Under the Influence

Libraries still have this kind of dignified, orderly aura to them: the books are alphabetized by author or categorized by subject. The stacks are in neat rows. People still look up guiltily when their phone goes off or their video game is too loud, as though some horn-rimmed woman in a bun is going to come shush them. The whole atmosphere, if not the stiff, silent edifices of education they used to be, still promotes a quiet atmosphere for reading and study.

However, there are other influences that interfere with this one last quiet area of public life. Intoxicants: so much has been said about their effects on our lives, both positive and negative. From Mothers Against Drunk Driving to rehab programs to one glass of red wine being good for your heart, intoxicants are a part of our society.

They are part of the library world, too. From the loosened-up business lunch guys with beer on their breath, to the staggering and barely upright, they keep life interesting.

At Christmas, a very drunk man sat on the bench in the entrance, yelling loudly at people. He was very cheerful: “Merry Christmas, honey! Don’t you look cute?” “Hey, now, you have a nice day!” “Snow, beautiful snow!” I don’t remember if he could even walk to the door unassisted.

A man sniffing glue in the restroom was escorted to the door, where he sagged in the security officers’ arms. He staggered up and walked out. We saw him later in the alley by the staff entrance, losing his lunch, but still on his feet.

Another man approached the desk, his breath arriving before his body. “Hey, there. How’s my hair look?” he asked, running a hand over his head.

He was bald.

Another man approached me on the street outside the library, asking for a handout. I said no, sorry, and he launched into an abusive diatribe that questioned my intelligence, compassion and caring. I said - calmly, I hope - “I help you every day in the library on the internet, and you don’t even recognize me. Don’t question MY caring.” He never mentioned it – I doubt he remembers any of it. He sees life through an alcohol-tinged haze.

Another man asked me if there was a shelter where he could stay and continue to drink. “I’m sorry, sir, there isn’t one,” I told him.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t mind saying it. I’m a drunk bum and I always will be. But I do need a place to stay.”

It’s sad. I know that these men are trying to make up for other lacks in their lives, and can’t seem to find anything else to make up for them. I’m not against all intoxicants, either; don’t get me wrong. A glass of wine goes down smooth after a long day at work.

I’m not the new Carrie Nation out to smash all the whiskey bottles in the world, but I would at least like to keep it out of the library. I don’t think it would work, but what about a new bumper sticker? “Friends don’t let friends go to the library drunk.”

Comments

[sarah]

we run from much in our lives, into places that we get to through doors that we should not open. but staying in the darkness you control somehow seems easier at that moment than the horrors that you ran from. Sometimes it is safer, but only for that moment, for the scars do not fade quickly, and even white they remind you of what you did. We lay the track to our own despair and loneliness, and the wine and the drugs, the cutting and the overdosing are all just lubricants on the rails...