Peter Clawson pulled his navy-blue Toyota Celica into the Chippewa Township Public Library parking lot. He found a spot under a large Oak that was leaning ever so slightly to cast a shadow over two faded yellow lines. It was a sweltering Michigan mid-summer day, and he knew if he parked under the beating sun that he could bake cookies on his car’s black dashboard. It had been fifteen years since his return to The Chip, as the locals used to call it, and his first stop apart from his childhood home was the place he spent most summers as a boy.
Sharing an adjacent parking lot was the old middle school, a two-story building that was now renovated as a community center. Fresh paint, new windows and lush landscaping made it an appealing landmark. It was no surprise. When he had attended almost thirty years ago it was already in disrepair. In March, during the last gasp of Winter, the radiator would shake and rattle in his seventh-grade classroom until Ms. Norris could no longer stand it. For the last two hours of the day they would be allowed to wear their winter jackets in lieu of radiant heat.
Peter exited his vehicle and walked toward the library, remembering those daily field trips for study hall. It didn't make sense for the school to have its own library when one was a stone's throw away from the dirty old casement windows in their classroom. Finishing homework early meant just enough time to roam those burgundy, floral carpeted hallways, and checkout out a book. While the school had gone through several changes, and was no longer the same looming dirty brown obelisk it seemed to him as a child, he hoped the library had maintained its historic charm.
Walking through the automated glass doors proved to be disappointing. Apparently the library had also gone through renovations, and its once good natured, classic appeal had turned to modern decor and amenities. There were no grand maple bookcases with fancy case molding, or rows of pine tables with beat up chairs that had initials carved in the back. These had been replaced by long rows of white bookcases, looming over large open spaces. Plastic and metal chairs were placed neatly around large circular tables decorated by charging stations and wired network outlets.
The carpet had been replaced by colorful flecked epoxy and dark gray, plush carpet runners. The first thing that greeted him in these sanitary surroundings were the gleaming, silver brushed 3D letters hanging from a soffit at the entranceway. They spelled out P-H-A-R-M-A-C-E-N-T, and in smaller print below it read, These renovations are dedicated to the memory of Ms. Lucille Norris. As she was fond of telling her students, "knowledge is power". That was the first time it occurred to Peter that Ms. Norris was no longer alive. However, he was struck by the odd dedication because never once had he heard her utter that phrase.
A precocious little brunette girl wearing brightly patterned yoga pants, a sleeveless teal shirt, and carrying a yoga mat, brushed past Peter. "Excuse me, sir," she said confidently. "I have an appointment." He stepped aside, bringing attention to the fact that he was gawking at the sign. A woman who looked to be the girl's mother, was facing Peter. She was about his age, with a stunning resemblance to her daughter. She had the harried look of a woman who was dragging her kids around town, from soccer practice to a friend's birthday party, and then back here to the library for a chance to rest in the air conditioning. It was the same look Peter's mother had so many years ago on any given Saturday when school was not in session. The difference was that she was wearing overpriced exercise attire and also carrying a yoga mat.
The woman noticed he had been eyeing the sign.
"My brother works for Pharmacent. I think it's so amazing what they've done for The Chip," she said. A local to be sure. At least some things were still the same.
"Yeah, I guess. It doesn't look much like a library anymore," Peter said.
"Certainly not what we were used to as kids. It's so much more. They've got laptops for rent, games, movies, and we've even got a maker station now," she said. Her enthusiasm was off putting to Peter. It was as if she shared some communal bond with the building itself.
"I guess nobody reads books anymore," Peter said, letting his disillusionment seep through.
She mistook his statement for condescension, and like a ready made press release she replied, "There's more knowledge out there than just books can provide. If it weren't for Pharmacent you probably wouldn't be standing here admiring that beautiful sign." Before Peter could reply she retorted with one final jab, "I better catch up to my daughter. We'll be late for our meditation class in the new social space addition."
Not wanting to sully his memories anymore than they already were he decided to roam the aisles and find an inviting book. He would drown himself with imaginary tall tales, taking his mind off the fact that he felt like he was roaming the halls of an asylum. While there were electronics he was not tempted by their shiny allure. He instead wanted to relive his days as a young child, browsing through the stacks of magazines first, reading articles that interested him, and then spend a good hour trying out some of the latest fantasy and horror fiction. These days it wouldn't be Highlights or Ranger Rick, but a good dose of Newsweek, Guns & Ammo and People for a guilty pleasure.
