning seriously, but she already knows I know the loop holes in this joint. Yes, there is a two-hour limit, but if no one else reserves the room within thirty minutes, then I can go sign back in and she can’t do squat.
Or I’ll complain to the city council.
There is a war brewing in this town bet
ween Mrs. Gerty and the council. Chances are Mrs. Gerty will win, but there are eight other old and set-in-their-ways council members who will put up a good fight first.
CHAPTER 3
ZAHRA
I quickly get into the room and shut the door and tuck myself away from the small door window so she can’t see me. Mrs. Gerty is much taller than my petite 5”2’, but she still isn’t tall enough to see inside and around the corner to spy on me. And the door has a lock. Silver linings.
Unzipping my bag, I take out my devices and their chargers. . .
And an extension cord with a power strip.
I get everything hooked up and predictably, the lights slightly dim at the power surge. Mrs. Gerty is no spring chicken, but she isn’t stupid either. By now she has made a connection between me and the electrical anomalies, but I feign ignorance any time she gives me a pointed look.
I get my computer up and running and load my gmail. I pull up the Miraval job email and respond by asking when a good day and time would be to set up the phone interview. Almost immediately I get a response.
Is 2:00 today ok?
Perfect, I respond.
That gives me an hour to kill and an hour to talk before I have to get out due to my allotted study room time. Hopefully the interview will not extend past sixty minutes. I fiddle around on my computer and download some new stories to my kindle. I love perusing the erotica section. You never know what people are going to think up and write these days. . . pair it with some raunchy sex and you’ve got a best seller.
After I get nine new books, I then make a list of everything I want to read that is not covered under Kindle Unlimited. My list totals eighteen books. I slip out of the room and to the front desk and set twenty-seven books on the counter (they are part of the reason for the bulging duffle bag). Mrs. Gerty glances up from the computer and kind of sighs when I hand her the list.
See, at our library, we have an inter-library system where libraries from all over the state and even the country can share books with each other. Apparently only the most prestigious libraries have this feature. Why our small town book nook tries so hard is beyond me, but bless them. This library hasn’t updated their stock since the sixties and I would be woefully lacking in reading material if not for inter-library loans. This program also costs a pretty dime and to keep funding it, the city council requires that a certain quota be met monthly.
I single-handedly outdo that number in a week.
That’s another thing Mrs. Gerty is so sour about. She knows without me, she can kiss her prestige out the door. But damn if she doesn’t want to shove me out the door and burn my list. When I first started requesting these books, I tried to keep them. . . normal. But after a while, I realized I could not afford my book addiction (that’s a serious thing, people) and I needed to start borrowing more. The first few books on astrology and whatnot were popular items- if their due date slips were any indication, but Mrs. Gerty looked horrified when she saw them.
Devil’s material is what she whispered under her breath.
Well, I’m no saint and thought her reaction was priceless. . .
And then it became a game to see how much I could shock her.
It came to a point when all my books were placed in an opaque bag and set apart from the other book loans- as if my books might contaminate the other reading material nearby. I think she started this after I ordered the Kama Sutra.
With pictures.
I smirk just thinking of it.
Anyway, I think she’s wary of my book requests, but she dutifully takes the list and reaches under the desk to hand me my opaque bag of this week’s requests.
Awww- this week’s material is so bad that she has to hide the bag in order to not defile everything.
I thank her, grinning broadly, and start taking the books out of the bag to see what they are again. It has been two weeks since my last library visit and request. (No doubt the Grinch was delighted.) She certainly does not look delighted now. Her eyes are wide and she wildly looks around.
I roll my eyes.
There is literally no one here, save her and me, but appearances must be kept apparently. Feeling mischievous, I pull out one of the books from the middle, it’s called Fuck It: This is My Life. Lifting it in the air, I ask her:
“Do you think they’ll make a sequel to this ?”
Mrs. Gerty makes a choking sound and picks up the phone.
“Excuse me, I have to make an important phone call.”
I wait until she walks to the front door before I let out a little laugh. I might be twenty-seven, but I could still act seven just fine. I get back to the study room and check the time. Fifteen till two.
Ok, time to get in the zone.
I’m not an overly anxious or nervous person, but I really, really, really want this phone interview to work out so I can go to Arizona.
Don’t get me wrong, I really, really, really would love to have the job, but just to get out of here for a bit sounds divine.
And that requires a successful phone interview.
