"I really don't know what brand cigarettes Sir Walter Raleigh smoked. May I suggest you check out his biography by William Stebbing?"
"Voltaire? If you mean François-Marie Arouet who used that nom-de-plume, then no, he didn't invent electricity. Voltaire was actually a famous author known for his advocacy for freedom of expression and freedom of religion…"
"No, I'm sorry. I don't know which Key to the Kingdom will free the princess…"
Finch pulls off his headset, removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Unfortunately it does nothing to relieve the jack-hammer project that's taken up operating on his skull. So far he's been successful in holding on to his temper and curbing his sarcasm, but lately the inane questions have been severely testing his composure…and giving him a brutal headache!
Not that he hadn't expected this. In the initial meeting Root arranged for him, this "research" position had been explained in glowing terms, all about assisting young people to connect to the wonders of history and art and science…a truly inspiring job description!
He knew better, even then. In reality the work consists simply of answering 911 calls from the literary challenged, a task he knows could be easily digitized. In fact, it wouldn't even require the skills of someone like himself to create a program to fulfill the requirements of this function.
But a kiosk with a touch pad, strategically placed in the center of this federally funded institution would not have allowed library management to fill in the quota question, "Number of handicapped employees?" A reality of life. It's…demeaning. However, even if he is but a token hire, he's grateful to be employed.
"I'm handi-capable Mr. Reese, but I need some assistance."
Unfortunately, his infirmities limit what he can do successfully, job wise. Nothing requiring a great deal of physical activity…and with a goal to blend into the main stream city populace so as not to draw attention to himself in any way, he's also not been able to exploit his expertise, namely any activity related to computers and programming.
He accepts this job is the best he could hope for. Whatever Root determined for him had to fit at least some of his skill set and he supposes he should be grateful that he's back in a familiar setting, even if in a very different capacity. And who knows? Perhaps he will be able to influence some youngster to at least appreciate the lost art of reading books, if not enthusiastically partake in the activity.
Bit of a come down from saving the world, I guess, but we have our moments…
He shakes his head as his comment from the past slides front and center into his consciousness.
Don't go there! Dwelling on those incidents is just an incredible waste of time; it serves no purpose going into the future - one that can't be predicted other than it will be full of unprecedented events. He will simply have to learn how to be satisfied with this life, this existence!
But how long is it going to take before he stops measuring everything by what he's left behind?
It's said that happiness is having good health and a bad memory. Regrettably he has neither…
So he will focus on this job, where the only thing that surprises him is how truly uninformed his callers are about history and current events. A sad testimony to the educational system in the area. Still, these young people are at least calling…that has to count for something!
Bear raises his head to give him a nervous look, sensing his companion's inner turmoil.
"It's alright," Finch reassures the animal. "I'm just tired. Nothing to be concerned about."
He worries about the dog. It's fortunate that his handicap status allows him to bring the canine with him every day. But when at the end of the day they return to the small efficiency, the animal will lie for hours in front of the bolted entry door, very obviously anticipating the arrival of a second person.
It saddens him to watch the dog patiently wait for so many weeks, months, for that tall figure to show up…because he knows just how the dog feels.
He reaches down and gives the canine a comforting pat on the head, though he's not entirely sure who he's attempting to soothe. Bear huffs in return but remains on the floor, rolling his hips, the Service Dog vest shifting and adjusting to his change in position as he focuses on the person advancing toward them.
"Harold! Good! You're off the phone!" announces the stoutly built woman approaching the desk.
The library's bastion is a stereotypical icon with her cliché hairstyle - a sensible bun at the base of her ample neck – and a dress with its forgettable non-color successfully hiding what he assumes are knee high stockings. Sensible shoes with foam soles put a finish on the ensemble and serve to muffle any sound of her arrival.
An incongruous image of his 7th grade teacher flashes through Finch's mind. But this is his boss, and he'd best pay better attention to her than he did to his long ago teacher. He needs the work.
"I just wanted to remind you that Mr. Nealy will be coming by this afternoon to examine our rare book collection! He is one of our biggest supporters, so make sure to treat him with the proper respect!"
He has to forcibly keep from rolling his eyes. The woman makes a fanfare of approaching her employees, her voice projecting her royal entrance like a heralding trumpet. Her habit of speaking in exclamations was a source of some internal sniggering on his part in the beginning, but has now become merely an irritant.
"Yes, Ms. Daily. I remember. I will give him my undivided attention," he replies meekly, shifting into his best Walter Mitty demeanor, self respect dangling on a thread.
With a quick nod - and he could well add an exclamation point to that gesture – she walks away, her Darth Vader shoes floating her bulk across the hardwood floor without so much as a squeak.
He picks up the headset, reluctant to put it back on. Loathing this job is not an indulgence he can afford. But if he gets just one more call from some lazy, under-educated, pimply-faced youth wanting to know if Karl Marx was one of Groucho's brothers…? He may just toss that headset, and its base, through the tinted window behind him!
... sometimes your mistakes can surprise you. My biggest mistake, for instance... brought me here.
