Under The Sun

By Tim Curtis

I circle the Coconut Grove Library three times before finding a parking spot a block away. The meter’s broken. It’s August, so by the time I get to the library I’m dripping sweat. I decide to return my books inside because three middle-aged homeless sentries are draped over the book drop-box smoking cigarettes, shooting the breeze and give no indication they intend to yield. The security guard standing nearby flicks his cigarette butt into a flower bed. The library’s webpage promised a warm welcome.

The air conditioner must be broken, it’s muggy inside, not as muggy as outside but it’s not the usual blast of cold air I’m accustomed to. A moldy scent emanates from the worn carpet. The windows in the main room have exterior awnings that block much of the natural light from invading the space and the frosted-globe lighting fixtures that descend from the high-pitched ceiling provide faint illumination. A storm front passes outside, thunder cracks and the room is filled with muted shadows.

I place my stack of books on the checkout counter telling the employee they’re overdue. Rather than tallying the charge he smiles and says, “No hablo Engles.” The webpage promised friendly service.

On the left side of the room are five rows of bookcases one behind the other that contain the library’s nonfiction collection. The most extensive offerings are the self-help books that hype nutrition and weight loss remedies, Jesus and spiritual guidance manuals, women’s health and books touting the healing powers of yoga. The new release titles are displayed in the middle of the room in two long, narrow, off-white bookcases positioned end-to-end to form a waist high partition. Each bookcase has two scratched, orange-painted benches on either side. If I want to read the titles I have to sit on a bench and cock my head as if eating a taco.

Two homeless men are sitting nearby at a round wooden table with large tomes lying open in front of them. One of the homeless men glances up at me and nudges his companion who looks up and shakes his head as I approach them. With pained effort they struggle to their feet and saunter over to the reading/computer area on the room’s right. I hear one of them say, “Fagot,” and his pal replies, “She-it, tell me about it.” Neither bothers to whisper.

I take a seat and checkout the books they’ve abandoned. The Complete Idiot’s Guide To The Perfect Cover Letter lies open at chapter nine, Sticky Situations. Under the subheading, Speaking Of Unemployment it states, “nondisclosure is not the same as telling a lie.” The other book is Denise Austin’s Eat Carbs Lose Weight-Drop A Dress Size In 4 Weeks. The Day Five Menu Plan on pages 142 and 143 stare up at me. The color layout features Kashi cereal, fresh berries, apple rings, a smoked turkey, arugula and cranberry wrap, a three ounce serving of broiled pork tenderloin, roasted asparagus and a baked sweet potato. It occurs to me, this is a hungry man’s porn.

Another homeless man walks in carrying a tattered backpack with a sweaty twelve-ounce bottle of water and a loaf of sliced white bread spilling out. He sets his pack on the floor, grabs a new release, crosses the room, slides into a well-worn black vinyl armchair, opens the book, closes his eyes, falls asleep and begins to snore.

I descend four steps to get to the fiction section. The restrooms are to my right. I open the door to the men’s room. A frail homeless man is standing at the sink stripped to the waist washing his armpits. He’s singing, “Beans, beans! The musical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot,” only he replaces toot with a loud, well-timed fart. His eyes meet mine in the mirror. He gives me a broad toothless smile and asks, “What happened, buddy, did you lose your rubber ducky?” A marijuana leaf tattoo covers his boney chest. There’s a tattered, Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag lying open on the floor. I see he’s helped himself to a roll of toilet paper and a wad of paper towels. Backing out, I tell him I’m sorry I walked in on him and he says, “Jesus loves you.” I ask him how he can be so sure and he gives me look that suggests he’s well aware of my transgressions.

On the landings left, twelve steps down is the children’s room. The handrail’s sticky, the furniture diminutive in scale. While I scan the room, six kids sitting at a table rush to the window and begin to giggle. There are no parents in sight. The librarian scowls. A homeless man is urinating on the front bumper of a burgundy minivan.

Back upstairs I step into the narrow, near-windowless room that houses the fiction collection. My eyes have to adjust. These lights give off even less illumination than the main room. The air conditioning return vents above the bookcases along the right wall emit a low-pitched drone and smells of fried electrical wires permeate the air.

Three rectangular, wood-grained Formica tables occupy the center of the room. Facing me hunched over a laptop at the farthest table is an Asian guy in his late twenties with corn-rowed, shoulder-length hair. His computer screen casts a blue-green tint on his alternating rows of exposed scalp.

To my immediate left two homeless men are seated at a small table next to bookcases filled with paperback romance novels, mysteries and serial westerns. They’re discussing a guy named Jessie Dupong. Apparently, Jessie found a cell phone yesterday. When the owner called his number, Jessie told the guy it would cost him twenty bucks to get it back and the guy drove down to the waterfront and paid up. According to my sources, this Jessie Dupong fella is, “a lucky motherfucker.” (mo-fo?)

Outside I notice the three drop-box sentries have abandoned their post and there’s a soggy, twenty-eight dollar parking ticket tucked under my wiper blade.