Intellectual-Development Disincentives

Mackenzie, Brock, and I went to the main library.

Standing in line at the front desk, I said to her, "You can go look at books while I take care of this, Sweetie." She walked into the center of the building, with Brock tucked carefully into the crook of her right arm.

In front of me, a middle-aged black woman had finished her business and was pushing her wheeled walker toward the shelves of CDs. She, Mackenzie, Brock, and I were the only non-staff in the area. I moved forward, ready to address the librarian.

"You have to stay with that girl, sir", the officer manning the metal detector called to me from across the room. I turned toward him, wondering . . . whiskey-tango-foxtrot . . . his . . . problem . . . is. We come here several times a month; he's seen us and talked to us each time in a friendly fashion. "Children aren't allowed in the library without an adult", he added.

I was ready to follow the rules. "How old does she have to be to go by herself?"

"Children have to be accompanied by an adult in the library." His tone would've been appropriate for addressing a belligerent drunk at a tailgate party. I was relatively sober. And, library-quiet.

I suppressed saying, "My mother's not with me. Are you gonna throw me out?"

"How old does she have to be to go by herself?" My delivery was deliberate.

"She has to have an adult with her in the library."

I needed clarification. "How old does she have to be to go by herself?" This seemed like a good starting point.

"Eight."

See, that wasn't so hard, was it? I stage-whispered, "Mackenzie". When Me Are turned back to look at me, I index-finger-waved to her to return to the circulation desk.

I took a slowlongdeep breath, thinking, "Well . . . he's keeping little kids safe, I guess. And, Lord knows there're people who'll drop their kids here for free daycare, if they can get away with it."


Mackenzie, Brock, and I walked to the Children's Section. I grabbed a "Mad" from the magazine rack. She played a computer game, then looked for books to check out. After finishing "Mad" - an entertaining blast-from-my-own-Children's-Section-past - I swapped it for "Antiques", and returned to the chair Brock and I shared. He squirmed, eagerly awaiting his mother's return.

As I read about a cribbage board collector, I heard from above, "SIR, are you here with a child?" It was sub-Saharan Barney Fife again. I was no longer an obstreperous tippler; I was being profiled as a potential pedophile. In ten seconds, the bristles on the back of my neck returned to parade rest.

I looked up, said with matter-of-fact certainty, "Yes", then resumed my adventures with cribbage board man.


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"Where is she?" Resting my finger on the picture of a 19th-century bowling-pin-shaped board, I carpet-bombed his eyes with perturbation. And waited. ("Will he remember that fifteen minutes ago, he insisted that I stick with the kid with whom I came?")

Only officiousness was offered by the officer.

I jerk-tilted my head leftward, directing him to the short shelves where Mackenzie book-browsed. "Over there." Tightly-pursed lips end-punctuated my response.








He left. You see, Andy had his bullet, and Earnest T. Bass had just stumbled into the lobby.








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