she asked. “Who can give me some information about my husband’s death?” The man in the dark suit spoke immediately. “For the record, m’am, we do not know for sure if this man,” he gestured slightly with his head, “is your husband.”
He paused, and then spoke quickly and officially. “One of our officers was on foot patrol near City Park last night. He saw a vehicle that appeared to be abandoned: one of the car doors was left open. He went to investigate and found this man,” again, a gesture of the head toward the covered body, lying beside the vehicle, not breathing.He called for back-up immediately, and tried to administer some emergency medical treatments, but there was no response.”
As he spoke, Hamel’s wife fixed her gaze on the sheet covering the body in front of her, steeling herself for the moment that was to come.
The man in the dark suit gestured to the man in the blue scrubs who moved to the head of the table and gathered the edge of the covering sheet. “M’am,” said the man in the dark suit, “I’m sorry, but I must ask you officially, is this your husband?”
Hamel’s wife fixed her gaze, not blinking, as the sheet was folded back. She stared into the face of a stranger.
“It’s not . . . ” she hesitated, her voice shaking slightly. “It’s not Hamel. It’s not my husband.”
Hamel’s wife looked around at the men, expecting somehow that they would share in her emotion. They did not. She glanced back again to the cold face before her, saw the resemblance between this man and her husband, understood how such a mistake could be made. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, “it’s not Hamel.”
She did not know what else to say, and almost expected that the man in the blue suit would challenge her, ask her to look again, ask her if she was sure.
He did not. The three men glanced at each other. The man in scrubs replaced the sheet. Then the man in the blue suit apologized for taking up her time. Followed by the man with the Coroner Office badge saying, “I’ll walk you to the lobby, m’am.” He turned, took her elbow, started to steer her toward the door.
Hamel’s wife pulled away, politely, and looked directly at the man in the blue suit. “Excuse me, please. What about Hamel? What about my husband?”
She knew her question made no sense at all: how could this misidentified dead man in front of her provide information to authorities about her husband gone missing?
“It’s been three months,” she said evenly, “and I know nothing. Nothing at all. People don’t just disappear. They leave a trail. Some kind of a trail. Clues. Something . . . ”
Hamel’s wife heard her own voice trail off into a murmur. The helpless feelings
of the past three months returned, full force. She wanted to be challenging but she simply felt defeated. Over the past thirteen weeks, she had come to believe one thing: The system was the system and it did not give a fig about a middle-aged woman whose husband was missing.
The man in the blue suit started to say something, but Hamel’s wife overrode him. “Please,” she said, “if all you are going to do is tell me that your department is still actively working on finding out what happened to Hamel – and that you will call me with new information the minute you learn it, well, don’t bother.” She spoke bitterly: “I don’t believe you.”
Hamel’s wife took one more look at the sheet covered body, felt a surge of despair course through her. Then she steeled herself, walked to the door and spoke over her shoulder without looking back. “I can find my own way, thank you.” She did not expect a response and she received none.
Standing outside the hospital at the bus stop, Hamel’s wife thought again about the last day she’d seen her husband.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Saturday, December 12, 2009
The Secret Life of Hamel: November, 2009 Posts
He was not successful. In frustration and with growing feelings of annoyance, he gathered his things and headed for the stairs.
CHAPTER THREE: 3 MONTHS (EXACTLY) SINCE HAMEL DISAPPEARED
The phone broke the silence and surprised Hamel’s wife. It rang while she was in her family room, arranging dried flowers in a vase, and wondering if she should get the carpets cleaned. It startled her at first — she did not receive many phone calls these days.
She hesitated, looked around the room to see if her wireless phone was in sight. The call had reached its fifth insistent ring before she found it, tucked between two pillows on her sofa.
“Hello,” she said, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find the phone.”
Hamel’s wife realized that she was doing it again, apologizing when there was no need, though she seemed unable to avoid that these days.
