Etiquette for the End of the World

by Jeanne Martinet

  It was a slow Friday morning and the only librarian in sight, standing in front of a computer monitor, was a striking-looking woman with what Tess thought of as Botticelli hair. Her copper-red corkscrew curls were so thick they could barely be restrained beneath two large hairclips; the face they were surrounding was flawless, pink and angelic.

  Tess approached her and, faltering a bit, began to inquire about the best place to find information on Mayan artifacts, and on the December 21, 2012, prophecy and other similar “end myths.” She explained she was also hoping to locate, among the library’s vast collection of archives, any out-of-print materials that might have been written about post-apocalyptic survival and behavior.

  “Ah, you are interested in eschatological studies?” The librarian had unusual green eyes—eyes the color of fresh baby peas, or spring grass—behind rimless glasses. She had a sweet, melodic voice, with a trace of a southern accent.

  “What?” Tess looked blank.

  “Es-cha-to-log-i-cal studies,” the woman repeated in patient slow syllables. “From the Greek eschatos, meaning ‘last.’” She smiled a wise, kind smile, and Tess imagined she could feel her spirit, solid as a rock, comforting as a cold waterfall on a hot day. “Why don’t you tell me what you are working on, so I can better help you?” Indeed, she looked at Tess as if helping her was her life’s sole mission. She radiated warmth and good will. Who is this amazing person? Tess thought. She’s like a dream librarian. They should use her for the New York Public Library ads.

  “Um, well, I am trying to learn about …” Tess hesitated. How was she going to ask for assistance without seeming like a nut? Or a charlatan? She looked down at the worn counter, thinking, and then looked back up again. The best thing to do was just focus on her so-called legitimate job, the guidebook. “I have read that … I mean, I was curious about … The thing is, I am involved in a project where I have to imagine exactly what the world might be like, should the predictions about December 21, 2012, come true. You know, the end-of-the-world predictions? Have you … um, heard about the whole Mayan calendar thing?” Tess felt sheepish and idiotic.

  The woman’s laugh was pure as flute music—a cool, welcome, rippling sound. “Of course I know about the Mesoamerican Long Count Calendar,” she said. “But I’m sure you have probably already read enough to know that the Maya never predicted anything of the sort. This end-times myth is the result of a completely erroneous analysis of the Mayan culture and artifacts.”

  Hallelujah. It was so good to talk to someone about this who didn’t buy into all the hysteria. She smiled and nodded in agreement, to show that she, Tess, was a rational being also. “And the whole magnetic-pole thing, right? And the New Testament stuff, and the solar sun-spot theory …”

  The Botticelli woman shook her head with a soft little chuckle. “People love scary stories, don’t they?”

  Relaxing, feeling as if she had unexpectedly met up with a friend in the wilderness, Tess leaned forward against the old wooden counter. She saw the woman’s name tag on her lapel: Betty Phoenix. “Ms. Phoenix, okay, here’s the thing: I have this writing project, which I can’t really talk about, but for it, I have to try to imagine the world after a supposed 2012 disaster, so I can know how to help people, in theory anyway,” Tess rolled her eyes and grinned. “Which I know is ridiculous, because of course, like with Y2K, it’s all fear-mongering.” She had thrown in the Y2K thing to further impress on the librarian that she, Tess, was no dummy about this kind of mass hysteria phenomenon.

  “Hmm. Yes, well. I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” said Ms. Phoenix.

  “What do you mean?” Tess asked her.

  “Did you say your writing project was supposed to help folks after the alleged ‘big event’?”

  “Well, yeah, but like I said, I don’t believe it, so don’t worry.”

  The librarian was strangely silent for a moment. She checked around to see if anyone was within earshot. She examined Tess carefully with her clear green eyes, and then closed them for a brief moment, as if trying to decide something. When she opened them again, she said in her mellifluous voice, “I think I may be able to be of some assistance. Will you please follow me?” She swung open the hinged door from inside the staff area and moved gracefully across the large room to the main hallway. Intrigued, and somewhat wary, Tess followed her. When they got to a closed office at the end of the hall near the ladies’ room—one of the private and mysterious literary enclaves with thick metal grates over them—Betty Phoenix took a key from her skirt pocket, opened the door, and putting a finger to her lips, ushered Tess inside.

