This is a beautiful library, timed perfectly, lush and American. The hour is midnight and the library is deep and carried like a dreaming child into the darkness of these pages. Though the library is ‘closed’ I don’t have to go home because this is my home and has been for years, and besides, I have to be here all the time. That’s part of my position. I don’t want to sound like a petty official, but I am afraid to think what would happen if somebody came and I wasn’t here.
I have been sitting at this desk for hours, staring into the darkened shelves of books. I love their presence, the way they honour the wood they rest upon.
I know it’s going to rain.
Clouds have been playing with the blue style of the sky all day long, moving their heavy black wardrobes in, but so far nothing rain has happened.
I ‘closed’ the library at nine, but if somebody has a book to bring in, there is a bell they can ring by the door that calls me from whatever I am doing in this place: sleeping, cooking, eating or making love to Vida who will be here shortly.
She gets off work at 11.30.
The bell comes from Fort Worth, Texas. The man who brought us the bell is dead now and no one learned his name. He brought the bell and put it down on a table. He seemed embarrassed and left, a stranger, many years ago. It is not a large bell, but it travels intimately along a small silver path that knows the map to our hearing.
Often books are brought in during the late evening and the early morning hours. I have to be here to receive them. That’s my job. I ‘open’ the library at nine o’clock in the morning and ‘close’ the library at nine in the evening, but I am here twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week to receive the books.
An old woman brought in a book a couple of days ago at three o’clock in the morning. I heard the bell ringing inside my sleep like a small highway being poured from a great distance into my ear. It woke up Vida, too.
‘What is it?' she said.
‘It’s the bell,' I said.
‘No, it’s a book,’ she said.
I told her to stay there in bed, to go back to sleep, that I would take care of it. I got up and dressed myself in the proper attitude for welcoming a new book into the library.
My clothes are not expensive but they are friendly and neat and my human presence is welcoming. People feel better when they look at me.
Vida had gone back to sleep. She looked nice with her long black hair spread out like a fan of dark lakes upon the pillow. I could not resist lifting up the covers to stare at her long sleeping form.
A fragrant odour rose like a garden in the air above the incredibly strange thing that was her body, motionless and dramatic lying there.
I went out and turned on the lights in the library. It looked quite cheerful, even though it was three o’clock in the morning.
The old woman waited behind the heavy glass of the front door. Because the library is very old-fashioned, the door has a religious affection to it.
The woman had a look of great excitement. She was very old, eighty I’d say, and wore the type of clothing that associates itself with the poor.
But no matter… rich or poor… the service is the same and could never be any different.
‘I just finished it,’ she said through the heavy glass before I could open the door. Her voice, though slowed down a great deal by the glass, was bursting with joy, imagination and almost a kind of youth.
‘I’m glad,’ I said back through the door. I hadn’t quite got it open yet. We were sharing the same excitement through the glass.
‘It’s done!’ she said, coming into the library, accompanied by an eighty-year-old lady.
‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘It’s so wonderful to write a book.’
‘I walked all the way here,’ she said. ‘I started at midnight. I would have gotten here sooner if I weren`t so old.’
‘Where do you live?’ I said.
‘The Kit Carson Hotel,’ she said. ‘And I’ve written a book,’ Then she handed it proudly to me as if it were the most precious thing in the world. And it was.
It was a loose-leaf notebook of the type that you find everywhere in America. There is no place that does not have them.
There was a heavy label pasted on the cover and written in broad green crayon across the label was the title:
GROWING FLOWERS BY CANDLELIGHT
IN HOTEL ROOMS
BY
MRS CHARLES FINE ADAMS
‘What a wonderful title,’ I said. ‘I don’t think we have a book like this in the entire library. This is a first.’
She had a big smile on her face which had turned old about forty years ago, eroded by the gases and exiles of youth.
‘It has taken me five years to write this book,’ she said. ‘I live at the Kit Carson Hotel and I’ve raised many flowers there in my room. My room doesn’t have any windows, so I have to use candles. They work the best.
‘I’ve also raised flowers by lantern light and magnifying glass, but they don’t seem to do well, especially tulips and lilies of the valley. ‘I’ve even tried raising flowers by flashlight, but that was very disappointing. I used three or four flashlights on some marigolds, but they didn’t amount to much.
