The girl's still got it

In 1983,  a 20-something homeless dude asked me out.  I was working the checkout desk at the downtown library, and part of that duty involved chatting with random library users.  Of course, it wasn't necessary to date them, but he seemed sweet, a little naive, and pleasant enough.  We had lunch at the Sisters of the Road Cafe:  takeout BBQ and cornbread in a styrofoam container, which he paid for by washing dishes later on.  We spent the lunch hour in the Park Blocks.  It was no more awkward than any first date, but there was no second date.  He just wasn't my type:  too young, too aimless, too confused.  Too homeless.

Some months later, he showed up in sandals and a brown ankle-length burlap tunic, roped at the waist.  His light brown hair swung lankly against his bearded cheeks.  He looked like a medieval mendicant, or a popular portrayal of Christ.  He had spent the summer at Rajneeshpuram in Central Oregon and was back in town.  By now he seemed seasoned:  still homeless, but not confused about it.  While recognizing that the Rajneesh adventure was political maneuvering on their part, he seemed to come out of it with a sense that he was on a spiritual quest.

I've often wondered what happened to him, but I don't even remember his name.

Flash forward 30 years;  once again I am working at a downtown library.  I am working the reference desk in between supervising a system-wide project that is currently based downtown.  I have years of library service under my belt, years of dating, years of being married, years of dealing with social issues and crazy patrons.  I am long past the time when I could be considered the Library Fox:  my hair is dyed red with white roots, my chins are trebled, I wear long skirts and tunic tops.  When I stop at the coffee shop without my ID and ask for the discount, I get it because I "look like a library lady."

I have been scheduled for 2 hours at the desk, and I am busily taking care of the project, e-mailing delivery people and arranging schedules.  A gent comes up to me, handing me a 4x6 piece of scrap paper wherein he has listed 11 government regulatory agencies that he came across in a National Geographic article.  He wants their phone numbers.  He has a hand-written document which he wants to mail to said agencies.  He is concerned about water and food shortages and wants to make sure the agencies do something about it.  Apparently he has the solution.

-That's great, I say, but these agencies have numerous departments, projects, and contact people, and most of the websites are educational in nature.  They don't seem to have the sort of contact information you are asking for, and most of the contact info they do have is by webforms or e-mail.

-Uh, no, I'm computer illiterate, he says.

-Then, perhaps I could give you some mailing addresses?  (I'm trying to spare everyone the phone call:  him, the hapless clerks at the agencies, the various project managers.)

-Uh, no, I need to talk to them, to be sure they are the right people who will know what to do with my information.  (Toss it in the circular file, I'm guessing.)

Half an hour later, he leaves, a sheaf of printouts in his hand. I've also looked up the patent office:  apparently, the document he wants to mail also contains specifications for an invention, but he can't afford a patent lawyer. I declined the offer to read the pertinent pages, but I feel bad.  He has shaken my hand and thanked me several times, but I haven't really helped him.  No one is going to win here.

Ten minutes later, a 20-something dude strides up to the desk, radiating urgency.  "Where are your newspapers?"  I point to the stand behind the desk.  The desk is a circular marble counter, approximately 4 feet high, with a circular inner desk/counter and two entrance gaps into the center where we sit.  My partner is sitting at the gap in the counter where the desk is open to the public, facing towards the front door:  I'm sitting below the high counter, facing towards the public computers.  One of the entrances is to my right, the other is diagonally across from me.

The dude appears at the nearer entrance to my sanctum, crouching in the gap, sitting on his heels.  "Can we have a real talk?" he whispers.  I look at him.  He is dressed in paramilitary garb, has short spiky brown hair, big brown eyes, stud earrings, and lavish arm tatoos.  He is handsome, well muscled, earnest, and anxious.  And young. I say, "I don't know."  He says, "I really need to see today's paper."  He is looking at me beseechingly.  That's when I remember that the current local newspaper is kept behind the desk.  "Oh of course, my apologies, the paper is here, do you have some ID?"  He riffles through his pockets and eventually comes up with a crumpled New Mexico driver's license.  The picture has shorter hair and looks drugged, but I take it and jot down his name and hand him the paper.

Two minutes later, he is back.  "I know this guy," he explains, pointing to a picture in the teaser article on the front page:  Inside:  property crimes and criminals; names, photos, and phone numbers.  9x9 tiny mugshots, with details promised.  "He's not a good person.  I need to call him."  "Are you looking for the phone number?"  "No, I need a phone.  I need to contact him.  Please.  I'll even take you to lunch."  I turn to my partner, "Uh, M, where's the nearest phone booth?"  "Over by the 7-Eleven."

I turn back, but the dude is gone, striding away without looking back.  Is he angry?  Upset?  Did I hurt his feelings?  Was it a rejected date, or a failed bribe?  D prefers to think the latter ("I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today"); but I think it's proof that I'm still that Library Fox.

He wants the desk phone

To call an old enemy.

"I'll take you to lunch."