“Can I help you?” she asked. The voice on the other end was not clear; there was some kind of commotion in the background, loud voices arguing. Struggling to hear, Hamel’s wife closed her eyes and concentrated. She did not get every word, but she heard the important ones: “Police department. Missing person report. Body of unidentified male matching description of your husband.”
Hamel’s wife listened to the ever so slight quiver in her voice as she responded to the caller. She had steeled herself for this moment, always felt that eventually she would learn something about Hamel’s disappearance. No one, she’d thought many times, just evaporates into thin air. Not in this day and age.
“I’m Hamel’s wife,” she said to the caller. “Did I hear you correctly? You want me to identify the body? Today?”
Hamel’s wife could feel a tenseness overtake her. What would it feel like to stand in a morgue, surrounded by people she did not know, with someone in a white coat sympathetically looking at her, then lifting a sheet so that she could look into Hamel’s face and nod?
Hamel’s wife had seen too many TV shows with that identical scene: the thought of herself in that role made her slightly nauseous. Yet, simultaneous with the dread, there was an undeniable eagerness Hamel’s wife felt about going to the morgue. She was uncomfortable with the feeling, but it was real. What she wanted, what she needed, was a singular moment of clarity about what had happened to her husband. After so many weeks of ignorance and uncertainty,Hamel’s wife felt that somebody — the police department, the city, God, Life, somebody? — owed her that much. She wanted to know.
“Yes, I’ll come right away,” Hamel’s wife heard herself say. She was pleased with the sound of her voice. It was steady and clear.
Hamel’s wife was met in the lobby of the hospital by a serious-looking young man. He mumbled his name, and extended his hand to greet her. He showed her identification, a card with his photograph and bold type that read Coroner’s Office. He spoke in soft tones, as if they were in church, as he led her through hospital corridors to an elevator and then down to the basement of the building.
The morgue itself was less intimidating than she expected: clinical and sterile, yes, with spotless stainless steel wherever she looked. But she expected hospital smells, and there were none. She expected to be cold, but the temperature was merely cool, not uncomfortable
.
There were two other men in the room when she entered, one from the hospital, an orderly perhaps, dressed in blue scrubs, and the other in a dark suit and tie with an official look about him. They introduced themselves in the same muted tones as the man from the Coroner’s Office. Hamel’s wife wondered why. Is that the way they spoke all the time, or was it for her benefit?
She looked directly at the three men and spoke in her normal tone of voice. “Could someone please tell me who’s in charge here?”
CHAPTER THREE: 3 MONTHS (EXACTLY) SINCE HAMEL DISAPPEARED
The phone broke the silence and surprised Hamel’s wife. It rang while she was in her family room, arranging dried flowers in a vase, and wondering if she should get the carpets cleaned. It startled her at first — she did not receive many phone calls these days.
She hesitated, looked around the room to see if her wireless phone was in sight. The call had reached its fifth insistent ring before she found it, tucked between two pillows on her sofa.
“Hello,” she said, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find the phone.”
Hamel’s wife realized that she was doing it again, apologizing when there was no need, though she seemed unable to avoid that these days.
“Can I help you?” she asked. The voice on the other end was not clear; there was some kind of commotion in the background, loud voices arguing. Struggling to hear, Hamel’s wife closed her eyes and concentrated. She did not get every word, but she heard the important ones: “Police department. Missing person report. Body of unidentified male matching description of your husband.”
Hamel’s wife listened to the ever so slight quiver in her voice as she responded to the caller. She had steeled herself for this moment, always felt that eventually she would learn something about Hamel’s disappearance. No one, she’d thought many times, just evaporates into thin air. Not in this day and age.
“I’m Hamel’s wife,” she said to the caller. “Did I hear you correctly? You want me to identify the body? Today?”
Hamel’s wife could feel a tenseness overtake her. What would it feel like to stand in a morgue, surrounded by people she did not know, with someone in a white coat sympathetically looking at her, then lifting a sheet so that she could look into Hamel’s face and nod?