‘Candles work the best. Flowers seem to like the smell of burning wax, if you know what I mean. Just show a flower a candle and it starts growing.’
I looked through the book. That’s one of the things I get to do here. Actually, I’m the only person who gets to do it. The book was written in longhand with red, green and blue crayons. There were drawings of her hotel room with the flowers growing in the room.
Her room was very small and there were many flowers in it. The flowers were in tin cans and bottles and jars and they were all surrounded by burning candles.
Her room looked like a cathedral.
There was also a drawing of the former manager of the hotel and a drawing of the hotel elevator. The elevator looked like a very depressing place.
In her drawing of the hotel manager, he appeared to be very unhappy, tired and looked as if he needed a vacation. He also seemed to be looking over his shoulder at something that was about to enter his vision. It was a thing he did not want to see and it was just about there. Under the drawing was written this:
MANAGER OF THE KIT CARSON HOTEL
UNTIL HE GOT FIRED
FOR DRINKING IN THE ELEVATOR
AND FOR STEALING SHEETS
The book was about forty pages long. It looked quite interesting and would be a welcomed addition to our collection.
‘You’re probably very tired,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you a cup of instant coffee.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ she said. ‘It took me five years to write this book about flowers. I’ve worked very hard on it. I love flowers. Too bad my room doesn’t have any windows, but I’ve done the best I can with candles. Tulips do all right.’
Vida was sound asleep when I went back to my room. I turned on the light and it woke her up. She was blinking and her face had that soft marble quality to it that beautiful women have when they are suddenly awakened and are not quite ready for it yet.
‘What’s happening,’ she said. ‘It’s another book,' she replied, answering her own question.
‘Yes,' I said.
‘What’s it about?’ she said automatically like a gentle human phonograph.
‘It’s about growing flowers in hotel rooms.’
I put the water on for the coffee and sat down beside Vida who curled over and put her head on my lap, so that my lap was entirely enveloped in her watery black hair.
I could see one of her breasts. It was fantastic!
‘Now what’s this about growing flowers in hotel rooms?’ Vida said. ‘It couldn’t be that easy. What’s the real story?’
‘By candlelight,’ I said.
‘Uh-huh,’ Vida said. Even though I couldn’t see her face, I knew she was smiling. She has funny ideas about the library.
‘It’s by an old woman,’ I said. ‘She loves flowers but she doesn't have any windows in her hotel room, so she grows them by candlelight.’
‘Oh, baby.' Vida said, in that tone of voice she always uses for the library. She thinks this place is creepy and she doesn’t care for it very much.
I didn’t answer her. The coffee water was done and I took a spoonful of instant coffee and put it out in a cup.
‘Instant coffee?’ Vida said.
‘Yes,' I said. ‘I’m making it for the woman who just brought the book in. She’s very old and she walked a great distance to get here. I think she needs a cup of instant coffee.’
‘It sounds like she does. Perhaps even a little amyl nitrate for a chaser. I’m just kidding. Do you need any help? I’ll get up.’
‘No, honey,’ I said. ‘I can take care of it. Did we eat all those cookies you baked?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘The cookies are over there in that sack.’ She pointed towards the white paper bag on the table. ‘I think there are a couple of chocolate cookies left.’
‘What did you put them in the sack for?’ I said.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Why does anyone put cookies in a sack? I just did.’
Vida was resting her head on her elbow and watching me. She was unbelievable; her face, her eyes, her…
‘Strong point,’ I said.
‘Am I right?’ she said, sleepily.
‘Yup.’ I said.
I took the cup of coffee and put it on a small wooden tray, along with some canned milk and some sugar and a little plate for the cookies.
Vida had given me the tray as a present. She bought it at Cost Plus Imports and surprised me with it one day. I like surprises. ‘See you later,’ I said. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘OK,’ and pulled the covers up over her head. Farewell, my lovely.
I took the coffee and cookies out to the old woman. She was sitting at a table with her face resting on her elbow and she was half asleep. There was an expression of dreaming on her face.
I hated to interrupt her. I know how much a dream can be worth, but, alas… ‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, breaking the dream cleanly.
‘It’s time for some coffee,’ I said.
