Tom Swift Writer’s Notebook

He laughs. This surprises me because I didn’t know he was awake. His chin is often close to his neck; so tight in fact that I don’t know how he can see what’s in front of him. A thick blue cap covers his crown and a good bit of his dark face.

He comes to this spot in the library several afternoons each week. I know this because I do, too. My favorite table in the reading room is not far from the stacks of newspapers and magazines and he sits a few feet away, at a desk with a computer that magnifies words for the visually impaired. But he never uses the device.

Each day he stacks materials around him, like a child who wishes his dolls to be arranged just so. His piles of magazines and books are at least somewhat different each time. The other day he enjoyed gazing at glossy pictures of pretty women. I knew he was enjoying them because he laughed several times. Outer space is a common theme and on this day he has a slew of sci-fi paperbacks around him. Though he seldom appears to read any of them.

The first time I noticed him, laughing, sleeping, shuffling his magazines, laughing again — though never loudly, never in a way that disturbs — I figured he might be high. I think it’s more likely he suffers from schizophrenia or another mental ailment. But I don’t know.

Has he been coming to this spot for weeks? Months? Years?

As I pass his desk and head to the restroom, leaving my books, notebooks and laptop neatly arranged on my table not so differently than he sets up his workspace, I wonder, too, whether during any of our afternoons spent a few feet apart whether he’s ever even noticed me there.

This post was added on Wednesday, January 23, 2008 by Tom Swift at 09:13 and is filed under Rough Drafts.