Hamel’s wife had seen too many TV shows with that identical scene: the thought of herself in that role made her slightly nauseous. Yet, simultaneous with the dread, there was an undeniable eagerness Hamel’s wife felt about going to the morgue. She was uncomfortable with the feeling, but it was real. What she wanted, what she needed, was a singular moment of clarity about what had happened to her husband. After so many weeks of ignorance and uncertainty,Hamel’s wife felt that somebody — the police department, the city, God, Life, somebody? — owed her that much. She wanted to know.
“Yes, I’ll come right away,” Hamel’s wife heard herself say. She was pleased with the sound of her voice. It was steady and clear.
Hamel’s wife was met in the lobby of the hospital by a serious-looking young man. He mumbled his name, and extended his hand to greet her. He showed her identification, a card with his photograph and bold type that read Coroner’s Office. He spoke in soft tones, as if they were in church, as he led her through hospital corridors to an elevator and then down to the basement of the building.
The morgue itself was less intimidating than she expected: clinical and sterile, yes, with spotless stainless steel wherever she looked. But she expected hospital smells, and there were none. She expected to be cold, but the temperature was merely cool, not uncomfortable
.
There were two other men in the room when she entered, one from the hospital, an orderly perhaps, dressed in blue scrubs, and the other in a dark suit and tie with an official look about him. They introduced themselves in the same muted tones as the man from the Coroner’s Office. Hamel’s wife wondered why. Is that the way they spoke all the time, or was it for her benefit?
She looked directly at the three men and spoke in her normal tone of voice. “Could someone please tell me who’s in charge here?”
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Gremlins abound
I posted September tweets on October 10 -- and just realized today that, for some reason (I prefer to blame this on unknown technological forces), the September blog was incomplete. That has now been fixed. Plus: October tweets have now been posted. The world is in harmony once again. I need a cocktail . . .
The Secret Life of Hamel: October, 2009 Posts
“Mostly avoiding,” said Hamel. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t mind sitting here by myself. ” He shifted his position in the chair, tried to think of something else to say, but couldn’t. So he repeated himself, trying to sound casual and offhand about the subject. “I don’t really mind at all.”
The librarian nodded her head. “I like people,” she said, “in small doses. Like fudge. You break it into little pieces that sit on your tongue and just melt — that’s the best way to enjoy fudge.” She smiled at Hamel again. Then she looked at her watch, shook her head and said, “I’ve got to get back to my desk to close up.”
She turned to go, then hesitated and asked, “Will you be coming in tomorrow night?” Hamel nodded yes, with no consideration to any previous plans or commitments. Not that he had many of them anyway.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll see you then.” She walked away, through the narrow stacks. Hamel watched her go until she turned and disappeared at the stairwell.
He did not get up immediately, even though he knew the library would close in minutes. He simply stared at the space she’d occupied moments before, felt a warmth in his face, and mentally ran through every moment of the last few minutes, from the instant she’d said Hi. He examined every word she said, tried to recall clearly every movement and gesture. Then he looked down, at his notes and his books and the blank piece of note paper that was supposed to contain the start of his philosophy paper. He closed his eyes for just a second, opened them, and packed up his things to leave.
On his way out the door, he looked back to see the librarian leaning over some papers at her desk. She didn’t look up. He hesitated just a second, considered stopping by her desk to say good-bye, but didn’t. He opened the door and left.
Hamel returned to the library the next evening about thirty minutes earlier than the day before. He glanced toward the desk, irrationally hoping that the librarian would somehow be available to join him as he walked up the stairs, would take time to talk with him, would focus her attention on him.
When Hamel saw that another person was in her place, behind the desk, disappointment surged through him. He took his usual path toward the stairs, but continued to look back at the desk as if visual concentration alone might change the picture.
He walked slowly up the stairs but his thoughts were racing: Why wasn’t she where he’d expected to see her? What was going on? Was this some kind of mean trick she was playing on him, telling him that she’d see him when she’d known she wasn’t working that night?
Hamel turned the questions over and over in his mind, looking at them from different angles, imagining conversations with the librarian, considering different responses to whatever she might say.
