"Meet the MLK Jr. Public Library" by Golden

What’s the difference between the D.C. public library and a homeless shelter? The library doesn’t serve food. That’s the impression that one gets anyhow, on the first, second, well actually every time one visits the great repository of knowledge downtown our nation’s capitol. At nearly every desk there sits a bum, “studying” a crumpled tract or an up-side down book randomly pulled from the nearest shelf, sometimes for hours. It’s a test of endurance, for no sooner than a tired head bobs to the table top, an armed, yes armed, guard abruptly appears to stir the poor soul awake and escort them from the building. A trip to the bathroom reveals a drifter bathing in the sink, or passed out in the stall, or peeing in a plugged urinal whose brimming amber sea trickles to the tiled floor, through the legs, and into the drain several feet away. Dozens of industrial quality maximum-security cameras train their android eyes on the elevators, exits, and corridors. Three alone stand sentry over the entrance to the Children’s Books section. Yet the grime and grit serve as a valuable vetting tool, weeding out the weak of mind who are less committed to the pursuit of knowledge (or free internet terminals). And who are these dedicated scholars strong, desensitized, or clinically ill enough to stomach it? Let’s meet a few of the regular faces that populate the public library.

“Tails” – If you’ve ever wondered what happened to Mr. Rogers, look no further. The spitting image of the gentle host of the popular children’s program, Tails sits at the same desk every day apparently preparing for a law suit – in Polish. He huddles over stacks of books, origin unknown, and frequently bursts into angry, unintelligible Slavic fits. Formally dressed in a third-hand suit jacket, polyester slacks, and a sheer blue button-up avec visible chest hair, he looks like he walked off the studio lot in 1974 and never bothered to change. His hair, however, has since grown out, and is tightly braided into graying pony tails, stiffly protruding from above his ears as if he’d been shot in the head with a length of rope.

“The Writer” – This deadly serious woman may very well own the table she selfishly hordes to herself, as spread out over it is her life’s work – dozens of typed manuscripts, books with scribbled margins and stuffed with papers, notebooks, and binders, all of which she guards like a nest of golden eggs, pecking at the suspected plagiarists who near her precious masterpiece. With frizzy grey hair and baggy eyes, she looks like she hasn’t slept since she started her novel forty-five years ago. She scours through her notes in a frenzy, writes a few more, then, as if greatly rushed, furiously types away on the mechanical typewriter she lugs around in a cart.

“The Diplomat” – This handsome, sharply dressed man of Middle Eastern descent sticks out at the library like a cactus in the forest. However, his appearance – the Armani suit, designer shoes, and styled yet conservative hair-do - belies the meager salary he earns as a diplomat representing his home country. He hasn’t come to the library to partake knowledge, but to impart it, for a fee. He teaches Arabic lessons to an aspiring national security wonk, and patiently, because she doesn’t seem to be getting it. I won’t fault him for, like an American, using a public space to earn money, but I will for ignoring the unwritten rule of silence. It’s hard to concentrate when a tone-deaf student hopelessly attempts to master the voiced pharyngeal fricative of Arabic.

“Man with a Rag on His Face” – There isn’t much to say about Man with a Rag on His Face other than he does just that: day in day out he’s slumped in a chair, head tilted back, with a wet rag on his face. He could be dead for all I know.

“Bones” – Bones is something of an enigma. He’s an intimidating man who looks like he’s seen it all, with thick skin physically but not figuratively. In juxtaposition to his haggard frame, he sits upright with a straight spine, elbows bent just so, holding a single blue-jacketed book perfectly in front of his brooding eyes. He has no bag, no coat, no pencil or paper, nothing from which to decipher his stone demeanor. I haven’t worked up the courage to get close enough to see what he is reading. The words of Malcom X? Shakespeare? Danielle Steele? I don’t know. Whatever it is, he never checks it out or takes it home, but insists on reading it in the library. At the same desk. At the same time. Every day. Strange. And why is he called Bones? Because he looks like he’s about to break mine every time he catches me looking at him.

These are just a few of the interesting characters, among many, who frequent the MLK Jr. Public Library. Despite the repeated interruptions, the questionable sanitary conditions, and let’s be honest, the smell, the library is a wonderful place to spend the afternoon or evening. It affords a feeling like no other. One is surrounded not by faux-intellectual college students belatedly cramming for their finals, but by real people truly committed to the pursuit of knowledge (homeless excluded). People of all types come just to learn. Some use the library’s resources to study for their GED, others English, still others homework. Poets, rappers, artists, and entrepreneurs all hunt for inspiration in the stacks and shelves. Most simply read books, quietly mouthing the words to themselves, because they want to, because they care to learn a bit more about themselves and their world through the inimitable power of books. Not the internet. Not the television. But books. If you haven’t done so in awhile, visit the public library in your neighborhood. Go to see the freaks, but stay because you want to know.