Considering the change in scenery, Peter was glad to find the leather chairs for reading were still comfortably inviting, and they nestled you into their cushions. He spent several minutes reading by a gas fireplace that was the centerpiece in an enclave set aside for quiet. Several other library patrons, most of them older than Peter, sat in chairs reading in silence. A gray haired gentleman leaned back so far in one chair that he might slither out of his seat, eyes closed, with a newspaper on his chest. He was obviously asleep and it made Peter desperately want a caffeine kick.
He knew the library had a small bakery and coffee shop, indicated by one of the many signs pointing toward the direction of the lower level. I won't give them the satisfaction, he thought. I'm here for books. Good old fashioned, glue bound, newspaper print smelling books. Peter got up out of the chair, returned the magazines to their respective places, and wandered past a large bank of tablets tethered to an elongated desk. Children sat on adjustable height leather bound stools, earphones in, mesmerized by whatever games or learning apps the library had installed. A world of imagination in a million different pages and they were still swiping and tapping merrily.
For almost an hour Peter pulled books off the sterile shelves, reading the inner sleeve summaries, and re-shelving the ones of no interest. After he had a few that would keep him busy over the next several weeks he decided to make his way to the checkout counter. That's when he noticed the two individuals in front of him were the mother and her daughter. Meditation class was apparently over, and Peter hoped the time they spent examining their inner self would have adjusted their attitude. Regardless, he tried desperately to remain unnoticed. There was only one librarian, but two queues were forming.
The first queue was for an unfamiliar machine assisting in self-checkout. What surprised Peter was that no one was scanning their books. At least, not from what he could tell. Instead they placed their books on a light table next to what appeared to be a pressure cuff. It had a white glossy surface, a small LCD interface on the front, and several non-descript buttons on the side. The inner rings were lined with red iridescent lights, and when a person slipped their wrist through a small flash went off, and the LCD read, Knowledge is power. Thank you. That's when he noticed the insignia on the front of the desk housing the scanner -- Pharmacent.
"Go ahead and check out, Samantha. I just want to ask if they have any roaming hotspots left," the mother said to her daughter. The girl placed two movies and one game case onto the light table, which lit up ever so slightly brighter. She put her hand through the cuff and turned up her wrist to face the lights. It flashed, and just like before it read, Knowledge is power. Thank you. Samantha picked up her books as her mother finished her conversation with the librarian, which led to disappointment as no roaming hotspots were available. Good, Peter thought, you'll actually be forced to engage your daughter in real conversation instead of allowing her face to be stuffed in another screen during your car ride.
When Peter stepped up to the counter he was the last one remaining in line. The mother and her daughter left, and he placed the books up on the counter. That's when he recognized the librarian behind the counter. It caught him by surprise, and he wondered if she would find his face familiar. He sported a receding hairline and a few more wrinkles, and she had likely witnessed thousands of kids grow up and out of here over the last two decades. It wasn't possible she could remember him.
"Oh my goodness! Mr. Peter Clawson, is that you?" she beamed. She had a thick Russian accent, but it was still recognizable to Peter who loved hearing her speak during his years in study hall.
"Hello, Mrs. Popov, how are you?" he said innocently. For some reason the interaction made him feel like a kid again. It wasn't embarrassing, but surreal and satisfying.
"Never more glad to see a familiar face. Most you kids grow up and leave Chippewa Township for good. What are you doing back here after all this time?"
"Oh, after my father passed I decided to move back to care for the house. Maybe sell it and move on, or stay for a while. I'm not sure yet." A look of concern crossed Mrs. Popov's face.
"Oh, Peter, I'm so sorry for your loss," she said, waiting patiently for Peter to confirm her condolences.
"Thank you, but he was sick so it was for the best," he said. Then changing the uncomfortable subject quickly, he said, "So I'm here to take my mind off things and get in some good reading. I doubt my library card is any good though so I'll be needing a new one." What sounded like a police or ambulance siren wailed outside, growing closer as they spoke.
"Oh, yes, I completely understand. You won't need a library card anymore, though. We've got a wonderful new system, and it makes my job so much easier, provided by our benefactor…" Peter said the words before she could.
"Let me guess, Pharmacent."
"Yes! You know, the city council was going to vote to tear the library down. I was going to lose my job. We would have to use St. Thomas's library, a thirty minute drive for most. That's when Pharmacent chose Chippewa Township for their new headquarters. They built this new library, provided high end housing developments, and even convinced a new grocery supercenter to build up the street. Never in my life did I think I would see the day when America would give me yet another dream," she said proudly.
"That's great Mrs. Popov. I'm happy for you. Maybe we can get me signed up today. So is there a form I can fill out, or do I need to go online?"
"Oh, heaven's no. You step right over here," she said while cozying up behind the cuff and light table. "Now, I don't know all the details. I'm no rocket scientist. You just place your wrist facing up inside the… oh, what do they call it… I can never remember. Yes, the imprinter, that’s it, and you'll get your card. Isn't that fabulous?"