‘Oh, how nice,’ she said. ‘It’s just what I need to wake me up. I’m a little tired because I walked so far. I guess I could have waited until tomorrow and taken the bus here, but I wanted to bring the book out right away because I just finished it at midnight and I’ve been working on it for five years.
‘Five Years,’ she repeated, as if it were the name of a country where she was the President and the flowers growing by candlelight in her hotel room were her cabinet and I was the Secretary of Libraries.
‘I think I’ll register the book now,’ I said.
‘That sounds wonderful,’ she said. ‘These are delicious cookies. Did you bake them yourself?’
I thought that was a rather strange question for her to ask me. I have never been asked that question before. It startled me. It’s funny how people can catch you off guard with a question about cookies.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t bake these cookies. A friend did.’
‘Well, whoever baked them knows how to bake cookies. The chocolate tastes wonderful. So chocolatey.’
‘Good,’ I said.
Now it was time to register the book. We register all the books we receive here in our Library Contents Ledger. It is a record of all the books we get day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year. They all go into the Ledger.
We don’t use the Dewey decimal classification or any index system to keep track of our books. We record their entrance into the library in the Library Contents Ledger and then we give the book back to its author who is free to place it anywhere he wants in the library, on whatever shelf catches his fancy.
It doesn’t make any difference where a book is placed because nobody ever checks them out and nobody ever comes here to read them. This is not that kind of library. This is another kind of library.
‘I just love these cookies,’ the old woman said, finishing the last cookie. ‘Such a good chocolate flavour. You can’t buy these in a store. Did a friend bake them?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A very good friend.’
‘Well, good for them. There isn’t enough of that thing going on now, if you know what I mean.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Chocolate cookies are good.’
Vida baked them.
By now the old woman had finished the last drops of coffee in her cup, but she drank them again, even though they were gone. She wanted to make sure that she did not leave a drop in the cup, even to the point of drinking the last drop of coffee twice.
I could tell that she was preparing to say good-bye because she was trying to rise from her chair. I knew that she would never return again. This would be her only visit to the library.
‘It’s been so wonderful writing a book,’ she said. ‘N0w it’s done and I can return to my hotel room and my flowers. I’m very tired.’
‘Your book,’ I said, handing it to her. ‘You are free to put it anywhere you want to in the library, on any shelf you want.’
‘How exciting,’ she said.
She took her book very slowly over to a section where a lot of children are guided by a subconscious track of some kind to place their books on that shelf.
I don’t remember ever seeing anyone over fifty put a book there before, but she went right there as if guided by the hands of the children and placed her book about growing flowers by candlelight in hotel rooms in between a book about Indians (pro) and an illustrated, highly favourable tract on strawberry jam.
She was very happy as she left the library to walk very slowly back to her room in the Kit Carson Hotel and the flowers that waited for her there.
I turned out the lights in the library and took the tray back to my room. I knew the library so well that I could do it in the dark. The returning path to my room was made comfortable by thoughts of flowers, America and Vida sleeping like a photograph here in the library.
This library came into being because of an overwhelming need and desire for such a place. There just simply had to be a library like this. That desire brought into existence this library building which isn’t very large and its permanent staffing which happens to be myself at the present time.
The library is old in the San Francisco post-earthquake yellow-brick style and is located at 3150 Sacramento Street, San Francisco, California 94115, though no books are ever accepted by mail. They must be brought in person. That is one of the foundations of this library.
Many people have worked here before me. This place has a fairly rapid turnover. I believe I am the thirty-fifth or thirty-sixth librarian. I got the job because I was the only person who could fulfil the requirements and I was available.
I am thirty-one years old and never had any formal library training. I have had a different kind of training which is quite compatible with the running of this library. I have an understanding of people and I love what I am doing.
I believe I am the only person in America who can perform this job right now and that’s what I’m doing. After I am through with my job here, I’ll find something else to do. I think the future has quite a lot in store for me.
The librarian before me was here for three years and finally had to quit because he was afraid of children. He thought they were up to something. He is now living in an old folks’ home. I got a postcard from him last month. It was unintelligible.
The librarian before him was a young man who took a six-months leave of absence from his motorcycle gang to put in his tenure here. Afterwards he returned to his gang and never told them where he had been.
‘Where have you been the last six months?’ they asked him.
