Honor Bound

Jonathan gawked at the badly chewed book again, then stared at the circulation librarian in incredulous dismay. "Lemme get this straight . . . the client claimed that this book - this book right here - was okay when she 'tossed it' in the book return?!?" He took another wondering look at the tattered spine and gnawed covers. "Did she happen to hazard a guess on how the Pit Bull managed to squeeze through the return slot after it!?"

The librarian shrugged and started to slowly edge towards the door.

"Well, maybe a teacup Chihuahua could fit through the slot, but he'd have to have the dental work of a Great Dane to do this kind of damage," he mused, involuntarily grinning as he pictured the poor mixed breed. "Well . . . Okay, how much did you collect from her to pay for the repair . . . Hey!" He noticed the older woman's woeful expression . . . and the fact that she had made it to the door and was leaving. "Oh, come now! You must have gotten something out of her, right?!" With a final wave of her hand, the circulation librarian escaped back into the library. "Was the book at least overdue?!" Jonathan called after her, without much hope.

Jonathan performed a magnificenly theatrical sigh as he carried the book back to his work desk. "Y'see this, Doc?" he called out to his silent partner. "Simple cardboard for the backer, with cheap cloth glued on top of it for covers. Poor thing wouldn't have had a chance against a teething hamster pup, much less a full grown dog. And it wouldn't have happened if we didn't insist on using paper and paper products for something so important, Doc." Sitting at his repair desk, he laid the mutilated volume in front of himself and started to quickly flip through the pages, evaluating the damage and determining what would be needed for it's repair.

"Who was the genius who decided to put the knowledge of the world on something as delicate as paper, anyway?" he grumbled, half to himself and half to the unimpressed Doctor Johnson. "Chisel it onto stone? Fine . . . still a couple of those around even now. Paint it onto scrolls of hide? Good enough, lasts for a few centuries. Then some smart-ass monk or another had to start monk-keying around with paper and ink. Silliness, outright silliness. Anything and almost everything can destroy paper!"

Convinced he could save this one, he pulled his tools to within easy reach. Bottles of vinyl glue, jars of hide glue and a massive jug of carpenter's glue; several brushes of various sizes and degrees of stiffness; sailmaker needles, leather worker needles and several thicknesses of thread; backing board (no cardboard this time!) for new covers, stiff paper for new spines . . . but, at this rate, his supplies were going to run out much faster than he had anticipated or budgeted. Crossing the room, he unlocked the one supply cabinet he always kept locked and removed his long work vest. It was based on the combat vest he had worn for a few decades while serving in a disloyal military, for an uncaring government, representing an apathetic America. After several mistakes, sewing being one of the few skills he had never aquired, the final product was made from leftover scraps of buckram and waxed thread, and it containing a multitude of cleverly hidden pockets.

Holding the garment in front of him, he remembered the reason it was always locked up and grinned once more. When he had first worn it in the library, his boss - newly apointed Director Barbara Whitzit - had complimented him on it's lines and craftsmanship. Surprised at the compliment from such an unlikely source, he permitted her to try it on and had to admit that she looked absolutely smashing in it. Very professional, yet fashionably smart . . . and she enjoyed wearing it so much, she "accidentally" walked off with it. Jonathan retrieved it just as she was leaving the library for the night (to her obvious displeasure). The very next day, she made the first of several attempts to buy it.

Of course, Jonathan refused each and every offer. Not only because she had already stated her opinion, several times and in front of most of the other staff, that (a) he was only an employee because her predecessor had pitied him and (b) if he hadn't been given a ten year contract, she would have fired his non-essential ass five seconds after she took control, but primarily because she acted for all the world as if his turning over his vest was only her right and proper due.

He also suspected that she had attempted to steal it, once or twice. After the last suspected attempt, he made a point of changing the lock on his supply cabinet, retaining the only key and keeping it locked up whenever he wasn't wearing it.

Director Whitzit, he suspected, would dearly love to find his vest sitting out, unprotected.

He pulled the long vest on now and, as usual, felt like he was donning his official vestments . . . like he was preparing to worship at his own private temple. Like it used to feel years ago when . . . best not to dwell.

"Then came the printing press, Doc . . . a terrible tease, that. Take the knowledge and put it in letters of solid steel! All Right! Now we're talking permanence!! Steel should last for-bloody-ever and . . . hey! What's with the ink? And what's that thin tissue paper doing under there? HEY!!" Jonathan slapped his open palm onto the table. "WHACK! Ink on paper, again . . . sheesh."

He turned the book over and noticed it's title for the first time. "How to Train any Dog, huh? I hope their rotten dog traps a skunk . . . right in it's owner's living room! Anyway," he continued, cutting away the cover with a firm stroke of his knife, "what do we follow that great idea - ink on paper - with? Yup . . . film, fiche and computer medium." A quick movement and both end sheets were sliced away and discarded, as well.