Turning stiffly, he looks around. Libraries really are like members of the same family, no matter their differing designs. Quiet, restful environs, the odor of the thousands of books infusing the very walls of the building. A unique scent, this atmosphere of knowledge. Something that hasn't changed over the centuries.
Of course now there are many more informational resources available in a library than when he was a boy, and increasingly being utilized as younger generations eschew the printed page for digital ones. That area of the library he ruthlessly avoids, not only because of a desire to conceal his computer skills, but to forestall any temptation to utilize them.
He misses working with code, but at least he's been given the opportunity to explore the rare books section, and over the past months has rapidly gained an in-house reputation for knowledge in that area.
While he sees the advantage in digitizing much of the libraries information, his prime pleasure is still in working with real books: printed pages, bound together to form a hard spine, with covers in a rainbow of colors and textures, titles both intriguing and uninspiring. Hopefully they'll always be a part of his life, however long - or short - that might be.
Sooner or later both of us will probably wind up dead…
"Harold? Can you help me with this phone?"
The question comes from the right and he swivels his chair around to face the library's newest intern - who seems to have taken a liking to him. Though why, he can't fathom! The young lady is less than half his age and attractive in a bookish sort of way. But she treats him like he expects she would a favorite uncle - which isn't exactly an ego boost but is certainly a much more acceptable association than… well…anything else.
"I just got it yesterday. It's an Android and I don't know the first thing about how it works!" she continues, a look of expectation on her face as she holds out the device to him. "Somehow I've locked the silly thing and can't get it to accept my pass code!"
He takes the cell phone and looks at it critically, his fingers turning it over and over, his mind itching to get involved. But that's not his life anymore. So how to answer her question?
I have built some of the most complex computer systems in existence. I can certainly unlock a phone…
"I'm sorry," he says, handing the smart phone back to her. "I don't have an Android…"
She frowns as he hands it back. "Guess I'll have to read that instruction book then…" And she stuffs the device into her purse.
"That might be best," he offers, hating himself for the deception he's forced to perpetuate on this young woman. Though actually, he's not entirely lied to her; he really doesn't have an Android phone.
"Will you be going to out for lunch?" she responds brightly, the phone issue already forgotten.
Ah, the resiliency of the young. "No, I brought a sandwich. I think I'll just stay here and eat."
He pulls the brown paper bag out of the drawer and places it with obvious intent on the desk.
She crouches down next to Bear. "Then would you like for me to take your dog out? I need to buy some flowers from the vendor in the park, so it's no trouble. And there's that area I found last time where I can let him off the leash so he can exercise a bit."
"Yes. Thank you very much. I'm sure he'd appreciate a good run after having been cooped up all morning." He smiles, pulling a leash and a well worn tennis ball out of the desk. "Just throw this a few times. He'll exercise himself."
"Great! I'll put the vest back on him when I get back." She swiftly removes the service vest from the animal. "Sure you don't want to come along?"
At Finch's tight smile and nod, she clips the leash on the dog's collar and with a quick wave to the older man moves out the door at a brisk pace, her dark pony tail swinging in sync to her energetic pace. Bear gives him one final glance before bouncing beside the young woman in anticipation of his daily run.
Finch has a sudden vision of the dog doing exactly that, but next to someone else, someone taller.
He shakes off the image and watching the pair leave, wonders again why he doesn't take advantage of the opportunities to be more social. That's what normal people do. And isn't that what this new identity is all about, to be ordinary, average? But he's had to walk away from so many people he cares about, starting with Grace, he just doesn't think he can ever be "normal" again.
"You have to become these people now…"
Since he made the decision to help the people revealed through the Machine's Numbers, he seems to have morphed into a totally different person. Yes, he's always been paranoid, never revealing more than required, preferring to stay inside a bubble of anonymity that kept him safe - was supposed to keep him safe. It was a circumstance that necessarily kept him apart from the rest of humanity.
But he gave away that anonymity…
And though he's often had to dissemble, bend the truth, he's always attempted to circumvent situations that required absolute dishonesty by employing instead a tactic of selective omission. That might be splitting hairs, but he finds it preferable to outright deceit.
Now his self identity is gone, vanished - though not in the manner of using a cover or an alias when investigating a Number. No, this time it's not temporary - there is no "other" Harold he can switch back to; no role he can play until he's ready to discard it. When he dissembles now, it is as this person, a stranger - the one Root created for him.
You're not a free man anymore Harold. You're just a number…
After the upheaval of the mock trial, after having to disappear again, he wonders - did she deliberately seek out this setting for him, not realizing it would constantly remind him of the past? Or maybe because it would… Perhaps she knew it would comfort him to be surrounded by dark paneling and shelves filled with collections of familiar books.
If he is to hide, then this is as good a place as any.
And if sometimes he feels a pang at seeing a tall male in a dark suit wander down the aisles, or a slight female in Goth clothing enter the building…well…that's just the way it is now. They are no longer a part of this existence.
This is another life now, a new life, filled with different people.
He sighs.
And rubs the tight spot on his chest, fighting off a sorrow that always hovers just below the surface...
Everything is changing. I don't know if it will ever get better…but it's going to get worse.
...
To be continued...