Lightning: A Machine of Death short story

of Death: Lightning

  Thomas Maluck

  Copyright 2012 by Thomas Maluck

  Visit me online: Liberry Jam

  Follow me on Twitter: @liberrytom

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Lightning

  About The Author

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  This story requires some introduction. Machine of Death is a collection of short stories about a machine that can tells its user the user’s cause of death. The cause can be specific (“Heart attack on 80th birthday”) or vague (“sharp object”). The cleverness, irony, or drama of the cause of death is up to the writer. There is a more complete explanation of Machine of Death here (https://machineofdeath.net/about).

  After the first Machine of Death collection hit the market, its editors solicited submissions for a second volume, for which I wrote this story. All of the characters and scenarios are pure fiction, but were easy for me to imagine as a public librarian. I don’t think there is a public librarian in the world who does not eventually find an interesting object used as a bookmark: bacon has been cited at a librarians conference as a common source of surprise in the bookdrop.

  I think that’s everything you should hear before starting the story. Enjoy!

  Lightning

  There's no way this piece of paper could be right. If it is correct, then everything I previously thought about today and my actions has been dashed to pieces.

  “Martha, I thought today was the seventeenth?” I ask over the checkout cart between us.

  “No, honey, it's already Friday! Eighteenth.” Martha picks up a stack of books from the cart.

  “Don't take those then, they've all got the wrong checkin date. My mistake.” Martha drops them on my desk and stares blankly at the clock until each book has a corrected hold slip inserted. She does not sigh or grumble or rap my knuckles with the meter stick; she just returns to her daily motions. This is my first week as librarian at this branch, but I am her tenth new librarian to stumble through the checkin process. Every new process I learn requires corrections and apologies, though I am already desensitized to the extra items found in the bookdrop. The errant piece of bacon or social security card as bookmarks, we get twice a week like clockwork. But a DVD case full of roaches? A smashed jar of mayonnaise? One of the shelvers nearly asked for a weekend off to see Aerosmith in concert until she realized the tickets were dated for 1987.

  The branch was due to receive a new book-sorting machine, but the order fell through and I was hired instead. Word around the library system is that my spot will be replaced (more like automated) at the beginning of next fiscal year; the sort of rumor one constantly hears but is never told. I would love to hear how a machine will overhear a child crying in the juvenile books section and reunite the child and parent when all of the desk staff are occupied. I have yet to find a machine that can listen to a parent and student describe the same assignment in different ways and figure out what the teacher meant. And I certainly do not see computers making the hard sell to Facebook-addled teenagers that this week's Guitar Club, Anime Club, and Game Club will all be worth their precious after-school hours (my library branch is big on clubs).

  Checking in these books, however, does feel mechanical before long, especially after handling the twentieth romance saga of the Amish. Maybe the naysayers are right; e-readers and the internet are stealing my job. I'm just a glorified cool uncle to the younger patrons looking for comics and a tech-savvy grandchild to the seniors who have yet to figure out “the Google.” I attend three meetings a week that could just as easily be uploaded into an administrative computer.

  My butt numbs. Somewhere between moving James Patterson to the large print shelf and putting the graphic novels in a stack, a bookmark hits the floor about the size of a fortune cookie slip. At least it's not edible. I flip the slip over and find a barely legible word hidden underneath the paper's wrinkles and yellowing age: “Lightning.” That's not very good advice at all. Is this a lame business card or something?

  Before my shoulders can slump any lower in my chair, I hear a doorbell. Martha rings it when she needs someone from the workroom to come up front.

  A line of patrons clutching best-sellers waits before Martha.

  “What's this line about?” I ask.

  “The self-checkout machines are down. Help someone.” My pride and joy. I take a seat at a computer terminal and scan the front of the line for eye contact. A heavy-set woman with dark eyeliner and a twisting dragon flying across her tank top approaches with a box of paperbacks.

  “Are all of these for checkout?” I smile.

  “These, these, and these,” she separates the books into piles, “but these are for renewal. I got a call from your library saying I owe you money?”

  “Some of these books may be overdue, but if--”

  “None of them are overdue.”

  “If you have your library card, I can look up your account and see what the call was about.”

  Her eyes narrow. The first challenge. “I don't have my card with me.”

  “I can look up your account from your driver's license, then.”

  “I'd have to drive back and get it. Don't have that neither.” Her breasts sag on the counter in front of me just like her gaze. I can't tell which of us is more scripted.

  “If you have any picture ID or government-issued documents, I could use those.”

  “Can I use my son's account? His name is Keanie.”

  “Yes. Do you have his card?”

  “Keanie!” She shouts across the building two more times before a boy half her height shuffles to the desk. “This is my son, he has his – Keanie get out your library card, library – library card with him.” She whips the card from inside his bookbag to my hand, then I scan it.

  “Okay, I am seeing twelve dollars in fines on this account, which is over the maximum allowed--”

  “What fines?” She glares as if to beat an apology out of me.

  “Missing items and late fees. Several DVDs, two juvenile fiction books, all a month overdue from last year.”

  “That's bullshit. I don't remember those fines. I paid those. Those weren't checked out on my son's card.”

  Keanie taps his mom on the shoulder. “But last time we were here I had to bring some books late.” She swats his appeal.

  Each excuse leads me to the same next step. “Looking at the payment history on this account, it appears that several items have been late or lost over time. In fact, the books you're here to renew are checked out on this account. Would you like to check through your house one more time and we can address this again next time?” She and the desk grow as I speak. Keanie passes me in height as she draws in breath.

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Her eyes burn into my nerves and evaporate the authority from my throat, leaving a small desert.

  “Um, no, I just, this has happened before with us, and--”

  “-- This always happens at your library. Charging me for stuff I never took. How does that make sense? How can you charge me for something I didn't do?” I click the mouse absentmindedly, hoping for a pop-up window to tell me the line that will end this. Martha's hand rests on my shoulder.

  “What seems to be the problem, Liz? How may we help you, ma'am?” Her tone is kind yet over the patron's head. Her shield of personality allows me a relieved breath.

  “He's charging me for books I never heard of and I've been here several times and this always happens and--” Martha makes a couple of decisive clicks over my shoulder.

  “Your fines have been waived, ma'am. I apologize for any inconvenience.”

 
; “Thank you, ma'am. That's all I wanted.” I silently circulate the patron's books and hand Keanie the juvenile titles.

  “These look pretty cool Keanie, I hope you like them.”

  His mom plops paperback romances into his arms on top of his books. “Let's go.” Looking at Keanie's account information, I see his mom listed as Kayla. Martha's spectacles reflect in the monitor.

  “I swear I wasn't going through their information!”

  “Add a note on both their records: 'Do not waive fines.' The dates on their last visits were from when Benjamin worked here in your job. He caved all the time, too. You'll learn, though. I'll make sure she sees you again. Don't fear the dragon.”

  Martha plops a stack of donations down, giving me a gentle nod of obligation. While counting some donated books and tossing out others, the slip of paper wraps around my mind. Where have I seen that font before...

  I remember and toss my hands up with reflexive joy, inadvertently tossing some paperbacks across the donations table. That is one of those death predictions that machine spits