When in high school I also worked in a village public library.

Since I was hired by my mother's best friend I had to be a bit more cautious in planning my escapes from responsibility. Fortunately the "new" library (completed in 1973) was designed for efficiency. The basement, in particular, became both the preferred butt break place and the place where the janitor chilled out when he should have been cleaning out the HVAC system.

My usual job after school was to reshelve non-fiction books. After working for a hour I would find a book I liked and head on over to either one of two hiding places.

One hiding place was a series of steel cages on the top floor for records and periodicals. Unfortunately this part of the level opened up into a vast open space through which my boss could monitor us. Needless to say we student employees would only sit up there in the last hour of work.

Better yet was one of the vast store rooms down in the basement. Here young workers could read risque material or just sit, glazed, looking at the ceiling while on a supposed lunch break. One hapless young man who had been suspected of being a homosexual was found reading a book about Attic Greek sexual practices. Found opened to a photo of a tutor and his charge on a vase, he shouted loudly, past the cinder blocks it seems:


Perhaps he was just into art. Kids are cruel.

The best activity was working the young adult parties. While the melodious sounds of Vanilla Ice and New Kids on the Block floated through the basement from the conference hall, the "bouncer" and I would sit in the storeroom, smoke some butts, and then serve shitty off brand soda to flocks of 13 year olds who merely circulated around the room in chaotic motion rather than dance.

The worse part of this crappy dances were these kids who would invade our sanctum. Then our boss would come in, see us just sitting there, giving us this look. I'm glad she didn't come in when we were smoking.