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

Americana singer/songwriter Amy McCarley was singing on stage, donating her time to support MAD. She came to the end of “Everything Changed,” which was Serenity’s cue. She stood up with a book in her hand and took the stage as Amy stepped down.

“Ladies and gentlemen, fellow citizens of the MAD, welcome to a new day,” said Serenity, who paused for a scream from the crowd. “I’m not going to talk long because I’m as excited as you are to get inside.” More cheers. She saw Molcut’s enforcer make a “get ready” signal to his men and knew something big was coming.

She took a deep breath and savored the smell of paint and sawdust. She realized that there was book dust in it, too, and smiled.

Scanning the crowd, she realized that Joe was nowhere to be seen. Just as well. She didn’t want him caught up in this. She smiled again, thinking of what their last memory of each other might be.

She knew what she wanted her last moment to be, if this was it. She took a deep breath.

“For years, here at the MAD we’ve done our best living on scraps and crumbs, afraid to ask for more. Despite that, we’ve always had a library that was a shining beacon for ‘what’ and sometimes ‘why.’ Throughout cutbacks and policy shifts, patrons always knew they could go to the library and our overworked librarians would do their best.

“But our best often wasn’t good enough because we didn’t have the time, the money, or the tools. Worse, if someone needed an answer to a ‘how’ question—how do I find a job, how do I start a business, how do I heal my broken family, they had nowhere to turn. Our librarians had one heartbroken day after another filled with people asking for help that we didn’t have the tools to provide.

“And all of us paid the price.” She paused, looked up from her notes, and then directly at Molcut. “We paid the price as a community, because none of us could face the price we might have to pay to do better.” She looked back at the crowd. “Because we were afraid to face our own suffering, our children suffered, people who wanted to work suffered, businesses suffered, and teachers suffered.

“No more. The city of Maddington has stood up, led by civic leaders such as Ron Powell, and businessmen like Seth Burroughs and a thousand other citizens who went from saying this couldn’t be done, to finding the courage to make the impossible real. That shining building in front of us, waiting for us, is an enormous toolshed for us all: Tools to build, tools to learn, tools to heal, and tools to grow a future beyond our wildest dreams.”

She locked eyes with Molcut. The crowd cheered and she wound up for her finish. Molcut’s enforcer saw the end coming and signaled his men. Serenity saw them shift so each had a clear line of fire toward the stage.

She raised her book over her head with two hands and shook it at them.

“Other cities are built on councils, and chambers, and committees of the absurd. But Maddington is built on books.” She caught the eye of the enforcer and jerked her head up to the sky. He and his men followed her eyes up and saw OHR and his men appearing in the trees, watching and ready. Molcut’s men sat down. For now.

Except for one. The enforcer himself got up quietly and edged through the crowd to a small notch in the building that held the side courtyard. Early in the morning, the courtyard was dark, and out of sight of OHR’s men. A couple of them were scrambling, but it would take them time to follow him.

Serenity saw the enforcer lean against a wall, just a shadow to anyone not watching him. She saw a gleam of metal as he raised a long-barreled pistol.

Fine. But they’ll never kill my books.

At the top of her lungs, she screamed, “Books. Books and courage and strength. Citizens of Maddington, welcome to your MAD.”

The crowd leaped to their feet, cheering. Serenity was listening for another sound over the crowd, and she heard it. A gun boomed but she felt nothing. He must have missed. Then the long-barreled gun dropped, and the shadowy man collapsed into a heap. Joe stepped out into the sunlight, putting his gun away, and was swept away with the crowd.

TUESDAY MORNING, seven days after Serenity had promised the MAD, a workman on the seventh floor said, “We’ll put the real desk in tomorrow, ma’am.”

Serenity smiled. “We’re good. Leave it.”

The man looked at the two sheets of interior plywood on sawhorses they had sat in an “L” as a makeshift desk for her. “You sure? They’ve got a desk coming in tomorrow that they say is really fancy.”

“Put it somewhere on the first floor, where people can see it. There’s plenty of room on this for me to work.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took his toolbox and walked out.

Serenity sat Faulkner’s habitat down on the side of the ‘L’ and opened his door. “Go explore your new home.” He stuck his nose out and sniffed the air. “Sorry,” she said. “No rum. I’m done with those days.” She paused. “Maybe.”

She looked around her new office, set in the corner with a view of the city through two large glass panes. Although smaller than most corporate offices, it was still palatial for a librarian. She walked to the big video screen that took up most of the wall facing her desk and picked up the remote control to flick through the views. Floor by floor, she watched crowds exploring their new home. She came to one that showed a twice-as-big-as-life view of herself, a high-tech supermirror, one she could adjust lighting and backgrounds as she prepared for future interviews.

The face she saw seemed to sag with tired grayness. She thought it looked like an aging amateur prizefighter wearing a bright red wig as a joke. No chance of running away to the beach and getting a job as a cocktail waitress with that face.

She punched a button and the screen filled with an external shot of the MAD and the big American flag flapping proudly in the breeze. Workmen were climbing on the roof as patrons crowded the doors downstairs and families played in the park that surrounded the building.

Her building. Her life. More than the sad flesh she had just seen, this was her real face and her future now.

A shadow crossed the monitor and she jumped and turned. A figure was at the door.

“Joe,” she said, “you scared me.”

“I understand there’s a lot for you to be scared of these days.”

She tried to read his face. “Maybe not, as long as I’ve got my cowboy.”

He ignored her and waved his hand at the screen. “You did it. You got your dream.”

She looked at him. “There’s a lot to my dream, babe. You know that.”

She looked at him.

He looked down, then looked up at her, squarely. “We’ve made a lot of dreams come true ourselves, haven’t we? But this is that core for just you, even when neither of us knew it. This is what you were born for.”

He crossed over and stood beside her, looking at the library on the screen, at the men and women and children drifting in. He started to say something, couldn’t, and just pointed. Finally, he said it. “Looks like there’s a place for everybody in your library.”

She put a hand on his arm and looked up at him. “A place for everybody, Joe.” Her eyes filled with hope and tears.

“No.” There was a long pause. “Almost everybody. You know me, babe. I know where all this is coming from, or I at least know enough to know I can’t be a part of it.” His mouth moved but nothing more came out.

Serenity said, “I saw you at the dedication.”

“Let’s hope you were the only one.”

She nodded. “I know how much it hurts you to do something that has to be kept a secret.”