  ***

  The pneumatic tube containing the paper slip went thwacking down through its chute. “Did you know we have approximately three million books in this building alone?” Ms. Phoenix said, closing up the little round door of the chute. She picked up a pencil and slid it behind her ear, under her curls. Tess had not known there were that many items, but she nodded anyway. “I don’t really know why I am showing you this,” the librarian continued, studying Tess’s face intently as if for clues, “but it’s been weighing on my mind … and I haven’t really known who to tell.”

  The little office was, as Tess might have expected, completely lined with books. It was dim and airless, yet cozy, with one wooden chair behind the cluttered desk, and one on the other side. While she was thrilled to find herself in this inner sanctum of the library, Tess felt out of her element. Obviously Betty Phoenix had mistaken her for an academic, or some other kind of expert who was qualified to view special archival material.

  “May I see some ID?” Ms. Phoenix asked her abruptly.

  Tess riffled through her purse and pulled her library card out of her wallet. “Is this okay?”

  “It’s fine, but … I’m sorry to ask … but might you have, also, a picture ID—a license or passport?”

  Somewhat flustered, Tess handed the woman her license. “It’s a horrible picture, I look like a mental patient.”

  “Don’t we all? Thank you.” As the librarian studied it, Tess began to feel even more nervous. What was she doing in here? When she had to show her ID, she liked to know what she was showing it for. “Tess Eliot … ” Ms. Phoenix frowned. “I recognize that name. Are you a journalist?”

  “No. That is, I used to have a column in the News—‘Tess Knows Best’—but I was … I mean, not anymore. I don’t anymore.”

  Betty Phoenix peered into Tess’s face once more, then sighed, handing back her license. “Do you want to know what it is that I just requested?” Tess nodded and held her breath. The librarian clasped her hands together on the desk and then raised her two index fingers up, like the steeple in a church.

  “It’s is a document that should have been filed safely away in the federal patent office, or maybe even a government intelligence office, but by the random and absentminded mistake of someone, it got left here. I found it about two years ago. It contains some … potentially alarming, confidential information.” Ms. Phoenix unfolded her hands and sat back in her chair. “After I read it, absorbed it, and understood it fully, I had it hidden among our 128 miles of shelves.” She smiled patiently at Tess’s look of astonishment. “Yes, that’s right, I said 128 miles. There are seven levels of closed stacks under us in this building—and a basement—and two more floors extend under Bryant Park.” Tess looked down at the carpet as though she expected to see a beehive of stacks below her feet.

  “I hid this astounding document inside a rare book,” the librarian continued, “a book no one has requested for the last sixty-five years. I don’t know why I am trusting you. I don’t really know who you are or what you are working on. But it feels right to me. Just recently I made up my mind I can’t keep this to myself any longer … . I admit I did not put it together before … .”

  Tess’s mind reeled. Here she was again, down the rabbit hole. What was wrong with everyone? Wasn’t there anyone left who believed December 21, 2012, was just going to be a normal high-stress holi
day shopping day, like every other December 21? Tess glanced nervously at the grated door. She could not dispel the feeling that everyone she knew was playing some elaborate practical joke on her. “What’s the book?” Tess asked.

  At first Ms. Phoenix smiled at her as if to say, “Nothing could make me tell you that,” but then she sighed in resignation. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s a book called Fix Your Silk Stockings with a Wyoming Walking Beetle. An obscure ladies’ home repair and sewing book. It was last requested in 1946.”

  At that moment there was a loud buzz from the old-fashioned intercom on the desk, causing Tess to jump.

  “Ms. Phoenix?” said a man’s nasal voice.

  “Yes?” Betty Phoenix replied, her finger pressing down on a button on the black box.

