Checked Out: Cinderburg Part 23
I had spent the first few years of my career telling myself that I was in a safe industry and I shouldn’t have anything to fear when it came to my health and physical well-being. I was convinced the biggest dangers I faced working in a library were paper cuts on my fingers, broken nails from shelving too vigorously (yes, I did that), and possibly concussions from books falling on my head (no, I never got a concussion, but I have had a number of books fall on me).
I thought the biggest threat I would ever face from my patrons were people who just wanted to yell at me, and I faced plenty of that in the few years I’d been a librarian.
I never thought I would have to face the threat of guns in the library.
It pains me to admit this, but I often comforted myself by thinking, “Well, at least I don’t work at a school. I should be safe at the library, right?”
Can you believe that this is a thought that has gone through an actual person’s head? That it’s actually gone through my head? It sounds so heartless. I feel heartless writing it. Gun violence has become so synonymous with schools that many of us see them as going hand in hand. And as morbid and as messed up as that is, I found comfort there.
But in the last decade, especially the last five years, gun violence has reached beyond schools. Workplaces have been shot up. Festivals. Concerts. None of us should feel safe anywhere.
And yet I still felt safe at the library.
At Cyprus, staff had repeated issues with a nameless patron who would sneak in alcohol. Bottles of vodka. Cans of beer. He wanted his drink when he used the computers and he brought it in, rules be damned. Thankfully, watchful patrons always saw him and told us. Will and I dealt with him the most and asked him to leave every time, sometimes in the company of security.
It became such a problem that we recognized him and started watching out for him.
One day that fall, I was at the children’s desk. I suddenly felt a very deep need to go to the circ desk, so I did so. While up there, I saw this patron. He moved slowly through the door, trying not to draw attention to himself until he reached a pillar, which he ducked behind as he scoped out which computer he’d use. I watched it all, shaking my head at his attempt at sneaking. Knowing he was suspended for the next few weeks, I found Will.
“Our drinker is back,” I said.
“What? Where?” he asked.
I pointed behind me, “He’s hiding behind the pillar over there, I think to avoid you. I’m gonna walk back to my desk. You casually get up and walk around, see if it’s him.”
We did so and he met me around the corner.
“Yep, that’s him. How did you spot him?” he asked.
I shrugged, “I don’t know. I just walked by and saw him. He wasn’t being subtle. I mean, he was lurking and peeking around the pillar. From this angle, it was pretty obvious. Can you handle getting him to leave?”
Will, in his clipped manner, said he could.
Will often appeared in the children’s area and approached my desk at a brisk pace. His normal mode was always a display of slight agitation, even if he wasn’t agitated. It took me months to realize this was his normal state.
Seconds after I left him at the desk to handle Mr. Drinky-Drink, though, I got to see Will in true agitation. In the time it took me to sit back at my desk, his frantic meter was dialed up to 11. He appeared around the corner and waved at me hard enough that I thought his hand would fly off.
I got up and approached as cautiously and calmly as I could. If something was wrong, it wouldn’t do to have the highest ranking person on staff panic, and with Mia out for the day and no branch manager, that was me.
“What’s up, Will?” I asked, thinking maybe the guy was refusing to leave.
“A teen just came up to me and said that his little brother saw a man walk in and throw a gun away in the trash can.”
My heart skipped a beat. Not here. No, not here. I took a deep breath and scanned the visible area around us, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. I also fought to keep cool.
“Where? Which trash can?”
Will pointed carefully to the can by the entrance.
“Double check to make sure,” I said, handling emergencies in the only way I know how: by bossing people around and giving people jobs, “Make sure the kid’s okay. See if they can point out who threw it away. I’m gonna let the desk know.”
Amy came up to us then, ready to start her desk shift.
“Hey!” she greeted us, “What’s up?”
“A child just saw a patron throw a gun away in the trash can by the entrance.”
Amy spun around on her heel and waddled her 7-months-pregnant rear all the way to the work room where she hid for the next hour.
“Welp, that’s helpful,” I muttered to myself.
I told the staff at the desk, feeling a tremor as I spoke, then went to the trash can.
Will followed shortly thereafter.
We glanced at each other. This was far beyond anything either one of us had ever dealt with before. Together, we peeked inside the trash can.
But, of course, it was impossible to see inside. A lid with a small hole cast a shadow on everything. Carefully, we reached in to push aside the trash that blocked most of our view. But I almost immediately realized this was a bad idea.