"So the basic method that we, as a people, depend on to preserve our hard won knowledge, is - to wit - printing it onto paper, which can be ruined by something as basic as water. To combat that, sometimes we make a copy onto one kind of plastic, which can be easily destroyed by heat, or we make a copy onto a different kind of plastic, which can be erased by magnetism or electricity .. also heat, again."

A pause to evaluate the careful trimming job his fingers had been doing while he ranted on, cutting away the damaged edges of the pages, and - with a small nod - the book was put aside for the moment, to concentrate on building it's new covers and case.

"Water, heat, magnetism, and electricity . . . pretty much the earth in a nutshell, isn't it, Doc? Pretty much covers what we have the most of on the planet, doesn't it? If we could work 'wind and dirt' into it, we'd be covering all the bases, wouldn't we?" A glance heavenward. " Pretty bloody stupid of us to be going along with this, ain't it?"

His experienced and critical eye shot the edges and corners of the measured boards and judged them to be slightly lacking. A straight razor corrected the corners to a precise ninety degree angle.

"Damn straight - hah, straight, right - we're stupid!" Now to evaluate the book's sewing. Still good or needs to be redone? He slowly traced each sewed packet, making sure that all the stitching still held under the webbing. "Take the most precious commodity in the universe, knowledge, and entrust it to - of all things - paper. The basic concept is so truly twisted that (in my humble opinion, Doc) it had to originally have been the idea of someone in federal government administration."

The stiff paper was removed from it's folder and measured against the spine for size. Adding two em's of length for luck, Jonathan folded it twice for additional strength and cut it clean.

"Randomly add humans into the equation and it takes a major left turn into the righteously ridiculous." Rising to stretch, Jonathan noticed that he'd been at this repair for almost an hour. Turning to his cherished oil portrait of his patron saint and conversational partner, Doctor Samuel Johnson, he raised his arms in supplication to the original wordsmith . . . and to flex his cramped muscles.

"Take any library as an example. Libraries contain the books that contain the knowledge, right, Doc? We, all of us employees, have all been hired to work at libraries to, basically, preserve and protect the knowledge by maintaining the books, correct? Okay. Now, the libraries allow people to read the books . . . well, can't be helped, really. What good is knowledge without people to learn and use it, right? Still with me, Doc? Okay, hold that thought for a moment."

A quick phone call out to order a pizza delivered to the library's back door at quitting time . . . knowing that he'd have several hours of repair work left and not wanting to take time to go out to eat.

Walking back to his desk, he counted the total on the repair cart.

*sigh*

"Oh, well . . ." One last stretch and back to work. "Okay, Doc, where were we, then? Oh, yeah . . . so we let the people come in to read the books. We let them just waltz through the doors and put their grubby hands all over them . . . without gloves or anything! No metal detectors to determine if they are carrying knives, no guards stationed at the end of every aisle of shelves to make sure they don't tear out pages, and no strip search as they leave to see if they are stealing either pages from the books or the books, themselves. Shameful, simply shameful."

Eaaaaaasy now. Backer board centered on the glue covered and stretched buckram, carefully measured and cut to match the exact size of the book (plus the required quarter inch), and press it down with weights for a perfect seal. Double check to make sure there was room for the spine, to be added later, just before the new covers were attached to the actual book, and let cure for at least two hours.

"Yeah, it's bad enough that we let just anyone walk in and molest the knowledge at their slightest whim, but - Hells bells! - we even let them take the books home with them!" Wheel the repair cart back to the shelf by his desk and unload the overwhelming pile. "Home with them, do you understand, Doc? Home to bathtubs full of water, home to small children with bright crayons and no supervision, home to teething puppies with serious paper-pulp addictions, home to stoves and fireplaces and heaters and cigarettes and God only knows what else; we actually give them permission to take the damn - er, make that 'precious,' sorry - things home!"

A pause to study a distressed "Alice Through the Looking Glass" from the early 1900's . . . and to put it aside for special consideration, when he'd had enough rest (and enough supplies) to do a really good job on it.

"Books, Doc, are pure and unadulterated knowledge on the hoof, but you knew that, didn't you? As such we should protect them as much as possible, right?" The book in his hands felt familiar, one glance at the cover confirmed that it was a repeat customer. "Oh for pity's sake . . ."

This year's supply of local teenage boys had yet again discovered the art and fashion isles. "Wallpaper books" is how Jonathan had come to think of these volumes; they existed only to cover teenage walls with pictures! Well, replacement pages were fairly easy to insert and damn near free. He'd check the university library later for a good copy of the book and pay a dime a copy for the needed pages.

Waving the judas book, "The Illustrated History of Brassieres," at his silent partner as proof, Jonathan groaned, "Yet we let anyone clever enough to fill out a library card application (and I believe even Forest Gump could tutor people in that little bit of paperwork, Doc!) scoot right out the doors with them! Do we make them leave a deposit, at least? Of course not! It's only knowledge, y'know! It's not like a video store tape of 'Rimbo XXVI' or 'Super-God-Like-Mazio Saves the Universe' game cartridge!"

