“He was just taking these for me. Hello, Mrs Peterson, how are you today?” Merry said as she slid a pile of books from the counter into my arms. She shoved me out from behind the counter and smiled at the now-glaring woman. I was going to suggest Mrs Peterson stop scowling, or at least buy a half-decent lip filler, but thought better of it. I reshuffled the pile of books in my arms, which Merry hadn’t even alphabetised yet, and disappeared into the stacks. It gave me time to bang my head on the top row of books and die of frustrated embarrassment.

Working at the Surry Hills library certainly had its perks. Hiding in the stacks from irate customers with feline buttholitis of the mouth being my all-time favourite perk. Books, a close second. Working with Merry a well-placed third. Okay, so well, maybe working with Merry could be better than books… especially when she understood my awkwardness and social ineptitude and bailed me out of situations like she did just now with Mrs Peterson. It also didn’t hurt that she reminded me of the Hobbit she was nicknamed after: short, funny, loyal, though thankfully she was absent the huge, hairy feet. Her real name was Meredith, but Merry suited her perfectly.

But in all seriousness, I loved my job. Loved it. There was routine, order, everything was catalogued, numbered, and shelved accordingly. It was organised, neat, and usually quiet most of the time. Except on Tuesdays when they held Library Time for preschoolers and there were book readings and sometimes a finger puppet show. Or on Wednesdays when they held their community computer courses for aged folks. Not that they were loud the way thirty preschoolers running through the stacks was loud, but when there were fifteen elderly people all speaking up so they could hear themselves talk, it was kind of noisy. Thursdays, on the other hand, were usually quiet. The only community group that met that day was the local mime actors club, so they didn’t make any noise, really. Except for that first time, not long after I’d started, when I was walking past as they were finishing up and the room erupted in applause, causing me to almost drop my armful of books. It startled me so much I’d done an Oscar-worthy rendition of Samuel L Jackson being TASERed and let out a “Motherfucker” to end all motherfuckers. The biggest sacrilege of the whole performance was that a 1952 dust jacket edition of Hemingway’s Men Without Women hit the floor. It was completely unscathed. My ego, however, not so much.