I always had a few extra minutes before wood shop started and figured the library was the most logical location for my muse to take some quiet time and visit me. But the library was such a non-creative place it made sense that my muse never showed up. First, the few books we had were tethered on loops of braided wire to screw hooks on the shelf, just like telephone books wired to U-bolts in telephone booths. And second, we didn’t have a librarian. We had a volunteer dad. He was a retired bank security guard who had been shot in the knee during an armed robbery. He ambled around with one leg pulling up the rear as if he were dragging a ball and chain. I guessed wiring the books to the shelves was his way of making sure they weren’t stolen, but the result was more of a prison for books. The first time I went to the library I asked him how I checked one out. “This isn’t a lending library,” he replied. “It’s a sit and read library.” He pointed to one of the long locker-room-type benches running along all the shelves.
