Credit Where It Is Due

In my excitement over my first friend, and after revisiting my description of finding her, I realize that I did not adequately explain the circumstances that lead to our meeting that Friday on a public bus. I must confess, I did not make this discovery myself. My mother, of all people, is to thank.

Today, being a Monday, I engaged in my usual Monday routine: I rose at 7:15am; I procured the honey from the kitchen and left tiny droplets of honey rain throughout the hallway before mother's room; I made coffee that I would not drink; I went to the gardens behind the house and sat for a think. My mother sauntered out later in the morning, dressed in her favorite St. John's suit. We regarded each other as best we could. By that, I mean that I stared past my mother and at her shoes, searching for evidence of a honey-sole attack. I also mean that my mother stood four feet away from me and examined by countenance for evidence of an improved attitude.

"Harold, I do wish you would hurry along and get to your bookstore." My mother has a particular disdain for public libraries or libraries of any sort, for that matter; she claims that knowledge is best left to those who have earned their way to leisure time spent reading.

That my mother thought to ask why I wasn't heading to the library on a Monday morning made it evident to me that my routines, though habitual to me, may be something of a mystery to others. The therapist my mother sends me to congratulated me on my insight and empathy. I am of the opinion it is best to be clear and thorough when describing one's routines, so as to discourage others from imploring schedule changes.

On Friday, as per my routine, I took the public bus to the main branch of the public library. On Fridays at one o’clock in the afternoon, the librarian holds a story hour for children on the first floor. Every week, a group of ten to fifteen children gather around on an uncomfortable looking carpet and listen while the librarian reads to them. Mothers and nannies are sprinkled about, some listening to the story, others taking the opportunity to seek out their own reading material. There are always new faces at these story hours, but there are also a number of regular ones.

One such regular face is that of a boy who looks to be seven or eight at the most. This boy’s name is Thomas. I first became a regular observer of the Friday story hour because of Thomas. When I first happened upon Thomas, he was wearing a loudly patterned cable-knit sweater and dark corduroy pants. In all the times I have visited Friday story hour, Thomas has always been in attendance, sitting quietly and politely towards the back of the group. I have never seen any evidence that Thomas is accompanied by anyone on these Fridays.

The first Friday that I took note of the story hour, the librarian had just finished reading something like The Story of Ping; I only overheard the very end of the tale, but I am certain that it involved a duck. The story had only just ended, and children were milling about waiting to be claimed by their responsible parties. Only Thomas stood his ground, waiting for a path to clear to the librarian. He approached her as a lawyer might a witness on the stand.

“I have some questions about that story, please.” Only after having watched Thomas approach this woman countless times since then am I now able to identify why I was so fascinated by Thomas on that first afternoon. Thomas makes direct eye contact with the adults he addresses, a feat that I am not often able to accomplish myself.

The librarian, on that afternoon when I first saw Thomas, seemed accustomed to this line of questioning. She pursed a tight smile, a move that emphasized the fact that she has no smile wrinkles to speak of. Her mouth and its surrounding terrain are smooth as porcelain, as if she spent her life at library volume and has never partaken much in any sort of decisive emotion whatsoever. She sat down wearing the book as a shield and faced Thomas.

In all the weeks that I have been coming to the Friday story hour, I have seen this pattern play out again and again. Thomas listens intently to the story. The children leave. The librarian waits. Thomas begins his questioning. Thomas’ questions often surprise me, mostly because I know very little about children and their capacity for reason. Thomas will ask the librarian questions such as: Why would the duck choose to stray from his family and friends when he already knows that there is danger beyond his pond? Does it seem reasonable to you that the brave prince would spend twenty years seeking one of countless princesses in all the lands?

As much as I am impressed by these questions, the librarian always seems rather put out by having to answer them. If I could hazard a guess, I would suspect that Thomas’ parent or parents are scholarly types, possibly even professors of literature; if I could hazard another guess, I would suspect that the librarian majored in Library Science and not Literature precisely to avoid having to answer these sorts of questions about the books she so meticulously shelves.

Thomas is not my friend. He is only a boy whom I have grown to enjoy watching. But it is because of Thomas that I met my friend. Had it not been for Thomas and his persistent questioning, I would never have been on the bus that day, never would have seen the homeless TV Guide aficionado, and never would have met my friend. In a way, I owe a great deal to Thomas.

I have decided to honor Thomas in some small part of my own, a homage to he would brought about my first friendship. Today, I approached the gardener and looked him plainly in the face. I met his eyes, which I learned today are crusted about the corners and seem to crack along the surface for moisture. I met those Saharan eyes and bid him a fair day. Every other Monday when the gardener comes to visit our home, I will make a point of looking him plainly in the eyes and speaking to him.

While the gesture may be slight, it requires my utmost dedication, perseverance, and reverence. If friendships have their thorns, then this will my part towards pruning its hedges. Every other Monday now belongs to Thomas.

It might do me well to stop burying the skeletal remains of our roasted fowl dinners beneath the tulip bed.