He was surprised at how much her absence from her desk bothered him. He sat at the study carrel and fidgeted, shuffling books and papers. He stood and looked out the window, watched students crossing the campus, became annoyed at himself for even reacting this way. He sat back down, wanting to focus on his philosophy paper as a distraction from the feelings running through him.
Chief among those was a sense of unease that something had changed in his life and he had no control over it. Which made no sense to Hamel. Yesterday, he’d walked into the library as always, not even bothering to look toward the front desk. Today, less than twenty-four hours later, his mood had darkened, his ability to focus considerably worsened, simply because a person, a woman, that he had just met, was not where he expected her to be. Hamel considered this incomprehensible.
He wanted to do something — but he could not think of any single action he could take that would change how he was feeling.
He realized that he had no way to get in touch with her. But, more significantly, Hamel also knew that he had no idea what he would say to her anyway. Hamel shook his head, as if it would clear his mind from the tumult of half-formed thoughts colliding inside his brain.
The librarian nodded her head. “I like people,” she said, “in small doses. Like fudge. You break it into little pieces that sit on your tongue and just melt — that’s the best way to enjoy fudge.” She smiled at Hamel again. Then she looked at her watch, shook her head and said, “I’ve got to get back to my desk to close up.”
She turned to go, then hesitated and asked, “Will you be coming in tomorrow night?” Hamel nodded yes, with no consideration to any previous plans or commitments. Not that he had many of them anyway.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll see you then.” She walked away, through the narrow stacks. Hamel watched her go until she turned and disappeared at the stairwell.
He did not get up immediately, even though he knew the library would close in minutes. He simply stared at the space she’d occupied moments before, felt a warmth in his face, and mentally ran through every moment of the last few minutes, from the instant she’d said Hi. He examined every word she said, tried to recall clearly every movement and gesture. Then he looked down, at his notes and his books and the blank piece of note paper that was supposed to contain the start of his philosophy paper. He closed his eyes for just a second, opened them, and packed up his things to leave.
On his way out the door, he looked back to see the librarian leaning over some papers at her desk. She didn’t look up. He hesitated just a second, considered stopping by her desk to say good-bye, but didn’t. He opened the door and left.
Hamel returned to the library the next evening about thirty minutes earlier than the day before. He glanced toward the desk, irrationally hoping that the librarian would somehow be available to join him as he walked up the stairs, would take time to talk with him, would focus her attention on him.
When Hamel saw that another person was in her place, behind the desk, disappointment surged through him. He took his usual path toward the stairs, but continued to look back at the desk as if visual concentration alone might change the picture.
He walked slowly up the stairs but his thoughts were racing: Why wasn’t she where he’d expected to see her? What was going on? Was this some kind of mean trick she was playing on him, telling him that she’d see him when she’d known she wasn’t working that night?
Hamel turned the questions over and over in his mind, looking at them from different angles, imagining conversations with the librarian, considering different responses to whatever she might say.
He was surprised at how much her absence from her desk bothered him. He sat at the study carrel and fidgeted, shuffling books and papers. He stood and looked out the window, watched students crossing the campus, became annoyed at himself for even reacting this way. He sat back down, wanting to focus on his philosophy paper as a distraction from the feelings running through him.
Chief among those was a sense of unease that something had changed in his life and he had no control over it. Which made no sense to Hamel. Yesterday, he’d walked into the library as always, not even bothering to look toward the front desk. Today, less than twenty-four hours later, his mood had darkened, his ability to focus considerably worsened, simply because a person, a woman, that he had just met, was not where he expected her to be. Hamel considered this incomprehensible.
He wanted to do something — but he could not think of any single action he could take that would change how he was feeling.
He realized that he had no way to get in touch with her. But, more significantly, Hamel also knew that he had no idea what he would say to her anyway. Hamel shook his head, as if it would clear his mind from the tumult of half-formed thoughts colliding inside his brain.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The typo issue
Okay -- these typos are getting out of hand. I must commit myself to a more careful reading before I click on the Twitter "update" option. But I fixed the one that happened in September -- now my soul can rest.
