I Fell for a Librarian Bk. 01

Everyone is 18+ in the this story of love and lust with family. I rode the short bus in school and am dyslexic and use software and editors to make it easier to read.

I fell for a Librarian. Book 1

What a weird old building our downtown Julia Ideson Library was; it was built in the 1920s like a fine Spanish Mission, and it’s marble halls and grand columns were closer to a palace. Or that’s what I felt at seven holding my Moms hand as we looked for books to help me learn to read.

———-

I must have been ten when on her day off she took me to be a reading hour was not sure if my Mom lucked into the children’s reading hour or knowing my Mom, she asked someone about it, but for most of the summer when I was a kid, every few days, Mom got home from a double shift working for a jerk of a guy, then she would take us to get a book for me to read. We rode two buses there one way; when I tell you I do anything to make my Moms life easier, I am doing it; please help or get out of the way.

A stairway went up and stopped at a dead-end wall and turned right it was covered in a mural of a Spanish village in the hills at the libraries lobby. It was done in the 1930s by an artist working for the WPA in the thirties. The painting was done as if the stairs walked up the hill to the village. So I knew that’s where behind the secret door a portal lay. Behind that, they kept the baby dragons that would make us rich by helping us make our dreams come true; that’s what my Mom told me.

———

I’m eighteen now and motored downtown to the old building has been remodeled so many times. I was informed that there were whole rooms that disappeared from the memory of all but the most senior librarians by 2010. Now I had to make and print charts for a book report for my high school history class. My grade for the year hinged on this report; I was trying hard to overcome two in-complete grades. My widowed Mom could not pay the bills this month, so we ate rather than have the internet at home. Not the first time, and I am sure it won’t be the last.

I could do my school work in the Air Conditioner at the library riding my black and chrome 1990 Honda GB500 ‘Tourist Trophy’. It’s a classic, not that it ever wanted to be one; it was just an excellent bike for friendly people, a cafe racer. For an older bike with high mileage, it runs fast, stops slowly, and still gets great gas mileage. It has yet to need service other than oil and gas. While looking sexy, damn, that’s good enough for me.

———–

I’m sure it was the main reason I got to kiss my first girl two months after getting the bike, pulling up to a party on my black beauty at forty-five miles per hour, making some noise stopping.

OK, truth time. I rolled up on my Honda. I had it a few months getting it on my eighteenth birthday; it was my Dad’s first before I was born; he died by a drunk truck driver in the family car when I was five, and my Granddad took over a dozen years restoring it to new.

I pulled up to park on the sidewalk, and half the hot girls at my school were on the front porch drinking beers around a keg. I gagged a bit; I got so drunk and passed out last year that they drew a dick on my face with a Sharpe; not doing that again. The look on my Mom’s face when she saw my dick face, wait, that sounded wrong.

I turned the Honda off, pulled my gloves off, and stuck them between the side mirror and brake fluid reservoir on the handlebars. I unstrapped my silver glitter black full-face helmet, pulled it off, and hung it on the bike’s mirror; I unzipped my cool, used black leather jacket, a gift from my Mom. I run my fingers through my long blond hair combing out the tangles. I feel the hot ladies eating me from afar with smoky eyes and lipstick-covered broad smiles; being too cool for school was a hot sign.

I stand up from sitting on the bike and toss my leg to the side to dismount the bike. This was the exact second I lost all of my cool and was forever destined to be a damn high school dork. As I stepped off my Honda, it fell over on me, knocking me sideways and off my feet and tearing the crotch of my jeans. My Honda landed on me and pined me to the ground; all my cool split, as did my pants. I hear laughter and words. “OH, what a dumb-ass; cool my butt.”

One of my friends and classmates since fourth grade Patrice ran up, helping me pick my bike off me, and we put it on the stand. Damn, I missed that part and went into the party laughing at the poor kid who forever lost his cool at that party. Oops, damn it, that’s me.

Later when Spin the Bottle was started, my friend Patrice probably took pity on me, and we spun the bottle for my first kiss that was not my Mom. Wow comes to mind.

———-

I’ve had my used motorcycle now a year, and by my birthday, a year later, my nineteenth, I motored over twenty thousand miles on it so far this year alone. It meant Freedom to me, not having to stay home at our apartments.

