“Hello there, You.”
I am greeted by an untidy but graceful scribble in my margin. How a scribble can be graceful only They could tell you. Nevertheless it is there, in no particular place, shunted up against the humble author’s opinions about the effect of middens on the the writing of Alexander Pope: page 121, next to line thirteen. I look around and there’s no one else in this section. I check the sections either side and still no one. No one has called me ‘You’ in such a seemingly affectionate tone for years, not since I was left alone.
How can I be sure it’s for me, though? How am I ‘You’? I suppose the ‘You’ is addressed to the person who opens this page, regardless of who is actually reading it. Now I’m reading it. So ‘You’ is me. Definitely me. I am the You who is being ‘hello’-ed here, there is no doubt about it. Suddenly I’m seized by the compulsion to write back. But who am I writing to? And do They know that They would be writing to me? I know I shouldn’t: Stranger Danger. I remember that from when I was seven.
Yet the compulsion is overwhelming. There is something about these spidery Ls and the loopy Y. It’s a mixture of the crabbed handwriting of a Dickensian diarist and the cheerful font of the Disney logo. It makes this stranger seem less dangerous and more familiar but is this a dangerous familiarity? Am I being lured in for some terrible, unknowable purpose? I can feel the words drawing me in. I’m on my own here, no librarian to harangue me; I can get away with writing in a library book. For Them I can. I’ll still use pencil, though; even boring books deserve a modicum of respect.
“Hi, nice to meet You. How are You?” The letters scrabble sacrilegiously onto the margin, prodding the text and jostling for position with a note from nineteen-sixty. My handwriting appears smaller than that of my newly found pen-mate. Much neater too, until I misjudge the spacing of the last ‘You’ and have to try and squeeze it up against a ‘therefore’, climbing over it, the u sitting atop the t. It feels strange; I’ve just engaged with a person with no identity other than their words to me. I am making that person, mastering them, unless They respond – rejection hovers near the back of my mind. They do not yet exist, trapped in flux, a quantum person. This is confusing. Am I Them? Do They exist? They must do, otherwise who wrote that on this page? I’m reluctant to give the book back to the shelf. When do I do it? Right now? If I do I can’t finish learning about Pope and his muse middens. If I keep it then They may never get this message. I have to let it go. I think.
I put the book back, careful to leave it in such a way as to imply it has been picked up and read. I don’t want Them missing my response. I leave the library and my heart’s pounding. I feel like I’m waiting for an audition. Or on a date. I haven’t been this nervous for as long as I can remember. Now the question looms: when to check again? I don’t want to allow time for anyone else to get involved in our dialogue. This is ours alone. Keep out. Not allowed. Go too soon and I might seem overly keen. Maybe They’ll be heading to the book and I’ll unwittingly scare Them off . I will leave it for three days; if They care enough to address me again then I will continue this. If not then I’ll try and forget about Them.
* * *
These three days are passing so slowly. I often go back to look at the book but I don’t dare open it before my self-imposed date. It’s like a private Christmas just for me and Them. There are often people in that stack; any one of them could be Them and I scuttle away. I’m afraid that they might notice me and where I’m going; I’m scared They’ll work out who I am and hate me. Maybe I’ll hate Them. They could be horrible. A thief. A murderer. A terrorist spy. They could be anything and I can’t know.
I walk tremulously towards the section on Pope. I bite back my heart and wipe my damp hands on my jeans: I will not dirty that book with my sweat. The book opens just thirty pages short of 121 and I flick forwards, overshoot, double back.
“It’s nice to meet You, too.” This message starts at the bottom left hand corner of the page, stoops under Pope’s heavy text, nimbly flits around another boring annotation and scales the central margin, tickling the belly of the book.
“I’ve been waiting for someone to talk to me. I’ve been ever so lonely here by myself. Now You are here that can change. Ask me a question.”
That takes me by surprise. Why so abrupt a command? They seem very confident that I’ll reply. It’s quite arrogant really. Maybe I won’t answer.
“Why did you choose this book and this page? Why such a boring book?” My answer skips to the next page and suddenly I feel like this exchange has become more important than when it was just one sheet. We are ruining two pages of this awful book on Pope.
I feel like a vandal. I can’t believe I’m defacing these words, these thoughts. Do They feel the same way or do They just write on books with wanton abandon? I date and time the response as well; if They respond like for like then we’ll be able to make sure we never meet.