The Secret Life Of Hamel: September, 2009 Posts
Hamel did manage to rid himself of the stigma of virginity during his junior year in high school. It happened in his parent’s car, parked behind a supermarket, with the windows open to combat the heat from both weather and passion, and the unmistakable smell of decaying lettuce overpowering his date’s perfume.
As a university student, Hamel attended parties thrown off-campus with the regularity of others in his classes, met a few girls who were nice to him, enjoyed some moments of awkward groping while both he and his female companion of the evening were beer high.
His one completed copulation occurred in the first month of his freshmen year.
She was a senior. She’d met Hamel a few days previous in a student lounge, had both introduced herself and smoothly dominated the first thirty minutes of conversation. Then, airily, before heading to a class, she’d suggested a picnic lunch, in a somewhat secluded, park-like area of the campus, to celebrate Hamel’s arrival to the university.
The picnic and the coupling had happened in short order, the latter following closely after the former, with both taking less than forty minutes to complete. While she was rearranging herself, Hamel tried to do what he thought might be expected of him, and asked her if she would like to go to a movie the coming weekend. She turned to him, smiled slightly and said “No thanks – today was good enough.”
Hamel was not certain of all that was meant by this remark but perceived it, correctly, as a sign of dismissal.
He saw her again, two weeks later, talking to another freshman outside the football stadium. He’d waved slightly as he walked by; she did not wave back. They never spoke to each other again, even though Hamel saw her on campus from time to time.
He shook off the experience quickly and unemotionally, like shaking raindrops off an umbrella. He remembered her name, and what she looked like naked on a blanket under the trees, and not much else about her. He never spoke to anyone about the incident.
From Hamel’s point of view, there was nothing to tell. As his private, mental epitaph to the incident, he’d simply concluded that he did not know how to connect with “older” women, especially someone three class years ahead of him.
And now, facing the attractive librarian who was even older — by three or four years — than his picnic date, he was convinced of it. He could not think of a single thing to say. She saved him.
“Why is it, “ she asked him, “that you always come here by yourself? Most students seem to study with their friends, though I am not so sure,” she smiled, “that there is much quality academic work going on.” She paused and looked at Hamel with curiosity.
“Is that why you always come to this spot, to stay away from the other students?” Her voice had softened and Hamel felt uncomfortable, as if she were suddenly and unwillingly divulging his private thoughts. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I am not trying to pry. I just wondered.”
“I have friends,” Hamel said, then realized he had answered a question which she hadn’t asked. “Some friends,” he repeated.
“Oh, I wasn’t asking that,” said the librarian. “I’m sure you have some kind of a social circle — people you spend time with. But when you come to the library, you always come alone. And you always head straight for this spot. And I’m wondering,” she paused, and softened her voice. “I’m wondering if you come here to this out of the way study carrel so that you can concentrate on your work
or simply to avoid others.”
As a university student, Hamel attended parties thrown off-campus with the regularity of others in his classes, met a few girls who were nice to him, enjoyed some moments of awkward groping while both he and his female companion of the evening were beer high.
His one completed copulation occurred in the first month of his freshmen year.
She was a senior. She’d met Hamel a few days previous in a student lounge, had both introduced herself and smoothly dominated the first thirty minutes of conversation. Then, airily, before heading to a class, she’d suggested a picnic lunch, in a somewhat secluded, park-like area of the campus, to celebrate Hamel’s arrival to the university.
The picnic and the coupling had happened in short order, the latter following closely after the former, with both taking less than forty minutes to complete. While she was rearranging herself, Hamel tried to do what he thought might be expected of him, and asked her if she would like to go to a movie the coming weekend. She turned to him, smiled slightly and said “No thanks – today was good enough.”
Hamel was not certain of all that was meant by this remark but perceived it, correctly, as a sign of dismissal.