‘I’ve been taking care of my mother,’ he said. ‘She was sick and needed lots of hot chicken soup. Any more questions?’ There were no more questions.
The librarian before him was here for two years, then moved suddenly to the Australian bush. Nothing has been heard from him since. I’ve heard rumours that he’s alive, but I’ve also heard rumours that he’s dead, but whatever he’s doing, dead or alive, I’m certain he’s still in the Australian bush because he said he wasn’t coming back and if he ever saw another book again, he’d cut his throat.
The librarian before him was a young lady who quit because she was pregnant. One day she caught the glint in a young poet’s eye. They are now living together in the Mission District and are no longer young. She has a beautiful daughter, though, and he’s on unemployment. They want to move to Mexico.
I believe it’s a mistake on their part. I have seen too many couples who went to Mexico and then immediately broke up when they returned to America. I believe if they want to stay together they shouldn’t go to Mexico.
The librarian before her was here for one year. He was killed in an automobile accident. An automobile went out of control and crashed into the library. Somehow it killed him. I have never been able to figure this out because the library is made of bricks.
Ah, it feels so good to sit here in the darkness of these books. I’m not tired. This has been an average evening for books being brought in: with twenty-three finding their welcomed ways on to our shelves.
I wrote their titles and authors and a little about the receiving of each book down in the Library Contents Ledger. I think the first book came in around 6.30.
MY TRIKE by Chuck. The author was five years old and had a face that looked as if it had been struck by a tornado of freckles. There was no title on the book and no words inside, just pictures.
‘What’s the name of your book?’ I said.
The little boy opened the book and showed me the drawing of a tricycle. It looked more like a giraffe standing upside down in an elevator.
‘That’s my trike,’ he said.
‘Beautiful,’ I said. ‘And what’s your name?’
‘That’s my trike.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Very nice, but what’s your name?’
‘Chuck.’
He reached the book up on to the desk and then headed for the door, saying, ‘I have to go now. My mother’s outside with my sister.’
I was going to tell him that he could put the book on any shelf he wanted to, but then he was gone in his small way.
LEATHER CLOTHES AND THE HISTORY OF MAN by S. M. Justice. The author was quite motorcyclish and wearing an awful lot of leather clothes. His book was made entirely of leather. Somehow the book was printed. I had never seen a 290-page book printed on leather before.
When the author turned the book over to the library, he said, ‘I like a man who likes leather.’
LOVE ALWAYS BEAUTIFUL by Charles Green. The author was about fifty years old and said he had been trying to find a publisher for his book since he was seventeen years old when he wrote the book.
‘This book has set the world’s record for rejections,’ he said. ‘It has been rejected 459 times and now I am an old man.’
THE STEREO AND GOD by the Reverend Lincoln Lincoln. The author said that God was keeping his eye on our stereophonic phonographs. I don’t know what he meant by that but he slammed the book down very hard on the desk.
PANCAKE PRETTY by Barbara Jones. The author was seven years old and wearing a pretty white dress.
‘This book is about a pancake,’ she said.
SAM SAM SAM by Patricia Evens Summers. ‘It’s a book of literary essays,’ she said. ‘I’ve always admired Alfred Kazin and Edmund Wilson, especially Wilson’s theories on The Turn of the Screw.’ She was a woman in her late fifties who looked a great deal like Edmund Wilson.
A HISTORY OF NEBRASKA by Clinton York. The author was a gentleman about forty-seven who said he had never been to Nebraska but he had always been interested in the state.
‘Ever since I was a child it’s been Nebraska for me. Other kids listened to the radio or raved on about their bicycles. I read everything I could find on Nebraska. I don’t know what got me started on the thing. But, anyway, this is the most complete history ever written about Nebraska.’
The book was in seven volumes and he had them in a shopping bag when he came into the library.
HE KISSED ALL NIGHT by Susan Margar. The author was a very plain middle-aged woman who looked as if she had never been kissed. You had to look twice to see if she had any lips on her face. It was a surprise to find her mouth almost totally hidden beneath her nose.
‘It’s about kissing,’ she said.
I guess she was too old for any subterfuge now.
MOOSE by Richard Brautigan. The author was tall and blond and had a long yellow moustache that gave him an anachronistic appearance. He looked as if he would be more at home in another era.