Stop with the simple repairs to double check the new covers drying on the rack. Soft tugs on the backer boards show that the buckram is drying nicely, really grabbing hold of the boards.

"Hell, we encourage them to take these frail containers of knowledge out of the building. We want them to walk out into the pouring rain with our books! We want them to take them home to, when all is said and done, a book Auschwitz!"

He smiled at the painting for a moment.

"For pity's sake, Doc, we even apologize to people for the books that are maintained in the reference department that they can't take out!" Mimicking a posh English accent, he lisped, "Terribly sorry, Suh, but these are reference books and have to remain in the library, Suh, where they are relatively safe from your forgetting and leaving them on your stove top while talking on the phone for an hour, Suh, thus creating a knowledge briquette of charcoal, Suh. Would you like me to find you something similar in the regular stacks that you can destroy, instead, Suh?"

A glance back at the portrait confirmed that it still wasn't laughing. "Humph . . . critic. Just because you don't like my English accent is not reason . . . eh?" A faint hammering jolted him from his little world. The pizza had arrived. Salivary glands kicked into overdrive as he raced to the back door.

"Howdy. That pizza cooling in your frankly filthy hands costs twelve bucks and twenty-eight cents, so here's a ten and a five . . . now, if you can name the single most important item in the entirety of christendom, you can keep the change, Amigo." The delivery boy just smiled - he'd delivered to the mad man of the back rooms before - and answered in a broad cockney stage accent:

"Lord save yer worship, but that would be the knowledge contained only in the excellent books yer lordship stands 'onerable guard over!"

A grin split Jonathan's broad face. "Nice accent, kid . . . here's another buck. Get lost and I meant it about the hands, now! You might want to wash them before delivering to the Board of Health."

A quick run to the staff lounge for a soft drink (and to wish the librarians a good night while locking up behind them) and Jonathan was ready for dinner. Around a mouthful of pepperoni laced goodness, he continued his one man conversation with his painting, picking up on his favorite theme where he had left off.

"Worse still, Doc, is that, after the books have been maimed, drowned, or semi obliterated at their house, do the majority actually fess up to their callous acts of book terrorism? Hell, no! They just sneak the poor crippled thing into the nearest book drop and pretend nothing happened! Somewhat like running over someone, then packing him into the back seat and just dropping him off outside the emergency entrance of the local hospital, isn't it?

"To top off this tangled trail of sadism and stupidity, does the library go after the book molesters? I mean, we have a record of exactly who checked out what, right? So it should be fairly simple to, say, give them a ring and inquire if there are any more ashes belonging to the cremated volume they just returned, or was the one small envelope's worth all that they could find? Maybe even - dare I say it? - suggest to them that they take responsibility for their actions and pay for the poor things?

"Nope, most get flat out away with it because, and this bit slays me, 'we must expect a certain amount of wear and tear on the books.' Wear and tear? Excuse me, but 'a certain amount of wear and tear' is what happens as one walks across the carpet. 'A certain amount of wear and tear' is why streets are repaired, periodically."

Waving a large slice of pizza in the direction of his shelves, Jonathan shouted, "What's happened to these books is more along the concept of walking across the carpet after one's feet have been dipped in flippin' molten lava or of the street work required after the San Francisco earthquake!" His voice grew louder with every word. " 'A certain amount of wear and tear' is what happens to one's tux after a few weddings. What happens to these books is more along the line of the wear and tear one's tux receives after one wears it to a firefight in Bosnia!"

Staring at the remains of the pizza slice in his hand, Jonathan stopped waving it about and picked up the pieces that had abandoned ship in the middle of his tirade. Shoving the pizza box into a trash can, Jonathan then collected the final repair work from the cart, clucking his tongue for the poor misused volumes, and headed back to his repair desks.

"'A certain amount of wear and tear' is just the director's mealy mouthed way of saying she has no intention of putting her pert little political fanny on the line for the books, possibly embarrassing somebody important she might have to kiss up to, later."

He carefully wiped up a small spill of glue with one of his widely scattered rags, and wearily waved the rag at Dr. Johnson. "Damn it all, Doc .. why didn't Charlie appoint his successor, instead of just retiring and leaving it up to the town council . . . who immediately hired Charlie's back-stabbing assistant as their new director. He just announced that he'd had it with trying to run the library the right way, left you with me and headed to Oregon." Jonathan remembered the rubbery faced director who had only hired him, or so he said, so that "I'd have someone crazier than me in the place." For a moment, he just sat and smiled at his painting .. and wondered how the fishing was in Oregon.

Deep sigh.

"I dunno, Doc. I just don't know." Another check showed the covers ready to pull from the frame. Carefully applying glue to the edges of the buckram, Jonathan carefully folded it around the edges of the backer boards. Precise folds for the corners and flat irons to hold all the edges in place until the glue sets. "Sometimes I weep for the future of mankind; for one day I will die and then who'll fix these books, eh? The knowledge will slowly molder away and we'll be left with music videos and cartoon movies that misrepresent the history they present as entertainment."

