2020-05-03 - Library-Bound For Glory

It's a drizzly, warmish spring afternoon when Itzhak shows up at the library. He's a little damp, the misty drizzle hanging in his curly black hair; he must have walked. Tall guy that he is, he pushes open the doors and seems to bring the entire spring afternoon in with him. His stride is sorta funny, sauntering. Dressed as he usually is when the weather's decent (and by this point, he qualifies spring drizzle as 'decent'), he's wearing a snug ribbed gray tank top, soft, beaten-in snug jeans that have been worn almost white, and steel-toe workboots. And ink. He's also wearing an entire sleeve of tattoos on one arm, a half sleeve on the other, and on that half-sleeve (the right arm), a bunch of weird spangly scarring, fractal in shape.

Blue dress. Red cardigan. Harper is almost too much the small town librarian this afternoon. A fifty-something woman with a faintly dour expression is manning the circulation desk. Harper is over at one of the work tables that are scattered through the non-fiction section. The table is laid out with a disorderly pile of books as if someone just dumped the empty cart beside the table out onto the table itself. She is muttering to herself, a pair of reading glasses tucked up into her dark hair atop her head.

Itzhak pushes through the front door and into the welcoming, dated, slightly mildew-scented library and that's all it takes to wrest Harper's attention from the cacophonous rugby pile of books to the New Yorker's inimitable stride; a ready smile tips at the corners of her lips. "Rosy!" she greets warmly. Though it wasn't a loud greeting, her voice does carry across the span of the front of the library to the man. The woman at the circulation desk -- that would be Melinda -- snaps a look over at Harper, then simply shakes her head slowly and goes back to inputting data into the computer there.

A tank top, huh? This gives Harper a more liberal dose of Itzhak's tattoo real estate than she's had before. She moves around to the closer side of the table to the man, sketching a gaze over him and back to his face, but she can't quite seem to extract herself from that disastrous pile of non fiction books.

A fifty-something woman isn't who Itzhak expected to see at the front desk, so when he looks over there, he squints. But Harper does him the favor of calling out the nickname that's been hung on him--at least one of them, there are many--and his head promptly turns her way to point that enormous nose of his at her. "Hey!" and he's rolling on over to her, flashing half a lopsided grin. At least he's using his inside-voice...kinda. "How's by yas."

The tank top lets everybody get an eyeful of the full-color, illustrative style sleeve on Itzhak's left arm. Pomegranates and olives are depicted there, fruit, flowers, branches, and leaves, all twined together, all happening in a single impossible moment. Did you know the flowers of pomegranates are vivid orange, and olive flowers are clusters of tiny white and yellow blossoms? Now you do! The half sleeve on his right arm is a lot more usual in theme, a sparkplug with crossed wrenches beneath like a mechanic's Jolly Roger. Itzhak isn't wearing clothes of much note, but that ink is all the decoration he needs.

That, and the nose.

Harper need not extract herself; Itzhak comes to her, although he doesn't meet her eyes when she glances at him. He's looking kind of at her shoulder.

Apparently, Melinda is used to Harper's wanton library (mis)behavior. Some might even suggest she harbors fondness for the younger, lead librarian, though one has to understand the nuances of dour to recognize the warmth there. She might cast a glance or two in the direction of the pair in non-fiction, but she continues her work, pausing here or there to check books out for a parent with a toddler, and then to a college student with quite a pile.

When Itzhak nears her, Harper does scrutinize those sleeves each in turn. Between her inquisitive nature and the fact that she's dating a tattoo artist, she has plenty of reason to stare unapologetically. Her brown-eyed gaze, though, does eventually turn up so she can smile into the man's eyes (if he were looking at her eyes). "I don't know quite how to quell my disappointment at not seeing an instrument in your hands." Her playful words match the sparkle in her eyes. "My day is looking up just about now," she replies to his general query.

She points to the mechanic's Jolly Roger, "Just what is it that you do aside from entertaining the whole of Gray Harbor on the regular?" Looking at her shoulder? Harper's dealt with worse. She leans a hip into the table covered in books and eventually gets around to asking, "What fortuitous event brings the maestro to my library?"