This was the third or fourth book he had brought to the library. Every time he brought in a new book he looked a little older, a little more tired. He looked quite young when he brought in his first book. I can’t remember the title of it, but it seems to me the book had something to do with America.
‘What’s this one about,’ I asked, because he looked as if he wanted me to ask him something.
‘Just another book,’ he said.
I guess I was wrong about him wanting me to ask him something.
IT’S THE QUEEN OF DARKNESS, PAL by Rod Keen. The author was wearing overalls and had on a pair of rubber boots.
‘I work in the city sewers,’ he said, handing the book to me. ‘It’s science-fiction.’
YOUR CLOTHES ARE DEAD by Les Steinman. The author looked like an ancient Jewish tailor. He was very old and looked as if he had made some shirts for Don Quixote.
‘They are, you know,’ he said, showing the book to me as if it were a piece of cloth, a leg from a pair of trousers.
JACK, THE STORY OF A CAT by Hilda Simpson. The author was a girl about twelve years old, just entering into puberty. She had lemon-sized breasts against a green sweater. She was awakening to adolescence in a delightful way.
‘What do you have with you this evening,’ I said.
Hilda had brought in five or six books previously.
‘It’s a book about my cat Jack. He’s really a noble animal. I thought I would put him down in a book, bring it here and make him famous,’ she said, smiling.
THE CULINARY DOSTOEVSKY by James Fallon. The author said the book was a cookbook of recipes he had found in Dostoevsky’s novels.
‘Some of them are very good,’ he said. ‘I’ve eaten everything Dostoevsky ever cooked.’
MY DOG by Bill Lewis. The author was seven years old and said thank you when he put his book on a shelf.
HOMBRE by Canton Lee. The author was a Chinese gentleman about seventy.
‘It’s a Western,’ he said. ‘About a horse thief. Reading Westerns is my hobby, so I decided to write one myself. Why not? I spent thirty years cooking in a restaurant in Phoenix.’
VIETNAM VICTORY by Edward Fox. The author was a very serious young man who said that victory could only be achieved in Vietnam by killing everybody there. He recommended that after we had killed everybody there we turn the country over to Chiang Kai-shek, so he could attack Red China, then.
‘It’s only a matter of time,’ he said.
PRINTER’S INK by Fred Sinkus. The author was a former journalist whose book was almost illegibly written in longhand with his words wrapped around whisky.
‘That’s it,’ he said, handing the book to me. ‘Twenty years.’ He left the library unevenly, barely under his own power.
I stood there looking down at twenty years in my hands.
BACON DEATH by Marsha Paterson. The author was a totally nondescript young woman except for a look of anguish on her face. She handed me this fantastically greasy book and fled the library in terror. The book actually looked like a pound of bacon. I was going to open it and see what it was about, but I changed my mind. I didn’t know whether to fry the book or put it on the shelf. Being a librarian here is sometimes a challenge.
UFO VERSUS CBS by Susan DeWitt. The author was an old woman who told me that her book, which was written in Santa Barbara at her sister’s house, was about a Martian conspiracy to take over the Columbia Broadcasting System.
‘It’s all here in my book,’ she said. ‘Remember all those flying saucers last summer?’
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘They’re all in here,’ she said. The book looked quite handsome and I’m certain they were all in there.
THE EGG LAYED TWICE by Beatrice Quinn Porter. The author said this collection of poetry summed up the wisdom she had found while living twenty-six years on a chicken ranch in San Jose.
‘It may not be poetry,’ she said. ‘I never went to college, but it’s sure as hell about chickens.’
BREAKFAST FIRST by Samuel Humber. The author said that breakfast was an absolute requisite for travelling and was overlooked in too many travel books, so he decided that he would write a book about how important breakfast was in travelling.
THE QUICK FOREST by Thomas Funnell. The author was about thirty years old and looked scientific. His hair was thinning and he seemed eager to talk about the book.
‘This forest is quicker than an ordinary forest,’ he said.
‘How long did it take you to write it?’ I said, knowing that authors seem to like that question.
‘I didn’t write it,’ he said. ‘I stole it from my mother. Serves her right, too. The God-damn bitch.’
