On the lam from the long arm of the library

I read all the time. It hasn’t made me any smarter, but I do it anyway. It’s a compulsion.

If I have reading materials, I can sit for hours; without them, I fidget like a puppy about to pee on the carpet.

The reading materials in question don’t have to be great literature. In a pinch, I’m happy perusing the ingredients list from a box of cereal or bottle of shampoo, though neither of these holds my attention as well as, say, a Robert B. Parker novel.

I usually read two or three books at a time. Not simultaneously, but you know what I mean. At the moment, I’m reading a science fiction novel, a biography of Albert Einstein, and a history of witchcraft in Europe.

I’m a fast reader and by this time next week, I’ll have moved on to three (or more) other books.

I don’t want to come across as some sort of literati elitist here; I love television even more than I love reading—it demands less of me and is just as entertaining. If there was something good airing every time I switched on the set, I’d probably never read again. But most TV programming is garbage, so read I must.

Like any habit, the “need to read” creeps up on you. My first “grownup” book was a weathered copy of Robinson Crusoe I found in my parents’ attic when I was around 12 years old. I read it and loved it.

From there I moved on to H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, George Orwell. By the time I discovered Ray Bradbury, I was hopelessly hooked, a book junkie.

I spent more time at the library than I did at home, scrutinizing the stacks, selecting from the thousands of offerings just waiting to be absorbed by my young mind. The habit followed me into adulthood and the library became a permanent fixture in my life.

It was a relationship made in heaven, until about 10 year ago. I checked out several books from my local library just prior to being transferred by the newspaper I was writing for at the time to a city farther north. I no longer had time to visit my local library and instead began frequenting the one located in the city in which I was working.

Meanwhile, my local library books sat unread on a shelf in my office, forgotten among the hundreds of other books in there. Months passed, then years.

The library lady called, reminding me of my overdue books. Gotta remember to take ‘em back, I told myself, before forgetting all about it again.

Then the other day I was shoveling out my upstairs office, as I do every couple years, and I rediscovered the overdue books. Years overdue. Nearly a decade overdue.

I did the math. At 10-cents per day, per book, for ten years, I owed the library $1,095 and change.

If I returned the books, ‘fessed up and paid the fine, the library would be able to add a new wing. Maybe they would name it after me.

Despite fears of being severely beaten by the head librarian (I’m almost sure she could take me in a fair fight) I returned the overdue books. Turns out there’s a cap on library fines and I owed only $36, which saved me $1,059.

Since I long ago lost my old library card, they issued me a new one, no questions asked. I couldn’t believe how forgiving they were.

It’s been two weeks and I haven’t yet used my new card. But it’s only a matter of time. They have a copy of Robinson Crusoe there, and I’ve forgotten what happens to Friday.


More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.