The Ordinary Times

How we came to be.

When I was fifteen I got a job cataloguing a couple’s library. They lived way out in the woods, past Cottage Grove Lake, up a winding gravel road. Giant antennas arched up and over their home that lay nestled in a nook at the top of a mountain. From their back porch you could see for miles, over the lake and beyond.

The woman used to be an x-ray technician and now she was a scholar. I didn’t really understand what it was she did but she was very smart. So was the man. He was a professor of some sort and spent his free time in the basement talking on Ham radio.

I remember the first time I walked up to their door. She answered, her long gray-blonde hair falling around her in waves. An intense aroma of licorice and spices hit me in the face. The house smelled delectable. Her face was kind, wrinkled with experience and laugh lines. She led me through the house and down the staircase to the basement, not before offering me a cup of tea.

As we reached the bottom of the stairs my heart beat a bit faster. In front of me was something beautiful. Eight giant bookshelves, stacked to the ceiling with books of all size. There were books lining the walls in heaping piles and magazines at my feet. To my left was a small bathroom decorated in lavender shades with even more literature strewn about. I was there to carefully and precisely inventory each book on 3×5 index cards which I would then file into a plastic cabinet.

“Hullo?” A severely gruff voice jarred me. A man appeared to my right, from a den I hadn’t noticed. He was tall with a shiny bald head and a lovely white beard. I immediately wished he were my grandfather. We met briefly and he shuffled back to his hidden room.

And so it went. Upon arrival I was always greeted with a cup of tea, usually green or fennel. Midmorning the woman would patter down the stairs with some kind of treat consisting of a fruit plate or cheese and crackers. I would sit at a small fold up table and slowly log each book. I took my time with this process, holding each work for a moment and inspecting the contents. The older ones smelled delicious, musty and long since opened. The woman had just as many books as the man. Hers were mostly topics regarding women’s sexuality and well being, radiology and modern science. His covered a broader range of subjects and languages. I loved skimming the guides to women’s sexual endeavors. I snuck off once or twice to masturbate after reading erotic excerpts. Whenever I came across novels that were set in a far off place I had to thumb through the pages, spending extra care on the words at the start of each chapter. This is where my hunger stifled. I never dared to borrow a book from their comfortable sanctuary; the idea was hardly thought of and went unmentioned for everyone involved.

The man would sit in the secret room, tuning in and out on his Ham radio for hours on end. He spoke in multiple languages to people mostly at sea. There seemed to be one Irish man he enjoyed visiting with in particular. I think they had taught together in years past. They discussed how the waters were for his friend, the weather and philosophy. It sounded as if most of his conversation was lighthearted but on occasion he took to Morse code and a more serious air.

At lunch time the woman would call us upstairs for an elaborate meal. Pork chops with rosemary mashed potatoes and steamed spinach. Or lamb stew with walnut salad. Once I think she even made a pot roast. This was an excruciatingly pleasant environment to find one’s self in. I enjoyed the time I spent there, daydreaming in my own small world over passage and text.

One foggy Tuesday when the dew hung low on the tree branches I was coming up the start of the gravel road and took notice of my surroundings. To the left sat a run down single wide trailer with garbage blown about the grass clearing. I thought I recalled it being inhabited the week before. As I passed by a small kitten darted from under the trailer and paused to stare, obviously more than distraught. I continued on my way to carry out the day’s routine but couldn’t get the kitten out of my mind. Did someone abandon her there? Was she feral? Perhaps she belonged to the neighbors.

Hours later on my way home I slowly rolled past the same trailer hoping to catch a glimpse of the tiny animal. This time the kitten was sitting out in the grass and as I approached she ran towards the car. I had to stop. Before I’d opened the door all the way she was at my feet meowing profusely. The poor girl was skin and bones once I saw her up close. I scooped her into my arms and she purred loudly, all the while crying. I scrounged around in my car for anything edible and produced a ketchup packet. She eagerly lapped it up and it all became very clear. I wasn’t about to leave her there to starve or be eaten by coyotes. I thought for a moment while she burrowed into my jacket. Monday. Mondays are days you most likely need cheered up, and she seemed just the creature to handle such a task. She was mine and I was hers and that is how we came to be.