THE NEED FOR LEGALIZED ABORTION by Doctor O. The author was doctory and very nervous in his late thirties. The book had no title on the cover. The contents were very neatly typed. about 300 pages long.
‘It’s all I can do,’ he said.
‘Do you want to put it on a shelf yourself?’ I said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You take care of that yourself. There’s nothing else that I can do. It’s all a God-damn shame.’
It has just started to rain now outside the library. I can hear it splash against the windows and echo among the books. They seem to know it’s raining here in the beautiful darkness of lives as I wait for Vida.
I must tell you right now that most of the library isn’t here. This building is not large and couldn’t begin to hold all the books that have been brought in over the years.
The library was in existence before it came to San Francisco in the late 1870s, and the library didn’t lose a book during the earthquake and fire of 1906. While everybody else was running around like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off, we were careful: no panic.
This library rests upon a sloping lot that runs all the way through the block down from Clay to Sacramento Street. We use just a small portion of the lot and the rest of it is overgrown with tall grass and bushes and flowers and wine bottles and lovers’ trysts.
There are some old cement stairs that pour through green and busy establishments down from the Clay Street side and there are ancient electric lamps, friends of Thomas Edison, mounted on tall metal asparagus stalks.
They are on what was once the second landing of the stairs. The lights don’t work any more and everything is so overgrown that it’s hard to tell why anything ever existed in the first place.
The back of the library lies almost disappearing in green at the bottom of the stairs.
The front lawn is neat, though. We don’t want this place to look totally like a jungle. It might frighten people away.
A little Negro boy comes and mows the lawn every month or so. I don’t have any money to pay him but he doesn’t mind. He does it because he likes me and he knows that I have to stay inside here, that I can’t mow the lawn myself. I always have to be in here ready to welcome a new book.
Right now the lawn has many dandelions on it and thousands of daisies sprawled here and there together like a Rorschach dress pattern designed by Rudi Gernreich.
The dandelions are loners and pretty much stay off by themselves, but those daisies! I know all this by looking out the heavy glass door.
This place is constantly bathed in the intermediate barking of dogs from early in the morning when the dogs wake up and continuing until late at night when the dogs go to sleep and sometimes they bark in between.
We are just a few doors down from a pet hospital and, though I can’t see the hospital, I am seldom without the barking of dogs and I have grown used to it.
At first I hated their damn barking. It had always been a thing with me: a dislike for dogs. But now in my third year here, I’ve grown accustomed to their barking and it doesn’t bother me any more. Actually, I like it sometimes.
There are high arched windows here in the library above the bookshelves and there are two green trees towering into the windows and they spread their branches like paste against the glass.
I love those trees.
Through the glass door and across the street is a big white garage with cars coming and going all the time in hours of sickness and need. There is a big word in blue on the front of the garage: GULF.
Before the library came to San Francisco, it was in Saint Louis for a while, then in New York for a long time. There are a lot of Dutch books somewhere.
Because this building is so small, we have been forced to store thousands of books at another place. We moved into this little brick building after the ’06 business to be on the safe side, but there just isn’t enough room here.
There are so many books being written that end up here, either by design or destiny. We have accepted 114 books on the Model T Ford, fifty-eight books on the history of the banjo and nineteen books on buffalo-skinning since the beginning of this library. We keep all the ledgers here that we use to record the acceptance of each book in, but most of the books themselves are in hermetically-sealed caves in Northern California.
I have nothing to do with the storing of the books in the caves. That’s Foster’s job. He also brings me my food because I can’t leave the library. Foster hasn’t been around for a few months, so I guess he’s off on another drunk.
Foster loves to drink and it’s always easy for him to find somebody to drink with. Foster is about forty years old and always wears a T-shirt, no matter what the weather is about, rain or shine, hot or cold, it’s all the same to his T-shirt because his T-shirt is an eternal garment that only death will rob from his body.
Foster has long buffalo-heavy blond hair and I have never seen Foster when he wasn’t sweating. He’s very friendly in an overweight sort of style, jolly you might say, and has a way of charming people, total strangers, into buying him drinks. He goes off on month-long drunks in the logging towns near the caves, raises hell with the loggers and chases the Indian girls through the woods.
I imagine he’ll be down here one of these days, red-faced and hung-over, full of excuses and driving his big green van and all ready to fill it up with another load of books for the caves.