Bob Shar - Righty Tighty

Bob Shar

Righty Tighty

It’s eight minutes before closing time and Martin Neetleman is in telephone reference. He’s short. He’s fat. Skull shaved, eyebrows studded, lip pierced, and soul patch dyed red. He rocks green-framed retro-glasses, has “Hell’s Librarian” tattooed on his right forearm, “Born to Search” on his left. Still, it’s his nose--shaped since birth like a chicken’s ass--people can’t stop gawking at.

Library administration keeps Neetleman sequestered in telephone reference, a small, windowless room, precluding face-to-face contact with patrons, limiting interaction with staff. It’s not difficult to imagine the world functioning without him. Who, after all, would miss him?

Presently, he’s thinking about the joint he’ll smoke on the ride home; the DiGiorno’s he’ll reheat for dinner; the Hellboy DVD he’ll watch until conking out on the couch. He’s trying to remember what a good night’s sleep feels like, and, doing so, nearly dozes.

The phone rings.

“Reference. May I help you?”

It’s Coretta, patron saint of simple questions turned toxic. Neetleman would recognize that voice--ethereal as a moth’s fart--anywhere.

He first dealt with Coretta six months ago. Her opening question then, “How tall was Elvis?” segued into “Who was he when he was black?” They’ve been pairing up nightly in this banal-turns-bizarre reference-question two-step ever since.

Most recently, “What color was the Hindenburg?” mutated into sob-soaked pleas for help getting off the dirigible.

Now she’s back, her voice fluttering through the phone line into Neetleman’s ear. “How do I loosen my catalytic converter?”

Neetleman never fails to address Coretta’s initial question as if it were posed by someone sane. “I need to know the make, model and year of the car, Ma’am,” he says.

Coretta sighs, explains that her question is not vehicle-related. “I’m talking,” she says, “about the catalytic converter my man’s strapped to my head. It’s too tight, Marty. Hurts bad. Gonna pulverize my brain.”

Neetleman removes his glasses, shuts his eyes and rubs his forehead with his right hand. He hates questions he can’t answer; problems he can’t solve; patrons he can’t fix.

Coretta rejects his suggestions to consult a physician; call the police; contact social services; visit the emergency room. Finances, she explains, necessitate a do-it-yourself approach.

Neetleman considers hanging up and pretending the call never happened. He knows though, her calls will keep coming, the dance renewing nightly as long as he and Coretta inhabit the same planet. Lately, her questions have infiltrated his dreams.

He sighs now, groans softly, removes his glasses and holds his head in his hands.

“Turn the screws all the way to the right,” he instructs, then hangs up.

He is sitting in silence now, staring at the clock, pretending for the sake of no one, that nothing obstructs his view.