He saw her again, two weeks later, talking to another freshman outside the football stadium. He’d waved slightly as he walked by; she did not wave back. They never spoke to each other again, even though Hamel saw her on campus from time to time.
He shook off the experience quickly and unemotionally, like shaking raindrops off an umbrella. He remembered her name, and what she looked like naked on a blanket under the trees, and not much else about her. He never spoke to anyone about the incident.
From Hamel’s point of view, there was nothing to tell. As his private, mental epitaph to the incident, he’d simply concluded that he did not know how to connect with “older” women, especially someone three class years ahead of him.
And now, facing the attractive librarian who was even older — by three or four years — than his picnic date, he was convinced of it. He could not think of a single thing to say. She saved him.
“Why is it, “ she asked him, “that you always come here by yourself? Most students seem to study with their friends, though I am not so sure,” she smiled, “that there is much quality academic work going on.” She paused and looked at Hamel with curiosity.
“Is that why you always come to this spot, to stay away from the other students?” Her voice had softened and Hamel felt uncomfortable, as if she were suddenly and unwillingly divulging his private thoughts. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I am not trying to pry. I just wondered.”
“I have friends,” Hamel said, then realized he had answered a question which she hadn’t asked. “Some friends,” he repeated.
“Oh, I wasn’t asking that,” said the librarian. “I’m sure you have some kind of a social circle — people you spend time with. But when you come to the library, you always come alone. And you always head straight for this spot. And I’m wondering,” she paused, and softened her voice. “I’m wondering if you come here to this out of the way study carrel so that you can concentrate on your work
or simply to avoid others.”
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Secret Life of Hamel: August, 2009 Posts
It was not surprising, consequently, because Hamel liked to consider and often described himself as a committed pragmatist, that he decided to put his preoccupation with the lecture to good use: his philosophy paper would be based on peak experiences as they applied to the modern university student.
Hamel was sure that he could fill the paper with more than enough “insights” to earn a passing grade. As he continued his walk across the campus toward the library, Hamel began to consider how the paper might begin. His thoughts were interrupted by a friendly greeting from the librarian as he entered the building.
“Back again?” she said.
Her voice echoed slightly in the large open area of the library’s atrium. Hamel looked at her. She was maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven, not all that much older than the co-eds that Hamel knew from classes, the dining hall, or the occasional party that he attended.
Hamel nodded at the librarian without speaking, then turned to climb the steps to the third floor. He was heading for a small cluster of study carrels, located in a wing of the library that other students rarely visited. It was quiet there. On many occasions, Hamel worked in that location for two hours or more without ever seeing another student. Sometimes he would sneak in a quart of beer to drink while he forced himself to read assignments from weighty textbooks or write, painfully, to complete a required paper.
Hamel turned to the left as he reached the third floor, walked a narrow pathway between two imposing stacks of books, lifted his arms to unburden himself of his backpack. He sat at the nearest of the four study carrels, and burrowed into the backpack for class notes and writing materials. He pulled a spiral bound copy book from a side pouch, discovered a red ballpoint pen with a chewed cap, found his scribbled notations from the “peak experiences” class, placed all of them carefully on the top of the desk, leaned back, and stared.
Thirty minutes later, he was still staring, his mind wandering from one place to another, his thoughts drifting with the aimlessness of a page torn from a student notebook, blown across campus by little gusts of wind.
Her voice startled him; he had not heard her approach. “Hi,” she said, “The library will be closing in about fifteen minutes so I thought I’d come find you.”
Hamel looked up into the face of the librarian who had greeted him earlier. She was smiling at him, in a friendly way, and Hamel half-smiled back but did not know what to say. The librarian seemed to sense Hamel’s discomfort. “Every once in a while,” she added, “students fall asleep studying up here. And then I lock up and leave them. They can get out, of course, through the emergency exit but then Security is alerted. Which causes a big commotion.”
She smiled again. “I didn’t want that to happen to you.”