Placing the pages of the book in a stand to hold it spine upward, Jonathan measured out an exact length of cheesecloth; no wider than the pages and two inches shorter than the combined length of the new cover. Laying it flat on the worktable, he then covered the existing webbing of the spine with a thick fresh layer of vinyl glue and spread it evenly with his widest coarse brush. With a deft flip, the new cheesecloth settled - perfectly centered - into the glue and, after being pulled tight and weighted on each free end with a flat iron of its own, the glue oozed through the material to form a new webbing for the book.

All that was left was to let the spine and cover dry, center the spine onto the new cover and glue the cheesecloth hinges onto the inside of the cover. Then measure, cut, and glue in new end sheets and this book would once again be good as new . . . and ready for the next moron who, failing to demonstrate the basic intelligence to read the printed instructions within and apply them in a logical and rational manner, would then train his Golden Retriever to fetch by simply throwing the book and yelling "Fetch!"

"Oh, well . . . call it job security," Jonathan muttered and moved to another table. "Paging Doctor Key, Doctor Jonathan Key to surgery! Dear God, Nurse! This cooking paperback has a broken spine!! Damn, it'll never wok again! . . . Quickly, Nurse! My gloves! . . . Pancho, my lance! . . . Spock, Analyze! . . . Robin, to the Batcave!" Deep sigh. "And God bless us, everyone."

Dr. Johnson, safely half way up the far wall, declined to remark.

An hour later, his supply of stiff paper was gone. Doubled copier paper served as a replacement and came out of someone else's budget, to boot . . . causing him to giggle manically as the work went on.

Half an hour past that, he ran out of presses and flat irons. Running out to the reference area, he returned with entire sets of encyclopedias. Three volumes were equal in weight to one flat iron, if ten times the size, and the work went on.

Shortly thereafter, and quite logically, he ran out of available table space. The floor about him was pressed into duty and the work went on.

A half hour later, his supply of buckram was exhausted and he started to throw a hissy fit .. then remembered his hoarded supply in the always locked cabinet. Chortling over his own cleverness, he unlocked his holiest of hollies and smiled at the several yards folded neatly within. As a matter of long standing habit (a most carefully developed and thought out habit), he had automatically removed several yards of the best material from the center of each roll . . . setting it aside for special occasions.

"Such as running out of the rest of the roll, Jonny Me Boyo!!" he grinned, prancing back to his work tables with the hoarded supply.

A full two hours past that point, the hoarded buckram was used up and he was finally throwing his delayed hissy fit, ranting and raving and having a bloody good time doing it, carefully stomping around the recovering books littering the floor.

"God's Blood and little fishhooks!! Is it not bad enough I work for less money than an elephant - and we're talking less than peanuts, here. Doc! - and work longer hours than my flippin' watch . . . must I also work with one foot in a bucket, one hand super-glued to my bare butt and blindfolded?! How the hell am I suppose to do my job without the supplies needed?!? Why is my budget . . . whoops!" A quick dash to the large book located next to his seldom used computer terminal. "Hello, oh ledger of hope . . . gimme, gimme, gimme!"

The bottom line showed less money than was needed for more buckram. "On the other hand, who says books must be bound in buckram?" Jonathan laughed, grabbing his coat and heading for the back door, first making sure he had his checkbook. "Canvas works, as does most cloth, fabric, plastic and even wood." Fishing out his keys, he intoned in an ominously terrible impression of Boris Karloff, "And, if all else fails, I can always prowl the back alleys for victims and use the flesh of .. huuuuuumans . . . bha-waaaaaa-haaaa-haaa-haaaaaaaaaa!"

His truck started easily and he headed to the one shop he knew, from past experience, was open this time of night and usually stocked an incredible selection of material .. as long as one wasn't picky about how it was packaged, that is.

Fifteen driving minutes later (which easily equaled an hour's worth of ranting about the general lack of intelligence of the other drivers, most of whom seemed to have some sort of desire to include him in a mutual death pact), Jonathan pushed open the door of "Goldman's Thrift Shop" and, as usual, his grumbling stopped as soon as the smell hit him.

"Why is it that, no matter how much they launder the merchandise, second hand stores always smell like your grandmother's closet?" Jonathan smiled, taking deep breaths.

"Because we purposefully add that particular scent to the dryer sheets to bring in more sissy, mommy-boys who wanna keep living in the past." The man who replied was tan and white all over. Tan pants, white shirt, tan vest, white vandyke and hair, and tan skin. He strolled over to Jonathan and made a production of pumping his hand, once, then dropping it like a bad fish. "ICK! Librarian's have the clammiest hands . . . second only to morticians, God forbid one should ever come in here!"

"Hey, hey! Watch that librarian stuff! I'm not a librarian, and you know it, Saul! I'm just a lowly librarian's assistant."

"Like there's a big difference between a cod and a haddock . . . only matters to other fish. So, how's the sole barrier between chaos and order, Johnny? How's that library of ours doing?" Saul asked, giving his part-time assistant, Tommy, a big wink and head roll.

