Once again, I find myself sitting at the reference desk, staring at my computer screen waiting for an e-mail to pop up and offer me some sort of diversion from the monotony of a Saturday at the Public Library. In walks a giant of man, standing quite near 6′7” or above. He’s in normal bum attire: blue parka stuffed in random sections, a bag popping out here, some paper falling out there, jeans clearly worn and dirty from a life under highways. His salt and pepper beard full and pronounced culminating in a tiny dreadlock holding on for dear life. A top his clearly balding head, a jaunty blue beanie pulled tightly around a massive tumor of dreadlocks protruding from the nape of his neck. With him a large duffel bag stuffed with more bags and papers.
His gait was long and smooth as he glided up to the reference desk. He eyed me with one of his beady blood shot eyes, then quickly diverted his attention to the tiny box filled with our classic golf pencils. I was surprised by his delicate fingers, but was confused by why he was shuffling around in the box for so long. Finally, he grunted, “DO YOU HAVE A PEN?” at me. His booming voice shook me, so much so, that I relinquished the pen I had been gripping immediately to him. He muttered a mild “thanks” and glided away to a back corner of the room.
About an hour later, I was deep in the middle of some dribble of a conversation with my co-worker… about the fine art of mosaics… go figure- when he appeared again. Like a ninja, he had managed to pop into view of the reference desk without either of us noticing. There he loomed, no longer hampered by his bag, a towering pillar of man. “DO YOU HAVE A HOLE PUNCH” he bellowed.
“What the hell…” I thought to myself, but then my eyes swiftly drifted to one of his delicate hands which was gently pinching a self made paper fan. The image alone was so bizarre that I couldn’t help but stop dead in my fluster to stare at this giant bum and his remedial origami.
“WELL” he huffed, this snapped me out of my confusion, and I told him that we did not have a hole punch. He looked off to his side with a wistful gaze and proclaimed that he would go downstairs to fine one. As he melted from view, I exchanged a wide eyed look from my co worker.
“I wonder what he’s going to do with that fan?” I proclaimed.
About 20 minutes later, while I was completing an e-mail, I noticed a shadow encompassing my screen. Facing me was the man, with a huge grin plastered across his face, “I found one,” he whispered, the tiny beard dreadlock bouncing from his giddy excitement, “I found a hole punch.” He proudly pointed to his chest, and there hung his paper fan, now a necklace adoring his parka.