"What the fuck are you talking about?" Todd said, with glowering flummoxity.
"Theophrastus. He was an ancient Greek dude who wrote about various character types who hung out at the stoa. Or the lyceum. Or the angora sweater."
Todd gave me his please-stop-talking look. "Was he a vegan?"
"No."
"Was he a minimalist?"
"No."
"Did he abjure all plastic from his life?"
"Well, he abjured in fourth century BCE, so... yes. But then, no one was using plastics then."
"Good for them! And fuck people now!"
"Er, yes. Anyway, I think some of our regulars here at Ruby Creek, Duluth, which is where we are, are deserving of memorialization in a Theophrastian sort of way."
"You mean like him?"
A short, bearded man passed by. Todd considered him, beardily.
"Mm," he said, glove-handedly. "I'd like to hold my hand over his mouth and unnnngggh him from behind. Just unnnnngh him!" He thrust his ithyphallic priapus.
"Uh, okay. But that's not really what I meant by 'character.' I was meaning more like the eminently un-unnnggghgh-able Stephanie Barker, with her sad Winnie the Pooh apparel and persistent need to interrupt official library business. Just yesterday she came up to the desk, checked out some righteous Christian material, and went for the door. Then she stopped, turned back, and asked me if the new Engage magazine was out. I said: no. She went back for the door, slowed, looked around, turned, and came back. She asked me if we were going to be closed on Memorial Day. I said: yes. She nodded, went back for the door, turned to watch a man work the self-check machine. She came back to tell me that the man, who had since fled when he saw her, was possibly looking up private information on the self-check. I said: huh. She went for the door, slowed, turned to see the man coming over to me, and then went to intercept him, telling him that if he was looking up something he should use the catalog computer not the self-check. The man grunted at her. She went for the door, slowed, then as a choir of angels sang, she finally went out the door."
"I hate that bitch."
"And then there's Perry Heistmann. He wears a sad hat and has a sad, sallow face with sad shade-tinted glasses on his jerk nose. It's his self-imposed mission to collect every piece of poetry ever written in the history of the multiverse and store it in his white van. He spends so much money on making endless copies that he can't afford a hearing aid, so he yells and holds his hand to his ear when he checks out 3,024 books on Mongolian horse poetry. Then he yells, PRECIATE IT. And then GOD BLESS. And then I AM INSANE. Well, the last phrase is only for those who get a ride with him in his van."
"Yeah, I hate that fucker."
"Don't forget Cindy Scone, the wispy wraithy wafer who looks like the male version of Johnny Winter. She has cheek bones so high they could be a hat. She's the one who carries around a fragment of her boyfriend's skull in her purse, and is a consistent delight to fans of necrophilia everywhere. And what about Spencer Tracy, the dickish boor who's busy writing a godawful espionage novel and demands the Denver Post every day, once asking one of our clerks to announce on the PA system that the paper was ready for him. Oh, and he also likes to say, 'See you in the funny pages.' Which is maybe the dickishiest part of him? Wait, there's more. What about Jeff? The zombie walker and finger pointer, the tooth-losing, garlic-eating, pompously-prolixitating prevaricator and fluffy-paper purveyor. Also likes to boast about consorting with whores in Argentinean hot tubs. What else? Oh, how could I forget his screenplay. It's based on a book he scanned in seven minutes. This is the book:
Or something like it. He wants to hire Liam Neeson as the guy who gets his thighs lit. Or Harry Connick Jr. Sort of a Backdraft meets Fifty Shades of Grey thing."
"He's such a tool. How can you spend two seconds talking to that guy?"
"Of course then we have those who don't talk at all. There's Wayne Jarvis, our volunteer. You know, the one you think is secretly a serial killer."
(Rare photo of Wayne and I at an All Staff
Day event. I still have that bow tie!)
"I saw that fucker out at six in the morning, dressed all in black. Out hunting for human viscera, no doubt."
"I have a new story about him. I was walking to the bank to get change and ahead of me was Wayne. Just out for his morning constitutional, I suppose, scouting for supple bodies. He had his hands in his jacket pockets and wore a faded red cap. Along we walked. He turned the corner at the bank, and then I did the same two minutes later. I stopped. Where was he? He had just completely disappeared. Was he suctioned to the side of a building like a geriatric, malevolent Spidey?"
"I told you! He's the creature's undead ghost!"
"Then I went to the bank entrance, turned to my right, and saw Wayne at the ATM. See? Just because the guy never talks doesn't mean he's a blood-drinking uterus-tearing shape-shifting ghoul. Necessarily."
Jonah came over. He frowned. "Why aren't I in this blog post?"
"Because you're a Haigal-lovin' ding-dong!" Todd yelled.
He turned to me for a high-five. I slapped his hand, but the hemp material took the satisfying snap out.
"Pff," Jonah said. "Who's the real character here. Amirite?"
(Justron.)
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