Itzhak gets caught out when Harper smiles up at him like that; eye contact is made, and he freezes for half a heartbeat as if startled, eyebrows going up. Then he unfreezes, like it didn't happen, except his capillaries narc him out and turn his face a little red. "Uh, well," he says, gallantly floundering after the thread of conversation, "sometimes I go places without an instrument." He follows Harper's finger to his sparkplug tattoo. "I'm a mechanic," he tells her, cheerfully. "I sure ain't no maestro, I'm a fiddler." Which, in that classic New York accent of his, sounds like 'fiddlah'. "Hate to disappoint ya, though, there's nothin' a musician likes better than people saying they wanna hear him play. I just kinda figured, you know, library, not so copacetic with the whole bluegrass thing. Anyway!" Does the man never stop talking? "I ain't been here yet. Here, to the library, yet, not here, Gray Harbor yet. It's small." Is that small for the library or Gray Harbor? Probably yes, as he looks around, those eyebrows up.

Harper's warm smile turns playful somewhere between the uptipping of the man's brows and the blush. "Sometimes," she echoes. "Now I want to hear all the rules." Her attention flickers back down to the tattoo as it is revealed that Itzhak is a mechanic. "Of course you are," is her reply. "You and your hands." She shakes her head as if marveling at one of the wonders of the world.

He's no maestro? Harper's alert attention snaps back to the man's face. "Oh, dear Rosy. You don't get to steal away my titles. Though, I suppose..." She draws out that last word. "... if you strongly prefer fiddler, I might give it a go." She makes a show of taking a breath, then states with an animated half-murmur, "Fiddler. Hmm. Not so bad." Not playing because library? Harper folds her arms loosely across her slender chest. "This here, my friend? It's my library. And to be quite frank with you, I think it would only benefit from inspired music. Whether the sort a maestro would play or the devastating perfection of a fiddler's fingers and bow at work. I know. It's scandalous. But my liberal platform on the issue of what is and is not --" She borrows his word. "-- copacetic in my library will not bow to societal norms."

She lifts one hand from where it was folded across her chest to gesture grandly to the space of the small town library. "Welcome to the GHPL." She lowers her voice to a whisper, "Magic happens here." A slow nod to shore up the statement. "How can I brighten your day?" The whole of the Dewey Decimal system, sans the books piled on that table is at his disposal!

Laughing, Itzhak shakes his head. "I don't strongly prefer nothin'. Just, if you call me maestro, classical music people get the wrong idea. I bailed on classical orchestras a long time ago." He goes redder as Harper starts praising his hands. Those hands get nervous, rubbing their big bony knuckles. (There's ink there too. STAY and DOWN.) The way his fingers start twitching, he seems like he could really use an instrument in his hands. Or possibly a cigarette.

His eyebrows go up further and further as Harper explains to him the facts of her library, and at the end, he's got an embarrassed-amused-maybe-slightly-regretful-that-he-thought-he-could-handle-her-on-her-own-turf expression on his long face. "Okay, I give. I'll bring my violin. Magic, I don't doubt ya, not for a minute. Ain't all libraries magic? Even the small ones." Now that she's asking what he needs to know, though, he goes over bashful, looking at the pile of books on the table since it's safer than Harper's merciless gaze. "I, uh." And then he can't think of what to say.

Harper may just be reminding herself to make Itzhak laugh more often as she watches his laughing reply with a faintly fascinated expression. "Tell me you bailed on classical orchestras, but not classical music. What I'd do to hear ... well, you don't need to hear all that." The hand-rubbing does draw her attention and she sees the words she caught half of in her hand at Bennie's birthday. She hasn't forgotten asking for that story. But she's working in her official capacity at the moment, so she tamps some of that relentless impulse down.

He'll bring his violin? "Marvelous," she effuses. Aren't all libraries magic? "I tend to find them all magical in their own ways, yes. But I think that's a pretty subjective call. Like walking through a wardrobe and into a snowy forest doesn't just happen to anyone." As playful as Harper is, as unapologetic and sometimes relentless, she's patient too. Itzhak goes quiet, bashful even. She sketches a thorough gaze over the man as she waits for him to relax into his reason for visiting. She confides, "Not only am I excellent at finding things, but I keep secrets better than most anyone, Rosy. You can tell me."