"Don't get me started, Saul, don't even go there. The library is better off unspoken of, and the budget they expect me to work with is a joke . . . you earn more on a bad month." Jonathan, without realizing it, had moved to the coat rack and started fingering the vinyl and leather items.

"Uh-huh . . . lemme guess . . . you run outta that fancy-schmancy buckram of yours and now you gonna decimate my poor coats to cover the rest of your books, right? How did I know, I must be psycho or something! Tommy, c'mere fer a moment." Saul stalked off, hands raised to God in supplication and muttering something that sounded vaguely Yiddish.

"That's 'psychic,' Saul . . . although your version might be more to the point . . . and you know me too well. I return to your cheap goods like the pig returning to the sty, the dog returning to his puke, the . . . "

"Nice images you give me." Saul interrupted, lugging half of a large bolt of cloth on his narrow shoulder, the other half being supported by his young assistant. "I shouldn't even show you what I've been saving for this very moment!"

"What's that? Canvas or something?" The bloody bolt was huge!! That much canvas could recover every book in the library! It was off white, but that was okay if it was thick enough to be opaque. Since Saul insisted on gloves for himself and his crew - "Never can be too careful . . . this stuff didn't just come from the factory, y'know!" - it wasn't even very badly marred or stained.

"I dunno, whoever dropped it off just left it outside the delivery door. No note, no bill, no nothing. So I came into it for free and I'm passing the saving onto you! Tell you what, Mister I-Gotta-Save-the-Books . . . you sign a receipt for . . . say, fifty bucks . . . and the bolt is yours! I'll even toss in Tommy to help you to your pick-up with it!" The white bearded man, grandly gestured towards where Jonathan was parked. "The library gets a free donation, I give the receipt to the IRS to get myself a tax break, and everyone's happy. Deal?"

"Screw a lousy fifty, Saul. Make your receipt out for a hundred dollars and I'll endorse it with a kiss for both of your wrinkled cheeks! Better still, make four receipts out, each for a hundred bucks, and I'll sign them all . . . that'll make it a regular quarterly donation to the library for the year and'll get your name on the sponsors wall in the lobby." Jonathan fingered the odd cloth . . . sorta like oil cloth, but softer; sorta like canvas, but thinner; sorta like linen, but rougher . . . odd, indeed! "Hell, if we're gonna stiff Uncle Sam, might as well do it up proper, right?"

"From your lips to His ears .. and past the tax fellas too fast to hear. I'll write out the receipts and have them brought by your precious library .. heck, I'll bring them myself and maybe even check out a book. You, perhaps, have some Phillip Roth?"

"Nope, the Women's Decency League made us get rid of him when they realized that they all were naked under their clothes. Stop by on Tuesday and I'll loan you some of his stuff from my own library . . . and you'll be able to see the first books covered with this stuff!" No real grain, no real mat, no real . . . what the hell was this stuff!?

"Like I really care about the books . . . Tommy, help Mr. Ex-Military-Hero out to his truck with the bolt and don't drop it. This cloth is gonna cover some really important stuff! La-De-Da!" Another single pump of Jonathan's hand sealed the deal. "Y'know, Shirl still asks about you, Bubbie . . . you could do worse than date her again."

Jonathan colored, lifting his end of the bolt. "Ah, Saul . . . that would be fun, and I'm too damn set in my ways to start having fun. It would destroy my lifestyle and - before you knew it - I'd be enjoying myself again . . . besides, I just quit smoking and am really enjoy - ooof, this bastard's heavy! - am really enjoying the withdrawal. Maybe in a couple of months."

"Yeah, yeah. Your loss. Watch the door."

* * * * *

Jonathan unloaded his find at the library and decided to call it a night.

Early the next day, he tested the material to see how it glued up and whether or not it was opaque enough to use directly on the backer boards. He suspected that it would have to be doubled, or would be hard to glue . . . but, surprisingly, it took the glue evenly and held the backer board like a champ, out performing almost every fabric covering that Jonathan had ever tried. As for it's texture and thickness, it was more like the finest sailmaker canvas than simple cotton and could be used in single thicknesses.

"Amazing, Doc," Jonathan interrupted his normal binding rant to comment that night. "It's almost as if someone was clever enough to combine satin, cotton, and canvas. Sleek feel, elegant look, and remarkably easy to manage."

By the end of the day, Jonathan had recovered a dozen books with the new material, interrupting his running dialog of half-humorous complaints to occasionally praise the new material and make plans.

The next day, with the previous day's labors as proof, he bearded the director in her office and impressed her enough that she immediately transferred enough funds to Jonathan's meager balance to cover the purchase of sufficient backing board and assorted bric-a-brack to rebind all the books in the library. The idea of having a completely coordinated library was too much for the director's fashion sense and seeing how much publicity it could generate closed the deal. It became an official project.

By the end of the month, Jonathan had the entire history section covered and noted that many of the library's patrons simply stood and admired the shelves of perfectly re-covered books. Not surprisingly, so did Jonathan and the librarians . . . much to the director's irritation, who kept sending them back to work with a curt word or two.