“Thank you,” Hamel said. “I wasn’t sleepy though. I was just thinking.” For the first time, even though he’d seen her on many occasions over the past few weeks, Hamel took notice of the woman standing near him. He observed those things that young men find interesting: a face that he categorized immediately as cute, not beautiful, with dark eyes and dimples that deepened with her smile; rich, brown hair that fell nicely in place, even after a day behind her desk, and perhaps longer than the styles worn by girls Hamel knew from around the campus; and an athletic body, apparent despite her appropriately conservative dark skirt and maroon sweater.
At this point in his life, while women were interesting to Hamel, they did not occupy much of his time. Unlike his few males friends, who always seemed to be moving from one female relationship into another, Hamel did not have a girlfriend. In fact, he'd never had one, not in grade school when liking a particular girl meant enduring endless whispering and giggling among said girl’s friends, and not in high school where girls Hamel liked took no notice of him, and those that were interested in him were,from Hamel’s perspective, dull or unattractive or silly.
Hamel was sure that he could fill the paper with more than enough “insights” to earn a passing grade. As he continued his walk across the campus toward the library, Hamel began to consider how the paper might begin. His thoughts were interrupted by a friendly greeting from the librarian as he entered the building.
“Back again?” she said.
Her voice echoed slightly in the large open area of the library’s atrium. Hamel looked at her. She was maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven, not all that much older than the co-eds that Hamel knew from classes, the dining hall, or the occasional party that he attended.
Hamel nodded at the librarian without speaking, then turned to climb the steps to the third floor. He was heading for a small cluster of study carrels, located in a wing of the library that other students rarely visited. It was quiet there. On many occasions, Hamel worked in that location for two hours or more without ever seeing another student. Sometimes he would sneak in a quart of beer to drink while he forced himself to read assignments from weighty textbooks or write, painfully, to complete a required paper.
Hamel turned to the left as he reached the third floor, walked a narrow pathway between two imposing stacks of books, lifted his arms to unburden himself of his backpack. He sat at the nearest of the four study carrels, and burrowed into the backpack for class notes and writing materials. He pulled a spiral bound copy book from a side pouch, discovered a red ballpoint pen with a chewed cap, found his scribbled notations from the “peak experiences” class, placed all of them carefully on the top of the desk, leaned back, and stared.
Thirty minutes later, he was still staring, his mind wandering from one place to another, his thoughts drifting with the aimlessness of a page torn from a student notebook, blown across campus by little gusts of wind.
Her voice startled him; he had not heard her approach. “Hi,” she said, “The library will be closing in about fifteen minutes so I thought I’d come find you.”
Hamel looked up into the face of the librarian who had greeted him earlier. She was smiling at him, in a friendly way, and Hamel half-smiled back but did not know what to say. The librarian seemed to sense Hamel’s discomfort. “Every once in a while,” she added, “students fall asleep studying up here. And then I lock up and leave them. They can get out, of course, through the emergency exit but then Security is alerted. Which causes a big commotion.”
She smiled again. “I didn’t want that to happen to you.”
“Thank you,” Hamel said. “I wasn’t sleepy though. I was just thinking.” For the first time, even though he’d seen her on many occasions over the past few weeks, Hamel took notice of the woman standing near him. He observed those things that young men find interesting: a face that he categorized immediately as cute, not beautiful, with dark eyes and dimples that deepened with her smile; rich, brown hair that fell nicely in place, even after a day behind her desk, and perhaps longer than the styles worn by girls Hamel knew from around the campus; and an athletic body, apparent despite her appropriately conservative dark skirt and maroon sweater.
At this point in his life, while women were interesting to Hamel, they did not occupy much of his time. Unlike his few males friends, who always seemed to be moving from one female relationship into another, Hamel did not have a girlfriend. In fact, he'd never had one, not in grade school when liking a particular girl meant enduring endless whispering and giggling among said girl’s friends, and not in high school where girls Hamel liked took no notice of him, and those that were interested in him were,from Hamel’s perspective, dull or unattractive or silly.
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