The Library Aide’s Tale
Once upon a time, though it might’ve been yesterday, There was a girl who was in the literary way; And by that I mean she loved to read; read, read, Read, read, read, deep in her heart burned the need To read. This girl, Violet, she read the shampoo, Ingredient lists, and whenever you asked, “Who Is that girl reading the dictionary, mumbling The words as she goes?” that’d be Violet, fumbling With everything else because she was reading About the word “moil”; and, well, as for feeding, She forgot it. She passed up jewelry and clothes And bought books instead, and on Sundays she’d go To the bookstore, where she’d spend hours, Till her parents dragged her away from the inky bowers. Violet swamped her bedroom; she had books on the bed, Books in the closet, books in the shed, Books on the floor, books behind the door, And the last time I was there I was sure I saw books in her pillowcase; she even slept on them. If you asked her, she’d say which she thought were gems; Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Tolkien’s trilogy with a ring’s alluring gleam, Cyrano de Bergerac, who thinks that he’s a freak Because his nose looks just like a pelican’s beak, The Harry Potter series, with people waving wands And poof, right away their enemies are gone, Call of the Wild, Buck the sled-pulling dog, Who loves and fights and vanishes in primeval fog, Unfortunate Events, since a character’s named after her, And Watership Down, with good guys clothed in fur. While some people sleep on keyboards, Violet dozed off learning about Greek lords, So when she woke up she had writing on her face; And her younger brother took the hand mirror To read the Odyssey back off her. She read through class; she read through math, She read through science, she read in the bath (That time she saved it with a blow-dryer, ‘Cause after the disaster she quit trying fire). Her parents were tolerant of her scholarly habits Ignoring books that multiplied like rabbits, Ignoring her grades when they dropped so low That teachers mourned, “Violet wasn’t always slow!” Their names were Samantha and Dave, and If Violet read at the dinner table they gave Her a look of such intensity she put the book away, Or hid it in her lap so that they Couldn’t see her; Violet wasn’t stupid, Though her family held little hope for Cupid And all believed she would die single. At parties, Violet hated to mingle. But I must get on with the story I’m telling, So the plot can finally begin… gelling; For Violet worked at lunch in the library With a dopey co-worker named Jerry And was proud of being the librarian’s pet, Since that meant she could always get Overdue books without paying a cent. Unfortunately, though, one day she went Over to Jerry’s, instead of home, after school, As was her custom (and just about a rule). Violet’s parents worked all afternoon Straight from August through till June And Violet, there first, had to put dinner on; But today, that fateful day, poor Violet was gone. In the morning Violet’s sorry mom, Named Samantha, dropped her bomb; “Dave,” she said, with a solemn frown, Which is really a smile upside-down, “We really must do something about our daughter; So I went out after work and bought her Tutoring courses; she can learn from a girl Her own age how to leap and twirl; Violet will be a beautiful ballerina.” “Might as well ship her to Argentina,” Dave said, laughing, “she’ll never be a dancer.” “Well, that’s a real evasive answer; If you’re shooting down my idea, What do you think? I’d like to see a Bookworm working in an office; no way, Our dear Violet wouldn’t last a day.” “Karate classes,” said Dave, “are the key; We’ll teach her to defend herself, it’ll work, you’ll see; If I stop by before she’s home from school, She won’t know that we think she’s an absolute fool.” So Violet didn’t arrive, but dinner was on, And every member of the family, quite quite gone. While she was playing with runny-nose Jerry, Things back at home were getting kinda hairy. But Jerry wasn’t a very funny guy, and all that He wanted to do was lie around (he was fat). Violet didn’t stay long, an hour and a half, And with a comedy in hand, she let out a laugh Before she looked up to realize That she’d reached home and—surprise— Home wasn’t there! She did have a lot of black Ashes in a heap, charred timber and flak, The front doorframe standing tall and thin Where the family’s welcome mat had been. “Oh, no,” poor Violet sobbed in despair, Lifting a hand to tear at her hair, “What can possibly have happened here? Oh God, oh my sainted aunts, I fear That I’ve gone and burnt down the house! I feel lower than the lowest louse! And boy, oh boy, my parents are gonna grouse!” The firemen were using a great hose to douse All the flames that kept burning, so Violet stood By the piles of books that she’d brought ‘cause she could Until a man in a great coat and hat approached her. “Do you live here?” he asked, his large face a blur. “Yes,” Violet cried, “and if you don’t mind, What’s happened?” The