Good thing I’m clever, articulate, and can spin a yarn to get my way in almost any circumstance. (I also have perky boobs and a big ass, so if I’m dealing with men, I do not have to try as hard- sadly, but also to my benefit.) Clearly, these assets are of no use to me in a phone call and my brain and mouth are going to have to do all the work. Hopefully they can function together and not get me into trouble for once.
At 2:00, I take a deep breath and unplug my phone from the charger.
Go time.
Wait for it.
And. . . no call.
Another minute ticks by and still no ring. I’m a very prompt person, but I understand that different clocks might have different times and so I wait another five minutes. When no call is forthcoming, I check my email. The response I received today was so swift, I just assumed the phone call would be similar. There are no new emails, so I reread the old messages to make sure I had the right time. . . scanning email. . . . 2:00. . . . wtf?
Then it hits me- 2:00 Pacific time.
Arizona is two hours behind us, so my interview will not be until 4:00.
Crap.
I had to be out of the study room at 3:00 and barring no one came in to use it, I couldn’t get in again until 3:30. Hopefully there wouldn’t be a large school rush today because of the weather (only in this state where four feet of snow falls overnight, do kids still have school the next day). Well, I still have an hour to kill and Ol’ Gerty the Grinch is not kicking me out a minute before 3:00. I kick up my heels and get to reading on my computer.
At 3:00 exactly a brisk knock sounds at the door. I had gotten lost in my book and hastily now start unplugging cords and stuffing them in my duffle bag.
“I’ll be right out. I’m just finishing this riveting paper on the science of pagan magic.”
I hear an irritated huff and the shuffling of feet walking away.
Ha. I know precisely how to get her goat.
And how to buy me an extra hot second- which I don’t waste because Mrs. Gerty is a menace hidden in an old lady’s body. Quickly exiting, I find Mrs. Gerty standing not too far away. I smile and nod before heading to the backroom. It’s like a living room, complete with a giant rug, armchairs, and a fireplace. I set my phone on a twenty-eight minute timer and pull out my grocery list to review. When the alarm begins vibrating in my lap (not like that), I make my way to the front to sign-in again to the study room, but Gerty Grinch’s smug look gives me pause.
I look over and see that the door is closed. Sure enough, someone else snuck in- no doubt encouraged by that grouch. Tough luck for me. Surprisingly, the library has a small gaggle of kids and parents in the atrium and Mrs. Gerty refocuses herself to attend with them. With her attention diverted, I dart around the corner and up the back stairs to the second floor. I’ll thwart her yet [insert evil laugh].
CHAPTER 4
ZAHRA
Let me take a second to describe my libr
ary to you. It’s a lovely, two-story Victorian building- completely renovated. I wouldn’t give Gerty Grump (I really like my alliterations where she’s concerned) the satisfaction of knowing this, but this building is prestigious. It’s timeless architecture in a time where everything else is modern. (Like the front reception area, where the study room was added, along with a row of computers and shelves of DVDs.) I adore classic architecture (also not one of my college degrees). I most especially adore the crown molding in this place.
I take a moment to let my fingers trail across the detailed beadboard on the walls and look around at the rows of shelves. Everything looks and smells slightly musty. It’s one of my favorite smells after petrichor: eau de bibliothèque. At first glance, the second floor is reminiscent of the library basement in the movie Ghostbusters.
Except not haunted.
Just shelf upon shelf of old and never-touched manuscripts.
Poor things.
I hike it to the farthest corner of the upper level, where the second-story restroom is located and enter. It’s one of my favorite places in the entire library.
Don’t laugh, I mean it.
There is a single stall, but the toilet is old fashioned, with the tank sitting high and a dangling handle for the flusher. A matching delicate, porcelain sink graces the corner, with an actual bar of homemade soap and a monogrammed hand towel (whose, I have no idea). The pièce de résistance is the big bay window straight ahead, outside of the stall. An admittedly odd thing to have in a bathroom, but it somehow works. I love to sit on the bench ledge and read. I like to lock myself in here for privacy, without having to sign-in. . .
Mrs. Gerty followed me up once and refused to leave until I came out. I don’t know if she thought I was stealing books or what, but I had to pretend I had a bad case of the green apple splatters to make her go away. Except- she didn’t and I came out red-faced (from embarrassment) and out of breath (from making farting noises), after which I promptly left. General Gerty won that skirmish. (And I’m still counting that as an alliteration because both words start with ‘g’.)