  “You sent a request for item Vos29,843F?”

  “Yes.?” Tess could almost feel the librarian’s heart rate go up.

  “It seems to be missing.”

  ***

  CHAPTER 3:

  Encounters of the Weird Kind: Rules of (Dis)engagement

  What to Do When You Come Across Another Human Being:

  It will be necessary to go about in the world, to forage for food, gather information about the world situation, or look for a mate. It is inevitable that in this now chaotic world you will come in contact with strangers, alone or in a group, during your travels. Some you will be seeking help from; some will be seeking help from you. Some will be friends; some will be foes. Keep in mind that to some, you will be the foe.

  How to Rob Someone with Style:

  PERFECT PILFERING

  When forced to permanently borrow a stranger’s food when they are elsewhere engaged, do leave a handwritten note. A handwritten note says, “I care about your feelings.”

  THE WELL-MANNERED MUGGING

  Step One: Approach subject from behind. Make sure you have privacy. This is not only for your safety and for the success of the operation but to save the subject any embarrassment.

  Step Two: Brandish weapon(s). Smile apologetically. (Remember Etiquette Rule # 1: Always pretend to be asking even when you are taking something away from someone by force.)

  Step Three: Your petition for any food, water, or batteries should be more of a firm request than a harsh demand. Be sure to leave them with your signed I.O.U.

  “You okay? Need anything?” she heard Patrick ask her. Tess stopped typing so she could respond to him. She had come to the Scrub-a-Dub-Pub right from the library, rattled by her experience with Betty Phoenix. The woman had been so freaked out at the disappearance of the old book and the mysterious document that she had practically vaulted out of her chair to hustle Tess out of the office and, with a brusque apology and good-bye, had locked up the office again and run away down the hall, heels clacking loudly.

  Tess had been praying that Richie would be on the bar. All she needed was one of his warm smiles and one of his two-word sentences to make her feel normal. Unfortunately, he was not there; the arrogant-as-ever Patrick was. “No, thanks a lot, Patrick, still working on my beer… . Actually, do you have a dish towel or a bunch of napkins I could put under my computer? I can’t afford to have anything happen to it, and someone might spill a Muddy Sock or something, you never know.”

  “I think I might be able to manage that for you, darlin’.” Patrick’s face was constantly flushed. He had a lopsided smile, with large spaces between his teeth, which were pointy, like a rat’s. He leaned over toward her, placing both his gnarly hands on the bar, one on either side of her laptop. “But this is not the greatest place to write, you know, Virginia.” (He always called her Virginia. This was Patrick’s idea of wit—Virginia Woolf being, apparently, the only female writer he knew of. Plus, Tess suspected he liked it because it had the word “virgin” in it.) It was almost six and getting crowded, but there was still plenty of room at the bar. Richie never had any issue with her working here. As a neighborhood bar, the pub always had weekday customers who came by themselves after work, and read or sat quietly.

  “It will have to do for the moment, I’m afraid. You don’t mind?” She smiled sweetly at him, which she did not find easy to do at all. When he came back with a handful of paper napkins, she piled them evenly under her laptop, making a kind of place-mat effect. “Thanks,” she said. “So is Richie coming in?”

  “Richie is off tonight,” Patrick said with a smirk, reaching up to get glasses out of the overhead rack. Patrick Callahan was the kind of guy whose mouth was always hanging half open. “It’s Friday night. Every weekend the same boy toy has been coming into the city to stay with him. He won’t come up for air again until Sunday.” Tess wondered if that could be the Jason whose name she would sometimes see on the display of Richie’s cell. In any case, Patrick should not be telling customers about Richie’s love life.

  Tess went back to her manuscript. Even though she officially had the job now (Peter had put the contract through), she was still not confident about what she was getting down on paper. But she knew she had to just keep going.

  Her concentration was interrupted by the loud, swaggering voice of a man seated down the bar to her left.

