Primordial: An Abstraction

12

On the way to my next class, I stop by the library to see if, per my request, they have stocked copies of my latest book, a work of cultural theory.

The librarian says they ordered copies.

I don’t believe her.

I look up the number and go to the stacks.

It’s a big library and it takes me awhile to find the right aisle, but I can’t get to where the book is supposed to be because somebody’s shooting a porno.

I don’t know if they’re students, staff or faculty. They’re young but they look old, or vice versa. Lots of body hair and imperfections of the skin. Decent muscle tone.

The film crew uses archaic camera equipment, clunky and heavy and loud, with massive flashbulbs that erupt like solar flares.

I wait for the scene to end. The protagonist has trouble with his extremity. The director keeps cutting to provide him with words of encouragement and dirty pictures to arouse him.

Resolute, I squeeze my way down the aisle to get to where my book should be.

The further I go, the more bodies press against me.

It’s difficult to breathe.

I don’t like this smell.

There is it. The book.

It’s on the shelf behind the protagonist. If I’m careful I should be able to reach up and remove it without detection.

I reach for the book.

The protagonist makes a sound.

I reach for the book.

The protagonist makes another sound.

There’s a commotion and everybody gets into position.

“Stop,” I say, reaching for the book.

Nobody stops.

The protagonist makes another sound, seconds from accomplishing the proverbial College Try.

I can’t reach the book.

Unwilling to play the rabble-rouser, I escape the pornographers and flee the library so that I can get to class on time. I don’t want to make a habit out of turning my professors into spectacles of pathos.