By the end of the year (a busy and scant five months from the day he talked the director into the idea), Jonathan had each and every book recovered in the new material and, for the first time ever, the entire library . . . matched! The director held a small ceremony and invited the local press to take pictures of her sliding the final book into its slot . . . on what was actually the incorrect shelf, Jonathan noted with a certain glee, staying well back from the hoopla.

That day, Jonathan didn't work on a single book or magazine; he just sat at the center of the library, accepting the praise and congratulations from the librarians and marveling at how tidy it all seemed.

The month after that, Jonathan was fired.

* * * * *

"Barbara, for pity sake! What do you mean, 'there's no work?!'" Jonathan wailed. "There's always work!! There has been over sixty hours a week worth of work, each and every week for damn near a decade!"

"Sorry, Jonathan .. but that's not true, not anymore. The amount of repair work has dropped steadily and there hasn't been a single damaged book in over two months. The only work you've done in that time was your grand recovering project." She smiled, sadly, and laid a business-like hand on Jonathan's shoulder.

"Face it, Jonathan . . . you've worked yourself out of a position! Ever since you started your project of covering all the books with that lovely material, people have been treating the books much better." Jonathan opened his mouth, but the director continued, "And the routine wear and tear can be handled by any of the librarians, perhaps by them all in shifts, like before Charlie hired you. We simply don't need a specialist, anymore."

Jonathan closed his mouth and slowly looked around his space. No missing pages, not even from "The Photographic History of Prostitution," no chewed paperbacks, no water damaged hardbacks. No injured books at all. He'd even seen, with his own eyes, clients putting the books in the return chutes oh-so-carefully, instead of just chucking them in, as was normal.

Was it possible that Barbara was right? The regular clientele had noticed the matching material almost from the beginning, and Barbara had made an official statement on the project when the first full section was completed . . . was it possible that the morons who were so damn casual about the books before, now actually cared?! Could a pretty cover make that much of a difference?

On the other hand, Barbara had always made it known that she wouldn't have hired Jonathan, had she been the director and not just Charlie's assistant and had fought hiring Jonathan every inch of the way . . . perhaps this was her way of finally getting rid of him?

Director's assistant . . . hmmm. Now, there was an open position Jonathan could fill. Barbara had never hired anyone to fill that position . . . perhaps remembering how she had played every political trick in the book to get Charlie's job when he retired, and maybe not wanting her assistant to back-stab her as she did Charlie. Jonathan suppressed a brief laugh, he could just imagine Barbara, Miss Political Ambition of the year, hiring Jonathan Key as her assistant. Right after the Winter Olympics were held in Bosnia, no doubt.

Okay, how about a different tack. "What about the computerized site you want, Barbara? I could start working on that instead, and still be available in case this sudden uncommon burst of common sense on the behalf of the common man unravels. After all, I worked computers in the military and even performed as system manager several times; a web site can't be that much harder."

"Sorry, Jonathan, but we'll hire a college grad or an under-grad who'll work cheap to set up the site, then I'll be responsible for keeping it updated." Barbara replied, obviously having considered the matter already.

"Well, then . . . "

"Jonathan .. no. I'm sorry, but no. We never really had the available budget for a repair specialist and, although nobody is more proud of or amazed by what you did with what little we could scrape together than I, I'm afraid that this final bit of Key magic will have to be your signature piece. Frankly, we can no longer afford to have a needless employee. Okay?"

* * * * *

Jonathan spent the rest of the work day packing his personal effects and assorted gee-gaws. Barbara had given him until the end of the month, which kept her records neater, but he intended to take off that very night. Not only did he not want to spend the next three weeks being viewed as an object of pity by the rest of the staff, but if it upset Barbara's precious records any . . . well, hell, that alone made the loss of income worthwhile.

The quiet time after the library closed found him mostly packed and sitting, looking at his prized painting of Dr.Johnson and drinking a very illegal beer. Should he leave the painting as a reminder of the man who gave it to Jonathan, or would it be better to take the good Doctor along? After all, Dr. Samuel Johnson might have been a total ass in his own time, but Jonathan couldn't have asked for a better conversational partner for the past seven years!

"Well, Doc . . . what do you think? What do I do now?" Taking a deep pull from his beer, he stood and paced between the desks. "Here I spend almost ten years of my time learning not only that your basic man is, basically, a base moron who will debase that which should be cherished, but also learning how to fix what he destroys. Then my basic man up and changes for the good and - ba-boom - I'm for the sack." A sad chuckle and a sip of his contraband beer. "I shouldn't have spent all that time complaining to you, Doc . . . I didn't know how good I had it, huh?"

"Jonathan Key?"

Jonathan spun around and stared in wild amazement at the painting for the briefest of seconds, convinced that the good Doctor had finally answered him. His startled stare shifted to his beer can, suspiciously, and . . .

"Jonathan Alan Key?"

