Sagan's Standard

On the outside the Pearson Library is what it appears to be. A single stalk in a bushel of brick, municipality-funded libraries speckling the suburbs of northern New Jersey.

Inside, advanced-aged librarians command the reference desk. A small café serving watered-down coffee rests behind a rack of periodicals. Next to the entrance sits a metal return bid for residents in a hurry.

The main collection, the adult section, is pedestrian, even by library standards. It has metal shelving. Drab carpet. And a manual Dewey decimal system made possible by tiny, wooden cabins filled with index cards.

These banal features are all a conscious choice of the Pearson Library. They decided long ago that the Pearson Library would hang its hat on the children’s section. And that’s what they did.

And that is what the Pearson Library is known for. Its children’s section. The one with interactive computer games, LEGO assembly stations, foam flooring with large letter imprints, and an aquarium of colorful fish. The crown jewel is the after-school learning programs the library hosts for elementary school children of the community.

The program this month is a sing-a-long series featuring Alphabet Al and his banjo playing sidekick Numbers Ned. On this particular day the song-and-dance duo are hitting all the high notes. Exaggerating every leg kick. And shaking their ‘jazz hands’ with fury. An assortment of tykes ages four through should-have-aged-out-by-now mimic every move and vocalize every note.

Lining the sound-reducing walls where these programs take place assemble the adults whom brought their children. It’s a diverse crowd. Some are male, some female, some old, some young, some bored, some taking cell phone video, and one willing to voice an opinion on the spectacle before them.

“I’m sorry,” Nancy said aloud, not specifically to the stranger beside her but to her nonetheless. “I know this is educational and all but man. I’m losing my mind listening to this.”

The stranger next to Nancy loosened her body with a chuckle and uncrossed her legs.

“It’s a relief to hear you say that. I was thinking the same thing.”

Nancy’s comment wasn’t a blind gamble. The two women had been sitting in silence twenty minutes now. During that time Nancy sized up her fellow guardian’s garb of department store sneakers, mismatched sox, faded blue jeans, and t-shirt with frayed collar. This was an economic compatriot. Not always a common sight for these parts.

“My name’s Nancy.”

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Alice.”

“Do you have a son or a daughter in class?”

“Granddaughter, actually. And you?”

Nancy was taken back by the response. The woman looked only a few years older than herself. Of course, Nancy’s own age projected more than it was as she didn’t exactly practice habits associated with graceful aging.

“Uh, yeah,” Nancy said. “My daughter. Megan. She’s the one with the pigtails.”

“What a cutie,” Alice said. “My granddaughter is Olivia. Four down from Megan, next to the Indian boy.”

The two women proceeded to exchange small talk. Before long Alice divulged her age, 53, and that she cared for Olivia during the day while Olivia’s mother, her own daughter, worked.

In response, Nancy felt a need to be as intimate. She let on that she’s a single mother. And that the rigmarole of getting Megan to the library class requires leaving early from her job across town. And how leaving early is not a judgement-free activity at her office.

Hearing the words spill out of her mouth against the backdrop of two grown men in neon polka-dots reciting nursery rhymes left her wondering.

“I don’t know,” Nancy said. “You read the articles online and think ‘how would Oprah raise a child?’ But I mean, come on. This is brutal. Is this helping the kids or turning them into zombies?”

Alice again laughed at Nancy’s moxie. It reminded her of herself when she was a young, single mother. Though sing-a-long classes weren’t in the schedule back then. Too much time spent dogging landlords, haggling with unjust bosses, and bailing on boyfriends gone bad.

“As far as I can tell they’re enjoying it,” Alice responded. “Plus it tires Olivia out which helps when we get back home. But I know what you mean. It’s not exactly good music.”

“It certainly isn’t. Not like The Grim Jepster,” said Nancy referencing one of her favorite bands.

“Or Death Manifesto,” Alice added.

“You like Death Manifesto?” Nancy asked, surprised to hear Alice know the name of a heavy metal band.

With the question hanging in the air, Alice pried up her t-shirt sleeve to reveal a tattoo of the band’s logo.

“Whoa,” Nancy said. “That’s sick! I would’ve never figured you like Death Manifesto.”

“Like?” Alice questioned. “I spent half my twenties doing things I can’t remember and the other half scheming and scamming my way to as many Death Manifesto shows as I could.”

With Nancy in awe, Alice elaborated on the part of her twenties she did remember. Like the time her and a girlfriend drove across three states to a Death Manifesto show in Detroit. And the time in Vancouver when she made out with a border agent because she didn’t have a passport.

“Man,” Nancy began, “That’s so cool. I wish I could have seen them play. I must have watched the ‘Live from Atlanta’ show on VHS a hundred times.”

“I was at that one too,” Alice said. “Got the ticket stub somewhere at home.”

Making out with a stranger on the Canadian border is one thing. But attending one of the most important - if not the most important - heavy metal concerts in history was another.

“No way you were at that concert,” Nancy said.

Alice straightened in her chair and maintained her position. With her chest now puffed out a bit she promised to bring the stub to next week’s class.

Nancy’s eyes wided. And Alice grinned. The disbelieving respect for her youthful adventures radiated pride across her body.

“I know how you feel about not being at that Atlanta show,” Alice said, grounding the conversation. “Right when I got pregnant with Olivia’s mother I just started getting into the Minions of Metal. Was planning to go to their show in Chicago, the one where that guy fell from the balcony, but the bum that knocked me up decided to vanish. Woke up one morning and he was gone. Along with the cash we’d been saving.”

“You’re kidding me,” Nancy said.

“Nope. Just like that I was a single parent.”

“No. I mean about the Minions of Metal show. I was at that show. My boyfriend bootlegged it. I still listen to the tape at work sometimes, mainly to tick off the other women in the office on their group yoga day.”

“You can’t have a bootleg,” Alice responded. “The Minions had a strict policy on that. And especially back then. Cell phones weren’t around. And if they were you couldn’t record with them.”

Nancy, herself now straightening with pride, explained in detail the lengths her boyfriend went to in order to record the concert. She explained how Dingus - what she called her former lover - drove a delivery truck back then. And how a week before the concert she called a delivery into the venue. The delivery had specific instructions that it be hand delivered to a sound engineer working at the facility that week. A Mr. Gary C. Wright.

Of course, Mr. Gary C. Wright doesn’t exist. So what Dingus did was use the excuse of having to hand deliver the package as his entrance past the box off that day. Once through the open doors he walked the cardboard package into the mens’ room. The cardboard package contained a tape recorder. Dingus secured that tape recorder under a sink with duct tape.

“A regular old Michael Corleone,” Alice replied. “And you still have the tape?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I’ll tell you what. If you bring the tape from that concert next week I’ll bring the ticket stub. Deal?”

“Deal.”