“You know what?” I said, stopping him. Both of us stepped back with relief, “I don’t think we should touch it. Fingerprints. You go get security and I’ll keep an eye on the trash.”
Before I’d even finished talking, however, a group of uniformed men briskly walked inside and approached the computers.
“Did… you already call them? Like, before you came and told me?” I asked.
He shook his head, “Not yet.”
Seconds later, a few of the library’s security guards hustled in after the first group. I looked closer.
“Wait. That’s the police! Did you call the police?”
Before he could answer, motion across the lobby caught my eye. A large group of students emerged from the community center, employees guiding them to our doors.
“Crap! Community Center kids are heading over. Seriously? What else?” I asked, spinning back to the officers.
They surrounded Mr. Drinky-Drink.
“That’s the guy the kid says had the gun,” Will said, pointing.
“Of course it was him,” I muttered.
Wasting no time, the officers restrained the man and walked him toward the door. The community center kids were almost to the door as well. They’d cross paths in our entryway. I debated whether or not I should do anything, then decided to leave it to the officers to say if anything needed to be done.
Turns out the kids and patrons would have remained oblivious to the drama entirely. Unfortunately for us a self-righteous, busybody of a woman stepped up at that moment, threw her arms in front of the children and said, “Hold on a minute, kids. Don’t go yet. It’s not safe!”
Did she say this quietly? No. Did she yell it? Not exactly. But she said it loud enough to catch everyone’s attention nearby.
More kids piled inside.
“Kids. Kids! Stop!” she urged them firmly.
I wanted to throttle the woman. If she’d left well enough alone, the officers would have had him outside and secure with no one the wiser. Her dumb mouth could have created panic.
Thankfully, the kids were unfazed by the whole ordeal, staring at the woman who wasn’t letting them inside the library.
The woman looked at Will and I, like we were going to give her an explanation. I glanced once at Will and we walked around her, leaving her to wonder.
I found the closest officer and pulled them aside.
“Excuse me,” I began, “But we had a child say that he saw that man throw a gun into that trash can right there.”
His eyes darted to the can, already pulling blue gloves from his belt. He called over a few more officers who shone small flashlights into the container. In seconds he pulled out a menacing black gun.
My heart raced even faster.
The officers hardly paid us any more attention and went back to the man they’d escorted out. We watched from the other side of the library’s doors, the officers forming a tight circle around the man, the security guards rushing to the camera room and back with officers in tow.
Will and I waited with the rest of the staff to see what would happen. After some time, they walked the man outside and out of sight.
We were told nothing.
One of our security guards walked by on her rounds and I stopped her.
“What happened?”
“With what?” she asked.
“With what?!” I repeated, incredulous, “The guy with the gun!”
I gave her a meaningful look.
“Oh, it wasn’t a gun. It was a pellet gun. It wasn’t real. But the orange tip had been broken off and it definitely looked real,” she paused and adjusted her utility belt, her hand hovering near her own holstered gun, “I tell you, if I had seen that guy pull that on me or anyone else, I would have pulled my own gun and started firing.”
“So it wasn’t real? Was he arrested, then? Why were the police here so fast?”
The guard waved a hand in the direction of where the man was likely walking away.
“Oh, he had the thing out at the bus stop where he was picked up downtown and he was threatening people with it, so the driver called the police. They were following the bus for the last 10 minutes. It took them some time to get inside because they were talking to the driver.”
“But was he arrested?” I pressed.
She shook her head, “No. It wasn’t real, so technically he didn’t break any laws.”
I was ready to argue that point, but a group of patrons had formed around us, so I dropped it.
I went to the work room and saw Amy hiding at her desk.
“Is he gone? I haven’t heard any gunshots.”
“He’s gone,” I said, “And apparently it wasn’t even a real gun.”
She practically melted from relief.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice tense, “But when I heard you mention a gun, I just couldn’t deal.”
She put a protective hand on her stomach.
“I had to go call my husband. I figured you had it handled.”
Yeah, I guess it was just assumed that Will and I would deal with these situations as they came up. Fantastic.
Our safety was put in jeopardy more and more over the coming months. One particularly maladjusted teen was the next to make us feel unsafe at our workplace, which we’ll hear about next time.
Until then, I remain…
-C Quill