It was an easy trip downtown on the parkway, as I can skip the freeway if traffic is too bad. I’ve been to the library several times to hang out and read all the fantastic books that made my world less complicated. Sometimes a book can be a good friend or even a good teacher The Joy of Sex by Alex Comfort comes to mind. I found it an excellent guide, even though it was dated when I read it.

I was working on my book report at the library and noticed a librarian who looked like she lived for books. You glanced up every few seconds, watching me like she either knew me or wanted to. You were at the main desk when I asked you about printing a bar graph I made on my used laptop for class. You stood across the desk from me; it looked like you were near my height of six foot two, maybe an inch less.

Your jet-black hair was held in a tight bun and placed by two yellow number two pencils. I found later one was a stylus to use on the phone but made to look like a pencil. Your black hair was quite a contrast to my long blond hair. Your makeup is sparse but gives you a fresh, youthful look. Your red lipstick is stunning and oh-so-kissable. Your eyes saw me. You were one second doing three things at once, then you gave me all of your attention as if it was just us there. At first, people were there talking, but even that vanished; it was just us. This was a first for me.

A pair of rhinestone-encrusted glasses were on your chest a leash held them to you, you dress as if it was an earlier time, a basic black or dark blue office dress with no frills, but it has a white ruffles collar, and the dress cuts your legs just below your knees.

I handed you the list of prints I needed to print off the requested flash drive. “How much, please?”

As I was short of cash, so I asked. “If it was cheaper printing it on both sides. I do anything to get these printed; my grade won’t be high enough to graduate without them. But, unfortunately, I’ve got only a buck and a few coins for the copies used my last few bucks for gas to get here.” So I said, a hint of worry in my voice.

I see a high school ring on your finger; it’s class of 1995, and it’s my school that makes you just a few years younger than my Mom at most. How can you look much younger, fresher, not worn down by life and beat up with regrets like my Mom and I?

You tell me that an older printer upstairs does that; you let me know it’s under a dollar and where and how to find it. “I got that much, but we will have to work something extra out for your tip Ma’am.” I laughed, smiling and tipping my hat to you as if I was wearing one. You laughed, too it sounded like kindness to me, but unlike the girls at my school, I did not feel you were laughing at me but with me, like my Mom does with my bad jokes, all my bad jokes. Do moms have to laugh at their son’s jokes? Is that like a union thing?

As a male, I must have had that glazed, helpless look on my face, the one that men sometimes get, you know, the look of refusing to ask for directions or reading instructions as you took pity on me and you say. “You’ll take me there if I can wait for five or so as your replacement returns from their lunch.”

I nodded my thanks, not once snapping to taking lunch at almost half past four pm; what a job. What did it pay?

Then I started daydreaming about how hot you were, your figure of, I’m guessing here, your 38-34-36 dd’s maybe, and you look like you run about one hundred thirty-something. Your brown eyes keep watching the doorway glancing at me occasionally, giving me a broad smile that started in your eyes ten minutes go by.

A man, rough looking out of place in an older suit, goes to the counter and starts speaking loud, and crass and angry cuss words come out. I walk over and say. “Sir, I don’t work here but lower your voice, please this is a place of study, a library. Use a more respectful tone, and take a second to think about what you need to do or see stars. I dropped my book bag in the chair and spun my helmet as a weapon. Your choice, Sir. He looked at the helmet, then into my eyes, my eyes smiled at him, and Sir, please do, Sir, you like milkshakes? Cause that’s all they give you when you get your jaw wired in three places, but that might be that one guy.” The guy calms down and starts talking again. “He’s late for a meeting in rare books and said sorry, been a bad day.” He says.

You glanced at me and looked at me as if I had just changed in your eyes; your smile seemed a little worried. You kept watching the time, but your face lit up as your friend came in and takes the desk from you, as you came to me with a smile and say. “Please follow me, dear; you got all your things? Things left at the tables often grow legs.”

I could not help myself. I glanced at your legs; you caught me looking. “Sorry, my Mom said I can’t help it. I’m all Boy.” I said with a smile, hoping I was charming and not too strange.

Mary says. “Looks like your mom is right.”

“I know about them legs things though we been burgled almost a dozen times over the last six years. I guess things grew legs so fast I did not see what kind of shoes they were wearing.” I hear a tiny groan from you.