It was the dumping ground for every idea without a time, and a portentous crash site for intellectual joy riders. Finding something there was like navigating through a strange city without a road map. Easy to get lost, but a good place to get laid.
“Good morning, Sir”
She was cute. Short blonde hair, petite Spring dress and, with the exception of lavishly applied rich ruby red lipstick, she was right out of campus central casting.
“You look old enough to know your way around here.” She said.
A bit presumptuous, even inappropriate, but she managed to pull it off without being offensive.
“Just visiting.”, Scott replied.
“Do you need a pass?”
“No. But I was hoping to find someone.”
This area of the library was not as he had remembered from my undergraduate days. The first and second floors of the basement library were contemporary and comfortable, a place where the ambience served the needs of both the body and mind. The bottom floor, the “dump” as it was called then, was every student’s nightmare. Looking somewhat like the constipated bowels of an ancient scholar.
Mounds of obscure journals and periodicals wrapped their way though the dark cleavage formed by the irregular pattern of the building’s foundation walls. Hard bound titles, most without covers, were shoved onto dilapidated shelves left standing only because they had collapsed upon themselves. PH.d and Masters thesis with such titles “A linear View of Chaos” and “The Unit One Is A Lonely Number” proliferated in virtually every unoccupied region of space.
“Perhaps I can help.”
“Her name is Mona. She was the stacks librarian when I was here.”
The young lady got up and walked slowly to the reception desk where I was standing. Her seductive cantor was amusing. He got the feeling she wanted a closer look.
“Your name sir”
“Forgive me. Scott”
“She lives in Ohio, now. With my father and younger brother.”
“My name is Sara.”
It was here, during his third year, that he met Mona Butterfield. She was tall, and best described as a “tweener”. Neither pretty, nor plain. About my age; maybe a little older. Although shaped like a pear, her broad voluptuous hips provided sufficient incentive for a leg man to reconsider his options. She worked from a small office with no identifiable location. One just had to know where it was.
Although her official title was Stacks Librarian, her special skills were not necessarily those of a library science professional, but more like a lost and found clerk. In a place where there was no recorded reference system, or any visible sign of organization, Mona was the library’s equivalent of a seeing eye dog. Her unique value made it incumbent upon those using the library’s resources to recognize the importance of fostering her good will. But it, also, came with benefits.
From the beginning I noticed the way she sized me up. There was a certain smile that exceeded the requirements of social courtesy, a lingering glance and the times she sought me out for no particular reason. I was advised by one insider that when the time came her approach would be less than subtle.
“Hey, Scott.”, she said, “is Black really beautiful?”
“Just a myth, Mona.”
The expression had once been a rallying cry for the black collective conscience, but I believed the real significance had long since past.
“I suppose that y’all like watermelon and fried chicken is also a myth?
“Do you like watermelon and fried chicken?”
“Of course.”
“Would you be surprised if I do, too.”
“Well then . . . what about rhythm. Y’all got rhythm, right?”
“That’s a myth, too.”
“Then tell me, Scotty”, she sat forward in the chair, resting her hands and arms on the desk in a manner which suggested the verbal foreplay was over, allowing her body language to speak clearly to the intent.
“Is it a myth that all black men are well hung?”
“Well, Mona . . . . “, He paused while seating himself on the corner of the desk closest to her, “. . that’s no myth.”
Mona was both sensitive and sensuous. It’s all in the presentation she told me, and she presented herself in all the usual ways. The rear, front and side. Top and bottom. But it was her use of inanimate objects, like the desk in her office, that really served to expand my erotic field of vision, as well as a new appreciation for the strength and durability of the dove tail joint. There were no barriers to her lustful exuberance.
Her favorite game was retreating to the most remote reaches of the stacks to engage in a form of erotic hide-and seek. I believe it was during Christmas break, while we were submerged in a pile of academic debris, that I saw something titled the “Butterfly Effect”, which theorized that the soft flutter from a butterfly’s wings in Tibet could initiate a chain of events resulting in a typhoon along the coast of Japan.
“You’ll be graduating soon, Scotty.”
“Yeah.”
“The recruiters are everywhere . . . Get’n some good offers.”
“Mm hm.”
Affirmative action and the corporate world was working hard and fast to make quota. The company “suits” would never say “quota”, but for the first time we were all standing in the warm shade of “tall cotton”. It felt good. Perhaps the time had come.
“What are they offering?”
“Money, location, fast track. Everything.”
“Are you going to let them buy your soul, Scott?”
Up until then it had aways been Scotty. But suddenly the folksy regional vernacular turned serious for the first time.
“If ya’ll play by their rules they’ll hang your pretty Black butt out there as a corporate hood ornament for everyone to see. But, in the Board Room you’ll be nothing but C.Y.A.”
“So, what do you suggest?”
“Don’t accept nothin’ that ain’t yours. But, take what they really don’t wanna give.”
“How will I know the difference?”
“When you deserve it.”
He wasn’t sure what to expect. Needless to say the young lady’s revelation surprised him.
“So, you’re Mona’s daughter.”
“That’s right! . . . . I have two sisters, both in California and a brother at home”
Each shared some small talk.
“Does she talk about her time here, Sara?”
“Occasionally . . . She’s mentioned you.”
“Well, she knew a lot of people . . . I don’t know what we would have done without her.”
“I’ve heard that often . . . You’re not the first to come by . . . but she only talks about the few she really liked.”
They chatted a little longer, but soon the past unexpectedly bumped into the present.
“I guess it’s time for me to get back to work, Scott. Sure I can’t get you something?”
He didn’t want to let go. Sara and Mona were about to become irretrievably lost. Scott wanted to squeeze as much out of those final moments as he could.
“Actually, yes. . . . When you see your mother please say something for me.”
“Of course.”
“Please tell her that I still have my soul.”