Itzhak does glance again at Harper, despite the shyness that's come over him. "I grew up with the New York Public Library. Now there's a place got magic." He picks up one of the books, just for something to do with his hands. Whatever it's about, he doesn't care. He smiles when Harper says she can keep a secret, but it's distracted. "Nah, I mean, nothin' like that. Only, things are complicated and emotions are stupid. I really did wanna come check the place out," he adds, "say hi, you know." The book gets put back down and another one picked up. "I know libraries got it tough these days."

Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman is the book Itzhak picks up. Harper's patience is rewarded with another glance from the musician-mechanic. "I'll bet it was a fantastical place to spend time, no matter your age," she posits with some audible envy to hear in her words. "Things are complicated?" Harper's not so easy to steer away when she's interested in something. "Emotions are definitely convoluted and, at times, vexing. Shall I buy you a cup of mediocre coffee so you can tell me about it?"

She pauses to smile playfully, "Hi, Rosencrantz." Does Harper even know Itzhak's first name? "Libraries aren't on the top of anyone's priority list. But we get by. We're resourceful that way." It's a hint of an out from her prying questions, should he choose to grab at the casual rejoinder in lieu of replying to the former.

"Vexing," Itzhak echoes in an amused mutter. "There's a librarian word. Hi." And he flashes an ever so brief, but brilliant, smile at her. Whether or not she knows his first name, he seems content to be called by his last. "I was hopin' for something on small construction projects. The kind you put up in ya backyard. Sure, there's tons of stuff online, but," he shrugs with a flip of one hand palm-up and a hitch of that shoulder. "It's a lot less helpful than you'd think. I know most of what's out there for free. Probably most of what's paid, too. Pouring foundations, framing walls, running power, I know that shit. I need some really specific details on building a workshop. I never built one before. And," he adds, reminded, brightening up, "I still do classical music. Just nobody's gonna pay me to be in an orchestra anymore."

The question of coffee, he shrugs again, shy again.

A librarian word? That makes Harper laugh. It's a brief but warm sound. And she earns herself a brilliant smile. She is clearly pleased with this outcome. Joseph introduced Itzhak fully at the bar a few weeks prior. She lingers there against her table of book upheaval for a few moments after he finishes telling her what it is that he is looking for, her expression both alight and absent.

"Back yard construction. Most of the how-to's of that caliber are just --" She stretches the word out as she leads Itzhak two rows down and then all the way to the very end. "-- around here." She gestures smoothly to a handful of shelves.

"Building a shed? A rehearsal space? A sweat lodge?" He's a mechanic, so it's obvious he's good with his hands in practical ways as well as artistic ones. He goes into what he's interested in. A workshop. She nods. "That sounds like an excellent project for this time of year." She leans into the shelving capping the end of the row and considers Itzhak. "Someday maybe you'll play something classical when I'm around." The genuinity to the woman is almost too good to be true. Some would translate it as hitting the flirtation end of the scale. Others might call her a busy-body. Whatever it is, Harper is entirely comfortable in her own skin. There's the sense that the right words and the wave of either 'STAY' or 'DOWN' and Harper will leave Itzhak to his own wanderings. "The offer of coffee stands. Shall I give you my number to prove it?" No. No, she's not asking for Itzhak's number.

Itzhak follows along, tall and lanky and sorta ridiculous if we are being honest. That nose! It could double as the prow of a ship. Harper introduces him to the books he wants, and he gets an entirely different look; eager, maybe even hungry. Here is a guy who wants to do Stuff. He's reaching for one of the crinkly plastic library-bound spines when she says maybe he'll play classical for her, and he looks around at her, a little surprised. "Uh, well, sure I will. Whaddaya like? Ya like some Bach, some Tchaikovsky? Saint Saens? I can't do a lot of Paganini just to warn you. Guy's an asshole." Which he says with a certain irritated fondness, like Niccolo Paganini is someone he knows well and doesn't always get along with.

And as to giving him her number? Itzhak blushes...and digs his phone out of a tight hip pocket, unlocks it, and offers it over. "I'd, uh, actually love coffee sometime."

