Break Symmetry

I recently learned that librarians are often specialized in certain subjects of expertise, in addition to library and information science.

This could lead to only one thing: an action-packed television show where a group of five librarians, each a specialist in a different area, join forces to fight crime and stop evil! Tune in each week, where there’s a new case that nobody can solve—nobody, that is, except for Book Force Five! Let’s meet the members:

The first librarian knows everything there is to know about weapons, poisons, and the art of assassination. The only female on the team, she has a shadowy and mysterious past, but true to the shadowy-and-mysterious archetype, never talks about it, except in black-and-white dream sequences. She is also in charge of the team’s secret weapons cache, which is located in the library bookstore (because seriously, who goes there?).

The second librarian, who is also the leader of the team, is a master of foreign language and diplomacy. He displays suave charm, cool wit, and an uncanny ability to conjugate any verb that his enemies throw at him. Has somehow internalized the entire Gilbert and Sullivan canon. Is most probably British.

The third librarian is the healer of the group. He is a level 14 Cleric and knows all divine spells up to the 7th level.

The fourth librarian’s specialty is an encyclopedic knowledge of being badass. He sports a foul mouth, unnecessary bling, and a soft spot for kittens.

Each episode begins with a personal visit from the President, who gives them the mission of the week (“It’s the damned commies again!” / “There’s hostages in the Statue of Liberty!” / “Dr. McEvil has broken into the Supreme Court, and he’s threatening to overturn Roe v. Wade!”). The team then rides off in their bookmobile-turned-armored-personnel-carrier, ready to dispense the overdue fees on evil.

…

What’s that, you say? What about the fifth librarian? Obviously, the fifth librarian’s specialty is love.

It was a night after a heavy rain when I walked home alone, lost in thought. I made my way down a concrete sidewalk, hurrying because the cold had the full bite of an autumn night, and the street lamps only barely illuminated the path before me.

There were trees along the street, their branches bare except for a couple leaves shivering in the wind, and as I walked, I could hear and feel the subtle crunch crunch of fallen leaves against the soles of my shoes. It was soothing: a rhythmic, zen-like punctuation in the still night. I admit I almost relished it.

I don’t know exactly when it happened, but sometime during my train of thoughts, I had a sudden, frightful moment of self-awareness, one that told me that something was terribly wrong. Perhaps it was that there were more leaves along the street than I would have guessed, or that sound of me stepping on them was louder and crisper than it should have been, or that the feeling against my foot had a certain strangeness to it. I froze, and I looked down. I would soon regret it.

As it had been raining for several days before this, the snails had vacated their homes in the soil, and made their way onto the sidewalk. When I looked down, I realized that it had not been leaves that I was stepping on, but dozens upon dozens of snails—the sidewalk was filled with them. I forced myself to look behind, and I saw a massacre.

A trail of broken shells and broken dreams.

Guilt froze me to the ground, then cowardice, like a boy who flees the scene of the crime when he realizes that he has broken his mother’s favorite vase, sent me sprinting the rest of the way back, darkness gathering in my conscience as I did so. I reached my door, slammed it behind me, shut the windows, and collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily.

I peered around the room, and that was when I made the second frightening realization of the night: I had not outrun the snails. I hadn’t bothered to turn on the light, and I saw them dance and shuffle in the shadows, creeping ever-closer to me. I swatted at them—my hands hit nothing but carpet. I closed my eyes—and saw nothing but the faces of each and every snail I had crushed.

Do not think that snails are slow. Freed from their earthly shells, their souls will chase you to the ends of the earth with frightening speed.

I know not why I write this. I am apologetic, but I expect no forgiveness. Perhaps with this confession, the nightmares will finally stop.

“Things have turned a deeper shade of blue
And images that might be real
May be illusion”
— Blue, Yoko Kanno