Stacks

The man before me was a little shorter than I was. He had me by more than a few years, probably in his forties, but he was still trying to dress cool. He work leather shoes, black jeans, white tee shirt and a black vest. His dark hair was pulled back in a pony tail, he wore thin rimmed glasses and kept a small mustache. He was a blend between a yuppie and beatnik, at least how I think that blend would look. Though I never saw him wear one, I expected a beret would be in his regular outdoor attire. My new boss, at my new job, was trying to be cool to the college kids he was in charge of.

Waldo library was four floors of books, journals, maps and microfiche. Stacks was on the lower level. New books, returned books, misplaced books and books left out all came to stacks. This little office, was the heart of recirculating the books back to the shelves. This was my home and source of income after my 7:00 AM class ended and before my 11:00 AM class began.

The first few days were the only ones I really remember being around other employees. This job was very much a solo one. It was Mr. Vest who explained what was expected. He showed me the hidden staff elevators, all of them behind hidden doors clearly marked staff only. He explained the Library of Congress system, how the books were marked and organized. He showed me the break room, a room with several chairs and coaches, but I never actually saw anyone in there. He was clear that I should spend about fifteen minutes on break for every hour I worked. It's hard to just put away books, don't push yourself he said. He showed me the basement, giant pipes of heated air, like a Nightmare on Elmstreet basement. He showed me where the books that were dropped chute came into a bin down there, but I was distracted by the doors and the tunnels down there.

Then we grabbed a cart full of books, most of them these solid colored bound tomes with simple printed text on them. Probably P or S books, since those seemed to be the ones that circulated the most. It wasn't hard, I had a couple questions about items that had the same number and what to do when you find a misplaced book.

Forty five minutes later, we were in the break room. We talked for a half hour. I bought a cherry cola and noticed there was no rush to get back to work. I was tired, so I didn't complain. I could tell, by his whole approach, that this job was very casual.

Two days later I was on my own. For a couple weeks I did pretty good. I only took breaks when I needed them. I usually kept them short. I worked to put away as many books as I could each shift. I didn't really see Mr. Best other then on passing and while there were other employees there, they never seemed to be where I was. I didn't start conversations in the library, so it was quiet.

I got to love the top floor. It was small, but had some of the oldest materials up there. So, the items I would handle would be more interesting, like hand drawn maps of an older Michigan. More importantly, not many people were up here. What this meant was, instead of going to the break room, I could take breaks up there, instead of in the room. I had a spot that was mine, a corner which was never used and was secluded from sound and was dimly lit. It had a wooden chair and working desk, with small walls.

I had closed the night before at Arby's, which meant I had to get up to write my paper after about four hours sleep. I could feel the stack of these kind of days wearing me out. I put together half a cart in about a half hour, then I went to my spot. I put my head down on the desk and immediately went to sleep. Even a casual job doesn't usually condone sleeping on the job, but I was tired.

I had no idea how long I had been out when I heard voice. They woke me just enought to realize I had been sleeping pretty deeply. My brain began clinging the bell. Get up. GET UP!! My brain had no idea how the wooden chair had cut into my legs, how I couldn't feel them from about half way down my thighs down. People were nearby, near discovering me napping.

So, I quickly hopped up from the desk. Across the way I saw the two students talking, just before I fell on the floor.

The students glanced at me, them moved away. I took me a while to crawl back into the chair and them on my feet. I wasn't caught, but it was time to go. I managed to make it back downstairs, legs tingling and hurting, to check out in time for class.

I worked, and napped, there for two more semesters.