How long should I wait now? For the moment I’m still in a terribly hazardous position. I have no idea when They will return and write back. Maybe three days was too long, maybe They wrote back straight away and thought I was stringing them along. This won’t do. I’ll come back tomorrow and check. Make sure They get the speed that They deserve. I leave and I feel giddy. The enormity of their response suddenly hits and I realise They spoke back. I don’t know how long ago They first put that greeting there but They have been watching and waiting all that time. Waiting for me. Watching me? Maybe They were watching me while I was writing. My stomach drops and I feel like someone has just walked in on me masturbating. Like I’m doing something filthy. No. They wouldn’t do that. They couldn’t do that to me.
Tonight is passed in helpless agitation. I cannot wait to get back to the book and see what has been left for me there. Why did They leave a message in Pope’s Midden? What makes Them special?
* * *
Again I walk towards Pope’s section. I stop and shatter the silence with a sneeze. I always find that a dangerously liberating act, transgressing the silent sanctity in a way that I can’t control. Sneezing is involuntary, but how loud I sneeze? That both is and isn’t my fault. I can enjoy the noise and my excuse is watertight.
I hear a scuffle from my aisle and, without considering what it could mean, I dash forward in time to see a leg disappear round the other end of the aisle. The book is not where it should be: it’s lying on top of the others, in the gap between the shelves. Maybe that person was looking through the book. They couldn’t have got as far as 121 and so our conversation is must be safe.
I pick the book up and put it back in its rightful place. It looks so good sitting snugly beside two almost identical copies of itself, so secret. If you didn’t know what you were looking for you’d never be able to tell them apart. I pull it out again and peel it open, a little shuddering breath escaping as I turn to 121/122. Their answer coils around the rest of 122.
“Because only the most interesting people read the most boring of books. Also I’m a fan of Alexander Pope, so anyone reading this book would be the ” – I turn the page over – “most interesting person around in an already excellent group of Pope fans. That was fun, why don’t you ask me anoth-”
With horror I see the word cut off in the middle of its gestation. The tail of the ‘h’ skitters away into the text and I realise that They couldn’t finish writing Their answer because somebody interrupted. Suddenly the scuffling elicited by my sneeze, the retreating leg and the misplaced book make sense. That was Their leg, Their jean, Their foot.
I feel like both the violated and the violator. I have to write a response and let Them know I was too quick, too keen. I can’t look at that murdered sentence, cut off in its prime. Why didn’t I just wait? I have to apologise.
I pummel down the rising gorge, turn back to the page and ready my pencil. I will fix- But the rest of the page is full of somebody else’s notes, and the next page has no borders! It is a full page portrait which presents nothing but the disgustingly solemn face of Pope. He is admonishing me from amidst his middens, denying the continuity of our dialogue: existing. He’s in the way and I panic. I must cut him out or They will think I don’t care enough. I will not let Pope get in the way.
My penknife is in the front pocket of my bag and as I flick the blade out I am sure that They will know the sacrifice I am making for Them. Mutilating Pope for the idea of Them. To keep talking to Them. Keep a connection to Them.
Carefully, I lower the knife towards the spine: I must take no more than I need to and leave as little trace of my crime as possible. The edge, which is sharp and new, slices easily past Pope’s stupid forehead and nicks his ear. I’m going to get away with this. Then I can apologise to Them, touch my sentence to Theirs and caress Their words with mine. We can talk more and more until… The memory of a leg and a shoe flashes my mind’s eye, waving that obscene appendage in front of me and begging the question: what might be attached to it?
I feel a spasm running from my head to my arm and the knife rams deep into the paper, the bladed edge pushing into the pulp with ease. I stare at what I’ve done and, almost without knowing why, I drag the knife across Pope’s mocking face, shearing through his mouth so that his lips part and his face flaps around like that of a shoddy cartoon character. There’s no seriousness left in that face. No thought or sentiment worth my time.
I hack up the rest of the book and stuff it down behind the rest of the Popes to fester and mulch where no one will find it. Pope’s midden will become a midden. If I’m lucky the mould will grow out of that mulch and spread to the rest of Pope’s books, obliterating that section from the library altogether.
I put my penknife back in my bag. I look around to make sure no one saw. I leave the library.
Ben RL Meredith 