I'm sitting in a little library in an even smaller New York summer town, trying to catch up on paperwork and blog posts while visiting my sister, but it’s slow going. I’ve come here for quiet, but this is obviously not a Quiet In The Library kind of town, and the librarian is as acoustically gifted as they come.
The regulars love her. She does not like me.
Queen of a small scene, she did not take kindly to my silence-seeking presence, though I’m not the only visitor to arrive in search of an internet accessible refuge from the rain, only to become frustrated by the morning radio show vibe.
Still. It’s a small town, and the season is short. I’m guessing she views herself as more Community Coordinator than Guardian of the Tomes, a social town crier, purveyor of fine gossip and excited Stieg Larsson reviews. If I were her, I’d probably be giddy with the thrill of tourists and business and extra sunlight; punch-drunk on the endless party of summer releases and extended hours. This is her hour, and she has thrown herself into the role of Facebook Of One with a passion and verve most people’s jobs never inspire.
We should all be so lucky. But maybe, sometimes, just a little less loud.
