A Very Short Interview at the Seattle Public Library

Yes, I should have been out looking for a job, but I did that yesterday and came up with zilch. I didn’t think the chances of me finding something today were that much better, so I decided to take the afternoon off. I’d been meaning to walk around Green Lake for some exercise, but I was too tired for that. Plus, it looked like it was about to start raining. So I settled into one of the two available reading chairs, which are cushioned and covered in a dark green fabric with a pattern that is vaguely oriental. I’d been sitting there looking at some incredible pictures of Lindsey Lohan in the latest issue of Vanity Fair for maybe two minutes before an older gentleman ambled over from the magazine rack and took a seat across from me. To my surprise, he pulled a decrepit pair of leather slippers out of his rucksack. He took off his shoes, stretched out his legs (towards me, mind you), and wiggled his toes before putting on the slippers, which I then noticed were stained with what I could only guess were the spillings of so many cups of coffee, jam, and who knows what else. He then reached into the rucksack and took out a bag of frozen peas, or at least a bag that was labeled ‘frozen peas,’ and from that bag (heavily creased from what might have been years of long use) began pulling out mixed nuts and what I would guess were sections of a Satsuma orange. He ate like he was feeding a dog, or a horse, by which I mean he held up his hand and sort of grabbed them out of his palm with his lips before chewing them in a circular pattern. It was then that I noticed the smell now rolling around me. Two smells, actually; one slightly stale (which I figured was part of the fog that traveled with him), and the other quite sharp (which was worse). From the shoes, I thought. Good God, I also thought, is this what it’s coming to? “Looks like you’ve had those for a while,” I said, nodding at the slippers. “What’s the matter? You don’t like ‘em?” answered the smelly old man. “Well…” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “Look,” he interrupted, “I’m old. I’m worthless. I just want to sit here and read the paper, like I do every day. And if you don’t like the way I do it – that’s tough for you.” “I didn’t say you’re worthless,” I said. “I didn’t even say you were old.” “I’m old and I’m worthless,” he repeated, crumpling the newspaper in his lap as he pulled in his legs and leaned forward. “I’m gonna kill myself the day before I turn a hundred years old. If God exists, in His infinite spite He’ll let me live that long just to see if I’m up to it.” “That’s horrible,” I said, because it was. "He knows," said the old man, nodding. I didn't say anything. He settled back into his chair. “You think that’s horrible?” He said. “Wait until you get to my age. That’s horrible. Now lemme get back to my paper.” And he shook the paper to uncrumple it as best he could, and got back to it. I sat there for a few seconds, wondering whether I should alert one of the librarians or call some kind of hotline. In the end I considered it just the ravings of dementia, perhaps in its early stages, and went back to looking at Vanity Fair.