Automatically, he rolled over the nearest desk, his hand slapping at a .45 that hadn't been there for better than a decade. Sitting on the ground behind the desk, he decided that the stranger asking his name must either be terribly impressed or working very hard at keeping in the laughter.

In his most casual voice, Jonathan replied, "Oh .. hi!"

"Hello. I won't bother asking if you were once Master Sergeant Jonathan 'Skeleton' Key of the Marine Corp Special Forces . . . nice to see you haven't become a total civilian, Sergeant." The voice sounded vaguely military itself.

"If you know me so damn well, you should also know that I broke the knees of the last man to remind me of my former occupation . . . I'm not that man anymore and never will be again!" Jonathan rose from behind the desk, shaking in rage. Taking a deep breath, he started his calming down patterns and added, "That's the only warning I give, Friend, don't risk it."

"Yes, Sir .. I just wanted you to know that I was aware of your career, your service record . . . and of your final Commanding Officer, the late, unlamented, Captain Herold . . . but, as you desire, none of that will be discussed and is not germane to this meeting." The stranger was obviously the leader of the three men behind him, although all were dressed in more or less identical dark suits. With a practiced motion, he flipped open an I.D. wallet. "I'm Special Agent Mark Langtree, FBI, Mr. Key .. these men are with me and are also agents of the United States government."

"And you're all armed - twin shoulder holsters - and carrying . . . what? Are those the new .55 cal auto-pistols I've read about?" Jonathan moved towards the FBI man, looking at him in a way he'd never been able to change. "Three of your men also have smaller weapons in ankle holsters and all of you have tasps on your belts. All this to talk to an old man?"

"No, we carry these weapons to protect the interests of the country, Mr. Key. If you'd prefer, we can lock them into our vehicles for the duration of this interview."

"No. That shouldn't be necessary." Jonathan cocked his head, curious. "'Interview,' is it? Exactly what am I to be interviewed regarding?"

"I'll come right to the point, Mr. Key. You received some stolen property roughly half a year ago; property of your government. I've come to claim it. A rather large bolt of off-white cloth, given to your by a Mr. Saul Goldman, owner of Goldman Thrift Shop and Retro Fashions?" As usual, the "Retro Fashion" amendment to the store's name made Jonathan smile.

"Yes, he did. Donated a bolt of material roughly sixty inches by around two hundred yards. Bloody huge thing."

"Yes, Sir." Special Agent Langtree emitted an almost physical air of relief as he called out, "Thompson!" One of the other agents stepped forward and thrust a folder forward. "I believe you'll find all the legal documents in order, Mr. Key. We are here to reclaim that bolt of cloth in the name of the United States of America. Please turn it over."

Jonathan waved the folder of documents aside and studied the tall agent for a moment with a slight smile.

"Okay, Friend. Come along." A dozen steps took them through the doors and into the library proper, where Jonathan slapped the overhead lights on. After about ten seconds for startled realization, he was rewarded with the dismal groans of several of the agents.

Jonathan gestured grandly to the books, turning a full circle, arms akimbo. "There it all is, Friend .. every last inch of it." Several agents had taken books off of the shelves and were running some sort of device over them.

"Well?" asked Special Agent Langtree, very softly.

"Confirmed, Sir." "Ditto, here." "Same here, Sir."

"Mr. Key . . . was there any left?" A touch of pleading, now.

"Scraps, Friend. Only scraps and discarded," Jonathan replied as kindly as possible.

The large man seemed to cave in on himself with disappointment. Dismissing his men and telling them to wait for him at the motel, he returned to Jonathan's workshop and, pointedly looking at the can of beer lying on the ground where Jonathan had dropped it, asked if there was anything to drink.

Producing two more cans from a small cooler, Jonathan handed one to the special agent, who had taken off his suit coat and loosened his tie. "So," he asked, after they had both taken a long pull at the beer, "will you be taking the books, or taking the cloth off of the books, or what?"

"Neither, Mr. Key. The cloth is worthless, now. As to what made it so special . . . tell me, have you noticed anything unusual about the books lately?" The tall agent watched Jonathan carefully.

"About the books? No .. not really." Pause. "About the people who handle the books? Definitely." Jonathan considered it for another moment. "The cloth is affecting the people, then? How?"

The agent spent quite a bit of time in silent thought, just drinking his beer and looking around the office. Finally, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded form, which he handed Jonathan. "You should remember this form, Mr. Key."

A quick glance confirmed that it was a copy of the standard Secrets Act form he had signed in lieu of an automatic reassignment to a federal prison cell, after the little dust up that spelled the end of his career .. and almost the end of his life. "Yup . . . what of it?"

Langtree took the form back, carefully refolded it and, just as carefully, tossed it into the trash. "This matter falls under national security and is covered by that self same act. The cloth . . . that cloth you used to cover approximately a hundred thousand dollars worth of books? Well, it cost your government well in excess of ten billion dollars to develop and produce."

Jonathan sat and drank, taking it in.

