Mr. Smith's Black Book

The first thing I ever said to him was, “It’s okay,” and if I’m honest, I wasn’t even talking to him. Dale, the other librarian working that day, had been trying to deal with the old man’s complaints for more than thirty minutes. The longer the old man talked, the deeper Dale’s shoulders sunk towards the ground.

The old man knew that, no, we could not make it quieter – even though it was a library. No, we could not change how the rooms smelled, how the books smelled, how the pages felt. We couldn’t add carpet so shoes would stop squeaking. We couldn’t slow the fans in the winter and speed the fans up in the fall. The book selection we had, was the book selection we had, and yes, the staff got regular training.

Later, standing next to the soda machine, I told Dale that maybe the old man just needed to be listened to or just needed to be heard. He may have had a voice in his younger years, but somehow that voice had been snuffed out with time – disappeared like the hair that he no longer had. And that hidden under that floppy hat with fringes that peeled off at the edge was a person. Dale rolled his eyes and walked away.

The old man’s stack of read books would appear at my counter with a *thump* every Monday morning. He would slide a yellow piece of notebook paper with ten or fifteen new titles, tap it with his finger and say, “These.” I’d look at the paper and pretend to know any of these authors existed and begin my search. On the good days, we’d find about two-thirds of what he was looking for. The rest weren’t in our system; he loved that. I often dreaded that we would never find any of them at all, and his tote would leave the library empty. Fortunately, that never happened.

After a few months, I started asking, “any winners this week?”

“Dribble, derivative, nonsense.” he’d huff. And so there never were.

I thought about asking why he read them at all, but I figured it was a lot like the complaints; it must keep him alive, and it must get him out of bed.

“Well, let’s see what we can do.” I would offer.

A few months after that, I started adding “Good luck this week!” as he would walk out of the library’s automatic doors. Sometimes I would get a grunt in response, but most of the time I wouldn’t.

Two months ago, there was a two-week period where he didn’t come in at all. I almost thought to call someone so they could check on him, but I didn’t know who. I only knew him as “Dalton Smith” in our system. The address seemed like an apartment downtown, and I had the passing thought of driving by to see.

But sure as the seasons changed, he returned.

He had a limp and a bandage above his eye. I didn’t dare ask, and it would have been rude to, I think. This was the place he came to forget all that. He just slid the yellow piece of paper across the desk, tapped his handwriting, and grunted “these.”

In the spring, I took a trip up north to see my sister. On the car ride, I found myself thinking about Mr. Smith. I wondered who would fill his tote bag and how deeply Dale’s shoulders would sink. As I leaned against the window and watched the highway pass, I drifted off, thinking that he would hardly notice my absence anyway.

The next Monday, as the books landed on my counter, and Mr. Smith stood with his floppy hat, dressed for a rainstorm that would never come, there was a pause in his notebook-paper-slamming. He held it in his hand for a long, disgruntled moment.

“You weren’t here last week,” he said.

“I drove to Boston with my cousin. We were visiting my sister and had-“

He slammed the notebook page on the counter, slide it towards me, and glared. There would be no “these” to be spoken today.

As he loaded that week’s work into his bag, I asked him if he knew he was named after my favorite author.

“Who’s that?” he said without looking up.

“Dalton Greenwood,” I said. “You ever read The Winds over Montana?”

“Once,” he said.

“I wish he would have written more.”

He grunted and walked out.

After a while, I tried to keep up with his prestigious pace. Then I gave up and would randomly bring home some of his selections, sit in my chair by the window and feel the breeze from the cheap windows and wonder. I wonder what he saw. I wondered if he read the same words, the same pages. Some of the books were amazing. Books about ships and pirates, farmers and animals, war and suffering. Nothing before 1975 and nothing that had ever been made into a movie.

“Didn’t they make a movie out of this?” I said once, looking playfully at the cover.

“No.”

“You sure? John Wayne was in it?”

“Fine. Put it back.”

He left it on the counter and walked out. That was the last time I did that.

Just a few days ago, I had wished him a Happy Holiday – that went about as well. The truth is, I didn’t do it on purpose. I had just been on autopilot and forgot. It had been busy that day, and the morning got away from me. He stared, his dark green eyes burning under his floppy hat.

“And what’s so happy about it?”

