Now my father was a plumber of rare device—he worked on skyscrapers for most of his working life and when he started installing the plumbing in private homes he gave them the plumbing systems he knew best: humongous ones. If you own a house my father worked on, five will get you ten that you’ve got enough copper piping in your cellar to drain the water out from under Noah and the Ark in less than thirty seconds flat. His grasp of electrical wiring, on the other hand, was a bit more whimsical, and I have spent much of my life marveling at those people who can turn on their microwaves without worrying that the clothes dryer was suddenly going to stop in mid-cycle and leave you with damp underwear and clammy socks the next morning. So as unattractive an option as staying here in this mycological cesspit is, it beats going home and sweating like Mrs. Murphy’s pig.
This leaves me with nothing really to do here, but even if I have nothing to do, and I don’t, I have to look busy while I am not doing it. Therefore, I sit here in full view of the patrons, most of whom are here beating the heat as well, typing away at this thing so as to impress them with my industry on this swelteringly hot day. I don’t know why I am bothering trying to impress them; they didn’t vote for our budget, so clearly all of my industry when I am, in fact, working, is going for naught, but one must uphold the bureaucratic niceties at all times. It wouldn’t do for someone to think that I am not working as I sit here not working; the public library and those who toil in its clutches must always look like we are working away, trying to meet the public’s information and entertainment needs. I really must my house rewired…or buy a pool, whichever is cheaper.