"I'm not sure I understand. What are they imprinting?" Peter was starting to sweat. Medical procedures made him queasy, and he had a terrible case of vasovagal syncope that required the constant observation of a nurse practitioner when giving blood. The equipment, and for that matter, the entire library reminded him of the doctor's office, and now he wanted nothing to do with any of it.
"Oh, it's so futuristic. It's a tattoo barcode if you can believe that, but it's the size of a single nanometer, and it's unique just to you. The new grocery store has started using them for checkout. Now don't ask me how. Like I said, I'm no scientist, but no more credit cards or carrying money." That's when Peter noticed the sound of the ambulance siren had gotten much closer, and he thought for sure they were in the library parking lot outside.
"Um, okay, does it hurt?" He was so concerned with the pain and getting out of the library as fast as possible that he never stopped to consider if it was safe, or even practical. "I mean, I guess if all these people I see are using it then it can't be that bad."
"No more so than a little shock, and it's a millisecond's time. You put your wrist in, I press the button on the side, and you're done." she assured him. "Then when you come back you put your items on the scanner here, and the imprinter will read your code."
"Don't you need my name or address? What if I steal the books, or a laptop? How would you find me?"
"Mr. Peter Clawson, come now, I know you, and I know you would never do such a thing. Besides, they tell me it's never happened once before, and these gadgets have been in place now for more than a year." She stared at him, but not with an accusatory look. Almost reticent, like she didn't want to pursue the conversation any further.
"Um, okay, I suppose. You promise it won't hurt?" Peter asked.
"I had it done myself. Most of the township is registered. I've never seen so many people use the library in all my years." Peter looked down at the cuff, placed his books on the scanner, and hesitantly slipped his wrist through the cuff. He went to say something to Mrs. Popov, unsure about it all, but before he could she pressed the button. An almost undetectable spark went through his wrist, and he waited for some other more drastic outcome. Possibly the smell of burning flesh, or for his hair to stand on end.
"That's it, Mr. Clawson. You are now set. See, not so bad after all."
"I guess not." Peter picked up his books, expecting her to regale him with stories of his youth, or her time here at the library. Business as usual, she recognized another line was forming, and simply bid him farewell.
"I hope to see you back here soon, Mr. Peter Clawson. Have a wonderful day." Then she turned to give her attention to the line.
Peter picked up his books and made his way to the exit. Although he wasn't fond of the changes being made to his once small, and fair hometown, he felt a warm nostalgia welling up inside, which finally made him smile. Mrs. Popov had not changed at all, and if for however long he could see her smiling face behind the counter he might just enjoy coming back to the library on his free weekends. The sound of the siren had ceased, but Peter noticed the ambulance, and two police cars were outside. While they were marked with the township's insignia, in small letters below each there was an additional inscription that read, A civil service provided by Pharmacent.
That’s when Peter realized the ambulance had his car blocked in, and the EMTs were loading into the rear of the vehicle someone who was strapped down tight on a gurney. It was the little girl, Samantha, and her mother was crying over her, upset by whatever ailment had besieged her daughter. The woman was trying frantically to calm Samantha as she convulsed uncontrollably, her long hair flopping up and down over her face. It was faint, but Peter could just barely make out what she was saying in between her seizures.
"Knowledge is power. Knowledge is power," Samantha said between clenched teeth.
With a final shake she calmly laid down on the soft pillow, several beads of perspiration marking her hairline. Her breathing was labored, and she looked to be in shock, her eyes wide open, staring directly into the sun above. The mother was pleading with the two officers as the ambulance door shut and left the scene. The entire situation was oddly orchestrated since the vehicle's siren was off, it stopped at the red light on the corner, and simply waited for it to turn green. Whatever emergency Peter thought it was, the trained professionals thought differently. That's when he heard the mother yelling at the officers.
"I don't understand! We don't have the laptop or the game! I returned it three days ago. Please, you can't do this!" she screamed.
Peter thought the nature of whatever happened caused the mother to become lost in her own hysteria. She was shaking her head back and forth, inconsolable by the two men in uniform. One of the officers opened the rear door to his cruiser and placed her in the backseat. After a few minutes they left the scene, and Peter was able to get to his car. A thought crossed his mind that you can never really go back home. Not to the way it was or would ever be again. He would talk to a real estate agent and put his father's house on the market.
Just then a warmth crept up into Peter's wrist and hand and slithered down his arm. A calming sensation overtook him while he rested gently under the cool shade of the Oak peering over his car. He lightly scratched an itch just under the skin. There’s no rush, he thought. I can stay a little while longer.