“The fact that I get to see you, Mr. Smith.” I quipped. I smiled as long as I could, so long that my cheeks started to burn. I then pictured how quickly I could dodge a book thrown at my head. The flames in his eyes never left as he grunted, took his tote, and left the library.

That was the last time I saw him. And as I sit here now – the youngest person at his funeral – I wondered if he’d want me here at all. When it was my turn to pay my respects to the casket, I placed an old library card next to his hand. It was the first one I had gotten when visiting our library as a kid, and it took me on so many adventures. I could see him grunting at that anecdote.

I didn’t tell anyone at the library I was coming here. I knew they would laugh and roll their eyes. But the truth was, aside from some of my favorite authors, Mr. Smith had been the most consistent friend I’d ever had. I’m not even sure the few months we knew each other counted as friendship, but I like to think that it did. It’s possible, I thought, that I may have been one of the more consistent presence in his life too, and given his pleasant demeanor, that was probably true.

The wood edge of the church pew started to put my legs to sleep. I could see Mr. Smith from here. Even in death, he looked annoyed. He would have hated the smell in this place. I got up with the rest of the mourners and made my way to the parking lot, past a small group that was most likely complaining about what a grump he was.

None of them knew him as I did. He was truly a grump. A grump of the first order. But his love for reading, his love for words, his love for writers that hid in the deepest aisles of the library may have kept him alive. Maybe it gave him a few months, even years. I like to think it did, but perhaps I’m just optimistic.

I walked to my car and dreamed what it would be like getting old like Mr. Smith and knew I didn’t know. It must be lonely, scary. Albert Camus said, “since we’re all going to die, it’s obvious that when and how don’t matter.” I’m not sure how old Mr. Camus was when he said that, but I can’t imagine he was looking at his expiration date like Mr. Smith must have been. I thought about the bandage above Mr. Smith’s eye, the limp, and the two weeks.

I was sad that I hadn’t tried harder or taken more risk to get to know him better. What’s the worst he would have done? Grunt, walk out? He was going to do that anyway, no matter what I said. I wished I had asked him more about his books and which ones I should try. He was a staple of the library, no matter how much the rest of the staff refused to admit it.

The next Monday came, and I watched the door. I was waiting for him to walk through, and it was like I was rewatching a movie and expecting the ending to change . I waited for his floppy hat and his scowl, his grunts, and his displeasure. I told myself, today I’m going to ask what I should read. I’m going to ask for a list. I don’t care if he grunts at me and walks away.

The morning limped by, as did most of the day. Mr. Smith and his stack of books never arrived. My counter was hallow and empty, the personification of the loss I felt for someone that most likely never cared for me at all. I’m not even sure he knew my name.

I was at the soda machine waiting for my can of Coke to fall out of the bottom when Dale told me I had a package.

“The shipment’s early,” I said, pushing the tab of the can with my fingers.

“No, it’s for you.”

The cardboard box sat on my empty counter, my name on the lid. I pulled the tape open and saw Mr. Smith’s floppy hat with the frayed edges. It sat above a stack of black notebooks. The notebooks seem to fade with age the deeper into the box I got.

Confused, I picked up the first notebook and opened it. On the blank first page was the handwritten title.

East of the Mississippi a new novel by Dalton Greenwood.

The letter I got from his lawyer a few days later explained everything. Mr. Greenwood had left the publishing rights to his latest novel in my name and that if I were interested, they would be happy to contact publishers on my behalf and begin the bidding process.

In the end, the rights went for over five million dollars – more money than I would ever know what to do with. I gave most of it to the library, where we added carpet to all the isles, steam cleaned the carpet we had, added a rare books section, and created a weekly book club in his honor. We couldn’t do anything about the noise, so we added a quiet room as part of a more extensive addition. Among other improvements, we renamed to the Dalton Greenwood Memorial Library.

In the end, his lawyers convinced me to take some of the publishing money, so I did. Half a year’s salary, or $20,000. It was how long I had known him. They told me that the last half-year of his life might have been some of his best, all thanks to our library and me. I don’t know how much of that is true for him, but it was for me.

Every Monday, I still find myself looking at the door, which now bears his name. I’m waiting for Mr. Smith, and even though he never comes, I know he’s still here. I smile and think that I can’t wait to tell him how much I loved the new Dalton Greenwood novel, although he probably wouldn’t care.