"The fabric was code named 'MindWeave' and developed in the 60's through a series of mistakes and accidents. They were looking for the perfect bullet-proof material. They ended up with something quite different."

"They ended up with fabric that demonstrated definite tele-mimetic properties, but discharged the pent up psycho-mimetic energies in a auto-psychometric bio-telecast which resonated throughout the empathic spectrum of human consciousness, maintaining a constant level and refreshing in a measurable duration of seconds." The tall agent smiled and took a deep pull on his beer, his eyes never leaving Jonathan's.

Jonathan stared back, considering what Langtree had said. "Ooooo-kay . . . lemme get this straight," he finally asked in a steady voice, "that material in there, it records thoughts .. and emotions .. and then, as it's handled, somehow .. broadcasts .. those recorded feelings to the folks touching it? Continuously? Is that what you're saying?!"

"Basically .. I'd say you have the gist of it."

"So, and check me on this . . . the outer layer of the bolt was handled by several people, therefore soaking up a whole mish-mosh of mental stuff, and doesn't send a clear message. Well, it was mostly used for testing glue and was tossed, no real loss. But the inner layers, the layers that were only handled by me as I rebound the books, recorded my feelings, exclusively?" Jonathan started to laugh.

"Yes, Mr. Key, and since you have decidedly strong feeling about protecting books, cherishing books .. "

".. and reading books .. "

" .. and reading books .. " the agent agreed, "then the MindWeave recorded those beliefs, if you will, and imprints your feelings not only onto the people who touch them; it also broadcasts those feelings to everyone who simply walks by the books that are bound in it."

"And, because the entire library is chock full of books I rebound with this material . . . "

"Yes, Sir. The entire library resonates to your beliefs, concentrating the effect until it affects everyone who simply walks in almost as strongly as a single book would affect the one holding it." The Special Agent slowly smiled. "You know something, Mr. Key? I think this is the first really good use of Mindweave I can recall hearing about!"

"I wish I'd had some of this stuff back in the . . . well, back when I was younger. Might have changed some people's minds . . ." Jonathan coughed, embarrassed at speaking of something he'd sworn never to talk about.

"Oh, hell, Key .. you should hear some of the stuff they actually used it for! Ever wonder how Glasnost came about, just all of a sudden? Ever notice how the Politburo all wore such nice fresh shirts each day?" Both men burst out laughing; one in amazement, one just remembering.

An hour (also several beers and highly unbelievable stories later), Special Agent Langtree departed, leaving a slightly drunk Jonathan to sit and giggle over his new world view. So much made sense now, so many inexplicable events were now . . . what? "Explicable?" he wondered, "Plicable? Have to look that up." He staggered to his feet and took a deep breath.

"Oh, well .. finish packing, then go home and figure out the opposite of 'inexplicable.'" He picked up a box and started for the back door . . . which took him right past his locked supply cabinet. "Damn! Almost forgot my vest! Damned if I'll leave it for her!"

Putting the carton down, he fished out his keys and opened the cabinet . . . and stood, staring in amazement, at around nine yards of virgin MindWeave.

"Oh My Gawd . . ." As usual, he had removed several yards from the center of the bolt to hoard for a possible emergency, and completely forgotten about it! His eyes shot towards the locked back door .. no, the FBI man had departed around fifteen minutes ago and hadn't left a phone number. Of course, Jonathan could always call the closest branch . . . or he could call the Washington headquarter's number . . . oooooooor he could . . . possibly . . .

Involuntarily, he gave vent to a deep and evil chuckle.

* * * * *

"I am pleased to announce that Jonathan's 'Going Away Party' has been canceled, for the very good reason," Barbara announced two weeks later, "that Mr. Jonathan Key has accepted the position of Director's Assistant."

The massed staff gave a startled gasp and broke into spontaneous applause.

"I realize that Jonathan and I have rarely seen eye to eye," she graciously paused for a wave of polite laughter, "but these past few weeks - now that he was not trapped in his smelly workroom, repairing everything in sight - has given me a chance to re evaluate a person whom I have come to realize is one of our most important people." Barbara gently tugged at the hem of her new vest, straightening the lines and, again, emphasizing that she now was in perfect fashion step with her library.

"Therefore, I have managed to convince Jonathan to leave his dusty back rooms and take the position of my assistant. As such, although he will still be available for any needed repair work, he will be eveloping our new computerized web site and taking over most of my day-to-day routine chores, freeing me for my own master project of rewriting our policy manual."

"Change the policy manual, Ma'am?" an anxious voice called.

"Yes, it is well due for a change. Now that our library is the only one in the entire state (perhaps in the entire nation!) with Perfectly Harmonized Custom Binding, I feel that we must adopt a much more aggressive attitude towards patrons who would damage the books, yet attempt to skip out on their responsibility to reimburse the library for their repair. I feel it is a matter we are honor bound to pursue."

Sitting behind the nearest shelves, Jonathan smiled at a perfectly covered book . . . and felt it smile back at him. "Honor bound," he chuckled, "indeed!"