Harper idly fingers at the spine of a book on general woodworking tips. The hungry expression intrigues her if her thoughtful-watchful gaze is any indication. She's quiet while he starts looking through different books, neither impatient nor pushy about which books to choose. If it is the project that intrigues Itzhak, it's the man contemplating the project eagerly that fascinates the librarian. "Of course I love Bach. Mozart is very listenable. Albinoni has some interesting pieces. His Adagio in G Minor may be one of my favorites." But as a solo? Perhaps Harper believes Itzhak could pull it off. "But part of the joy in listening to a maestro-fiddler --" Here her brown eyes twinkle at the mutual joke. "-- is hearing what speaks to them, what they choose to play, yes?" The fact that Paganini is an asshole tickles more laughter from Harper. And it's not hushed. Not in her library.

The man offers her his phone. And so trustingly, too! Harper takes it, pushing away from her lean against the bookcase, and fingers through a handful of screens before deftly typing in some information. Later, he'll find her name 'Harper Price' listed with a subheading of 'favorite fangirl'. Her cell phone number is listed along with the number of the library (for library emergencies!). She doesn't snoop, though he might not be able to tell that as she returns the phone to its home screen before handing it over. "Perhaps another time, then," she smiles that inimitable smile that holds expectation, warmth, and some promise of mutual delight to come in the near future. Of course she understands the press of exploring books with a purpose. She might pre-empt it under certain circumstances, but whatever temperature she's taken has her leaving Itzhak to his search. "Do you have a library card, or shall I get one started for you?"

That Itzhak maybe should not have given Harper his entire phone occurs to him a couple of seconds too late. Oh God don't let her pull up the gallery. Beet red, Itzhak pulls down a book and pretends to be interested in it when what he's really interested in is hoping Harper doesn't take advantage of his phone. But she doesn't, and he can't quite hide the sigh of relief. (At least, he assumes she doesn't, because he's pretty sure she'd react if she saw some of the images on the camera. Also, he would spontaneously combust. Therefore, all is well!) He doesn't even look at what she's entered, just crams his phone back into his pocket.

Bullet.

Dodged.

"Adagio in G Minor, that one's easy, if it's the one I'm thinking of." Distracted by violin, he forgets his embarrassment, and hums a little of the melody. "Not what I'd pick, I gotta say, especially for solo violin." He's thinking the same thing as Harper there. "If you like Bach, maybe Partita number two in D minor." Oh no, Harper has found what makes all the words come out. All that awkward bashfulness vanishes as Itzhak falls into discussing violin music. Despite his claims of not being a maestro or even a classical musician anymore, he sure knows a lot about it, and seems confident in his ability to play. The question of the library card jolts him out of it. "Jeez, no, I don't have a library card!" he says, eyes getting wide, like he's shocked at the idea. "Man. In New York, an NYPL card gets you damn near anywhere. Had one my whole life. Okay, yeah, library card, would ya please?" And he grins beguilingly at Harper.

And Itzhak turns bright red. Harper simply contemplates him once she's returned the phone. She's newly familiar with the frequency of the man's blushes, but that makes them no less fascinating. Like breadcrumbs that lead to the perfect little cottage in the woods where a woodcutter ... builds a workshop. The man would probably be startled at Harper's reaction to some blue photos. But he'd have no way of knowing that, and likely that wouldn't change his desire to keep them private. A sigh of relief endcaps that little foray and Harper crosses one heeled foot in front of the other as she stands there in comfortable, observant silence. Spontaneous human combustion. Maybe next time.

She nods at his first words about Albinoni's work. "Easy, but not just anyone can pull off easy." The woman has opinions on classical music? She has to agree when he speaks about how suited it wouldn't be to a solo performance. "How right you are, Itzhak." There it is. She watches the bashfulness dissipate, sliding her hands to fold loosely behind her back. "I'm not familiar with Partita No. 2 in D minor by name, no. But that just means we ought to cross paths again sooner, don't you think?" Because Itzhak's life needs to be all about making Harpers happy.

Would she set him up an account with the library? Is the sky blue? Do they mostly come out at night? Is she a fan? "Usually we request a utility bill or something of that nature to prove residency, but ..." She unclasps those hands to lift a fingertip to her lips in a more expected shushing motion. "I know the boss. I can probably work around that. I would, however, need a street address and an email, along with a regular phone number." The vast conspiracy of libraries everywhere to infringe on the privacy of citizens! She glances to the books he's searching through. "Shall I go do the rest of the paper work and you can provide them when you're ready to check out?"