man was kind. “Someone’s left this on the stove,” he said, And Violet looked at the object with dread Because it was a book, and not just any book But her book. It took only one look For Violet to recognize it. “Why,” she exclaimed, And in one breath the story she named— “It’s Dante’s Inferno, I left the Inferno on the stove!” She covered her face with her hands and dove To the ground. “That’s glorious literary irony, But right now it makes me writhe in agony! Oh, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear me, I burnt down the house! How can this be?” “I don’t know,” said the fireman helpfully, “Unfortunately, you gotta leave. You see, If you stay here, all those books you’re carrying Will get so wet they’ll need a burying.” “I don’t care!” Violet was distraught. “I hate books! Look what books have wrought! I will never pick up a book again!” She cried and shook and wept, and then While the ashes of her home were drifting in the breeze, Looked at the man and said, with a sneeze, “Do you really think they’ll get wet?” “Um,” said the fireman, “sure, you bet.” “Better save this one,” Violet muttered, Picking up the books as she spoke; then she uttered, “Found it!” and held another copy of Dante aloft. “I thought so,” the poor young fireman scoffed. “What?” asked Violet, while her glasses fogged with heat. “Why don’t you come down here? Have a seat And I’ll tell you about the seven circles of hell.” The fireman blinked at her twice and said, “Well, Don’t bother; I’m already there.” He tore at his hair But Violet had the book open and was scarcely there. “Okay. Stay here,” he yelled, “but don’t blame me If they get wet. I told you. You’ll see.” And Violet sat on the sidewalk and read While the ruins lay around her, blackened and dead Until her parents came home, Samantha and Dave; Dave was dumbstruck and mourned his home’s grave But Samantha smacked her and said, “You’re idiotic. I was gone for an hour. What are you, psychotic? I have a pyromaniac for a daughter! Put the book down! Look at what you’ve done, you silly clown, You’ve destroyed our house! Where will we live?” “Well,” Dave said, “I know a place where they give Free soup if you ask nicely—” but Sam cut him off. “At our funeral, your cap you’d better doff, Buddy boy, because we’ll starve to death!” Violet blinked and sucked in her breath. “Mom,” she said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it, I’d give anything to take it back,” and she, so tightly knit, Threw her book down. “I’ll never read again!” “Yes you will,” said Sam, “just wait; the next time when You’re bored you’ll be back to the library, With that ugly chubby hairy Jerry.” But she hugged her daughter anyway; “Don’t worry, Sweetheart, we’re not in a hurry. We’ll stay here till we see what they’ve saved from the fire And then Daddy’ll go and try to get hired.” “I will?” said Dave, “but I have a job!” “Won’t be enough, honey, now don’t cry; don’t sob,” Samantha soothed, “I know we’ll make it through.” But here someone came walking up—guess who? You’re right. It was the fireman, and in his hand He held the Inferno, almost like he’d planned It. “I found this on the stove,” he said, smiling Because he wanted to get the best of Violet, so beguiling. “Why, that’s Violet’s,” said Sam, puzzled. “You mean it started the fire?” and Violet wished she’d muzzled The guy while she had the chance. “Sure did, ma’am.” “Violet?” hollered Sam, and (said Violet), “Well, damn.” “Yes, Mom,” she muttered, “I left the book there.” Dave gave her a hug. “You gave us all a scare!” Sam was glaring daggers, but no one paid her heed, ‘Cause Dave and Violet were far too glad; indeed. They stood there on the sidewalk, surrounded by the books, And ignored the passersby who gave them weird looks And stayed with friends that evening, and rebuilt the house. To this day, I believe that our shrinking booklouse Is huddled in her own place, with a horde of cats (Who catch all her trillions and billions of rats) And piles and piles and piles of worn-down books, So many she can’t find her bed or her coathooks Or her fridge; she shoves them aside to sleep And digs a tunnel three million deep To reach the chocolate-fudge ice cream. I guess, looking back, that it might seem As if Violet lived an unhappy life; far from it. For, you see, Violet loved her little word pit And was happy to stay surrounded by books And should you stop by, you’ve gotta take a look At her collection; it’s incredibly vast (When she can’t find the fridge, poor Violet must fast). Violet, who never liked to mingle at parties, Is now a well-read librarian, no less hale and hearty. Sam and Dave live together still, I believe, In a house of their own, with a roof like a sieve Because neither of them knew to mend the holes. So, before you go, I give you these last goals: Indulge in what you love, because you’ve only got one chance, When opportunity comes knocking, don’t wet your pants, Read books but get out, learn how to rove— And never never never leave Dante on the stove.