LibraryLady
Emeritus
We see all kinds inside the library and out.
Outside of our library, at the corner of Cathedral and Mulberry Streets, there’s a bus shelter, one of those Plexiglas and metal three sided enclosures to protect people from the elements while they wait for the bus. A couple of years ago, a woman took up residence there.
At first she was very domestic. I saw her spraying the glass with an empty Windex bottle, and wiping it down with newspaper. She began to put pictures up with tape and decorated the bench with cushions made of rags and stuffed with newspaper. And every morning, city workers would take down the pictures and remove the cushions while she was at breakfast at Our Sisters Place across the street. This went on for a while, but she finally took the hint and gave up on the homely touches.
But there she would sit unless the weather got too cold or stormy, and she would sit in the library coffee shop. She was an expert at cadging smokes and I would see her sitting on her bench, which is carefully constructed to prevent anyone from lying down. She’d puff on her cigarette and have long, animated, and somewhat profane arguments with a friend that only she could see. She dressed a bit like Moms Mabley, and carried the requisite bags of precious refuse always with her.
The library maintenance crew starts their shift at 4am. This morning they found her, sitting on her bench, cigarette in hand, having died during the night.
I am sad that she died there alone, and I’m angry that a large, rich, and powerful country cannot take care of its mentally ill citizens. But I’m also a little glad she died at home.
Outside of our library, at the corner of Cathedral and Mulberry Streets, there’s a bus shelter, one of those Plexiglas and metal three sided enclosures to protect people from the elements while they wait for the bus. A couple of years ago, a woman took up residence there.
At first she was very domestic. I saw her spraying the glass with an empty Windex bottle, and wiping it down with newspaper. She began to put pictures up with tape and decorated the bench with cushions made of rags and stuffed with newspaper. And every morning, city workers would take down the pictures and remove the cushions while she was at breakfast at Our Sisters Place across the street. This went on for a while, but she finally took the hint and gave up on the homely touches.
But there she would sit unless the weather got too cold or stormy, and she would sit in the library coffee shop. She was an expert at cadging smokes and I would see her sitting on her bench, which is carefully constructed to prevent anyone from lying down. She’d puff on her cigarette and have long, animated, and somewhat profane arguments with a friend that only she could see. She dressed a bit like Moms Mabley, and carried the requisite bags of precious refuse always with her.
The library maintenance crew starts their shift at 4am. This morning they found her, sitting on her bench, cigarette in hand, having died during the night.
I am sad that she died there alone, and I’m angry that a large, rich, and powerful country cannot take care of its mentally ill citizens. But I’m also a little glad she died at home.
