Not the Time or the Place
The Bad Day Book/October 2023
Witcraft/February 2024
I drew the short straw and ended up leaning on the encyclopedia case in the reference section collecting raffle tickets, right outside the glass doors of the rare book room where the annual Holiday Gathering was coalescing. As each of the mostly elderly Friends of the Library entered, I handed them a small slip of paper and pencil, repeating directions: “You have to write your name. On the slip of paper. The slip of paper. Yes, that’s right.”
Shifting from foot to foot, staring into space, a bad idea crept into my consciousness. Perhaps writing some fun words on the raffle tickets would relieve my intense boredom?
In prior years, there was just one raffle winner, so what were the chances of my fake names getting called? Zero. Zilch. Hohoho, I scribbled, smiling, feeling brave. Falalalalala I wrote next, those first silly words loosening something tight inside me. Recklessly, a little hysterically, I started a series of names: Mike Rowave. Mag Azine. Jim Nasium. I allowed a small, insane giggle to escape my lips. I added another hohoho just to seal the deal.
Any good reference librarian would have asked the pertinent questions. What are you hoping to achieve by this? Is this actually funny? Is this respectful to the Friends of the Library? What will you do if one of your fake names gets called? How do you know for sure there is only one prize? Oh, that last question was one I should have pondered. But that end of the workday malaise, the presence of the very old, the ticking grandfather clock peering over my shoulder, the musty smell of books taunted, Write another phony name, who cares?
As it turned out, there were five prizes that year. When I approached my colleague, the tech guru who was in charge, to rescind my erroneous entries, her expression contorted. Her hold on the ticket bowl stiffened. We began this back-and-forth thing that went on a touch too long.
“What is your problem?” she asked, yanking one last time.
I let go, realizing I needed to stand back and watch how this thing was going to play out. Sweating slightly, I gnawed on a piece of candied grapefruit peel, bitter stuff we made fun of every year. I took my penance orally and leaned against the back display case, the one holding part of the Dead Sea Scrolls or something.
It was the old art librarian, wearing a mid-length black dress and pearls, an alumna and thirty plus year employee, who threw her hand in the bowl to pick the first name. I held my breath as she swished around. I repeated a newly formed mantra: There is no way. No way. There is no. Way. The intrusive grandfather clock ticked off the seconds. I sipped my punch, the sweet ginger-ale taste lingering in the back of my mouth. When her face screwed up in annoyance, I knew. I knew. She looked at the tech lady and said bitterly, “Someone. Is. Trying. To. Be. Smart.” Her hand crumpled the raffle ticket in, if not anger, deep annoyance. I looked around. The Friends of the Library shrugged, looking around themselves. Some didn’t hear. One man, head back, snored in deep snooze.
Then, my extremely elegant boss, the head of public services, took over, sliding her well-manicured hand into the bowl. Would she sit me down and lecture me after this? I deserved it, for sure. She landed on a ticket, removed, unfolded it. She then said, with her best annunciation, Mike Ro-Wahv, fancily pronouncing my joke name. No one flinched. She called it again. I shrunk, realizing how I should have told someone, just to have an ally, but it was too late, impossible. It was that day I learned that having a joke by yourself isn’t fun, not at all. The pain continued, like plantar fasciitis or a throbbing sciatic nerve. . She shook her head and reached in again. “Jim Nahsium?” calling the over- pronounced version of the name. She called out several times, looking for this Jim Nahsium fellow in the crowd. How could Mike and Jim not be here after entering the raffle? No one caught on. Nonplussed, she laughed slightly and returned her hand to the bowl for another name. Finally I shot forward, unable to withstand anymore.
“Those. Those were joke names. I put them in! Mike Rowave. Get it? Microwave. And Jim Nasium, like gymnasium?”
It all sounded so stupid, so infantile. One lady’s mouth dropped in horror. Others laughed uncomfortably. My face heated, beaded in sweat. The sweets I’d imbibed earlier curdled in my tightening throat.
“Well,” the tech lady said, “You will NOT receive your pack of greeting cards!”
My punishment, more embarrassing, more ridiculous than the crime.