  “What this country really needs is …” Then he lowered his voice and she could not hear the rest. Then there were loud shouts of laughter, issuing from the man who spoke, another man who sat next to him, and Patrick, who had his elbows on the bar and was deep in conversation with them. Tess didn’t need to hear the end of “What this country needs.” As far as Tess was concerned, the phrase “What this country needs” was the mating call of the American Boor.

  She should not be trying to work here tonight. The bar was not like this when Richie was bartending; it was Patrick who tended to attract this kind of crowd. And lately, there seemed to be more and more of this type of clientele in here. She would finish her drink and then go home. Tess took a sip of her beer and willed herself to refocus. Block out the blockheads, Tess, she told herself.

  Techniques for Traveling among Terror-Stricken (or Terrorist) Tribes:

  It’s a good idea to avoid groups if you are traveling alone. Sometimes you may come across a tribe who is showing outward signs of being wild or primitive. Give this group a wide berth. It’s important to stay out of the way and out of sight. Not to beat a dead horse (though there are certainly now plenty of them lying around), there are a lot of very scared ex-citizens out there. Most people express fear with anger.

  Okay, this was not funny at all, and it was also probably not helpful. Tess gave up, shutting down her computer. One of the problems was that half of her mind was still back in the little dark office with Betty Phoenix, watching her put the order for Fix Your Silk Stockings with a Wyoming Walking Beetle into the pneumatic tube and send it shooting off, down into the invisible bowels of the library. Tess could not forget the stunned and horrified look on the librarian’s face when she realized the book was gone. What could have been in that document?

  Suddenly the two goons to her left were talking loudly again.

  “It’s Pakistan we should obliterate,” blustered one of them. “And Iran! One fell swoop!” He hit the bar hard with his fist.

  The other man hooted and said, “While we are at it, we should take out North Korea. Finish what we started in 1950.” God. Richie would definitely have thrown these guys out of the bar by now.

  The first guy leaned back, his hands behind his neck. “I have a cousin in the Pentagon. He says it’s all going to hit the fan sooner that anybody thinks.”

  Maybe the end of the world was not such an abstract notion. Tess knew these bozos were just ignorant drunks, but this was a bar on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, the liberal center of the Universe, and if these guys felt comfortable spouting these views here, what was being talked about in Iowa and Nebraska and Utah? She remembered the way Ms. Phoenix said, “I made up my mind I can’t keep this to myself any longer … . I admit I did not put it together before … .” Suddenly Tess felt it was imperative she go back to the librar
y to try to talk to her again. She could not shake the idea that the librarian had important information of some kind. Of course, there was also the distinct possibility that Betty Phoenix could simply be bonkers. I mean, Wyoming walking beetles?

  ***

  “John, I need a favor,” Tess said.

  Tess had not spoken to John Penniman in months, but she knew he was the one person who could help her. She had gone back to the library two Fridays in a row, and after not being able to find Betty Phoenix, had finally asked a supervisor about her. All she could get out of the hostile man was that Ms. Phoenix was on “unspecified leave of absence.” Tess had gone home and searched online for her phone number, without success. Then she remembered: Samson-Gold was one of the New York Public Library’s major contributors. And John Penniman was their contact.

  John had been her favorite person at Samson-Gold. He was, for a guy who came from obscene wealth, unbelievably nice. For a while after she left SG she and Matt had gotten together with John and his wife for dinner parties, until his wife had gotten pregnant with twins and dinner parties fell by the wayside.

  John did not ask why Tess wanted the home phone number of a librarian at the main branch. He was like that: he did not require nonessential information. He was peculiarly uncurious.

  He had called her back in less than an hour with the unlisted number.

  “Thanks, how did you do it?” Tess asked him.

  “I just called the head of development and requested it.”

  “And they didn’t even ask you why?”

  “Well, yeah, they did, but I just told them I couldn’t say.”

  As Tess thanked John again and hung up, she thought, There it is, corporate power in action. And I gave it all up only to end up as a ghostwriter for a fringe group of fanatics. Nice move, Tess.