Michael Guillebeau - MAD Librarian - You Gotta Fight for Your Right to Library

“Hurry up and wait,” said a man behind Burroughs. “Like the army. But I wouldn’t guess that a little girl like you would understand that.”

Serenity glared at the man. “I understand why men want to make everything seem as hard as they can possibly can. It’s called overcompensation. Don’t you guys have a better way of proving you’ve got a dick?”

The man shut up but Burroughs didn’t. “I’d love to prove it to you by throwing up this building in record time. If it’ll make you feel better, we can run around like crazy to show you we’re working as hard as we can.”

He paused, daring Serenity to challenge him.

“We’ll have everything done before the inspector gets here. Even if he gets here on time, which he never does.”

Serenity threw up her hands. “This needs to be done in like a month, tops. Any way we can.”

The men laughed, but Burroughs didn’t. “I’d love to. You can’t believe how much I’d like to finish a project and stand back and say, ‘We did the best that could be done here’ instead of feeling beat-down and useless at the end, ashamed of all the compromises, bribes, and double-dealing I had to stomach to get a project done even half-assed and late.”

He waved at the men behind him. “What do you think it would do to these guys, too, the real workers who get things done in this city? Right now, they go home. The wife asks about their day, and they say, ‘Another day, another damned dollar.’ Suppose they could go home and brag about what they did, tell their family there were people cheering them on because they were putting up a library faster and better than anyone ever had? What kind of city you think that would be?”

“Then do it. We need to get this built before… before the weather turns. Think how it would feel to build a library in a month or so. You’d be proud forever.”

He shrugged. “Partly, you’re right with what you first said. Too many guys have to prove how big their dick is by slowing things down. There are too many pointless rules, and too many men sick of enforcing little rules but doing it because it’s the only paycheck they’ve got. And, of course, money. You can do anything with money.”

“If I can get you all the money you need, can you do this in a month?”

“If and if and if. There was a group in China that built a thirty-story skyscraper in fifteen days. Imagine that.”

He looked off and thought about that for a moment. Then the thought must have turned sour, as he turned and spat.

“What the hell,” he said “What the hell are we talking about? This is here and not China or some other fairy land. Only a drunken fool would think we could even get an inspector out here today to approve the layout.”

Serenity looked at him. “You get to work on something productive—anything. I’ll get the inspector. Then we’ll both get drunk.”

SHE FOUND city planner Ron Powell sitting at a picnic table in Kidland Park sharing a pizza with his daughter. As they chewed, they watched two kids hammer away at a wooden tower with two sticks. Built by volunteers, the park was tough enough to stand up to even a bureaucrat’s grandchildren.

Powell was a wiry, intense black man who had been a Maddington High School baseball player, and had a few years in the minors when he was younger. He came back home and ran a sports bar until people wearied of hearing stories of his glory days. Then he ran for elected office as the city’s planning director. Former fans immediately saw the connection between baseball, beer, and city planning. He was swept into office overwhelmingly, and had been there for a decade, growing old and cranky without daily training.

Serenity held her hand up and smelled her breath. Her head was starting to show the effects of too much morning rum. She hoped her breath wasn’t showing it, too. She vowed to throw out the demon rum as soon as she got back. This was too much.

She popped a mint to be sure and teetered across the mulch-covered playground on her high heels.

Smile, girl, smile, she told herself.

“Director Powell,” she said. He turned slowly and she caught a glimpse of a tired, angry old man before he recognized her and put on a big campaign smile.

“Slugger,” he said. “Call me Slugger. And you’re that librarian that kindly hosted a reelection event for me the last time I ran.”

“So glad you remember me, sir.” Actually, the event was a children’s reading festival with games and fuzzy mascots. Powell showed up and gave a ten-minute speech on his glory days and the need to vote for him, while the grade-school children and mascots looked at each other and tried to make sense of it, and Serenity tried to figure out how to get him to leave.

Whatever.

“I’m up for reelection again, you know.”

“Yes, sir. And I have a pressing problem facing our city. I’m sure that if you help us, a grateful city will sweep you back into the office where we both know you belong.”

His smile faded a little. “You think the way to get reelected is to serve the people?”

“Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work?”

He laughed, tired. “Maybe. We just hired a consultant who’s telling me that I’m in trouble this election. People have forgotten what I’ve done for them. Guy running against me looks like a Hollywood movie star, one of the ones that went on to a big career in politics—and he’s got money.” He laughed again. “Consultant’s telling me that’s what this election’s going to come down to: hair and cash.” He rubbed his hand over his balding head. “Ain’t got much of either.” He clapped his hands on his legs. “Enough about me. Let’s see what we can get done for you in the time I’ve got left. What you need, young lady?”

Serenity took a deep breath. “It’s not what I need. Maddington needs a library expansion. We’ve found money for it, but now we’re held up waiting for inspections.”

“I’ll see if I can get somebody out there next week. No promises, but I’ll try.”

“Actually, sir, we need them today. And the problem is going to get worse going forward. My contractor tells me that there are a ton of inspections coming up.”

“He’s got that right. We want to be sure things are done right, but that doesn’t mean we can’t push a few things. My office sees itself as an enabler, helping to make Maddington something special. Tell you what. I’ll try to get somebody out today, and you let me know whenever you need help.”

“Thank you, sir. We really want to get this expansion done in a month.”

He paused. Serenity waited. He paused longer. “There is very little, young lady, that can be done in a month. I’m sorry.”

She thought about the Chinese skyscraper, and thought about all the answers he’d have to that.

“Well, I thank you for any help you can give us. By the way, I might know a source that could contribute generously to your reelection.”

He brightened. Then he looked carefully left and right. “Maybe we should continue this talk in my office.”

They both stood up. He ran his hand over his head again and laughed. “Might even get myself a wig.”

Serenity said, “Might not need it.”

RON POWELL’S OFFICE WAS DECORATED in a style best called Twenty-First Century Jock. Pictures of a young Powell shaking hands with Chipper Jones. A crowd at the old Maddington Stadium cheering as Powell rounded third, charging home with fire in his eyes. And behind the desk, a life-sized picture of a young Ron Powell—with hair—finishing a swing and looking skyward.

Powell took a seat behind the desk and motioned Serenity to a wooden bench in front of his desk.