An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [6]
I wanted to explain that to Francis so I asked for a meeting with him. He invited me to his office. I went straight to my purpose. I told him I’d set up access to all the databases; I’d visited the different units and understood how they operated. Next, I described my vision to digitize Special Collections materials in five to ten years. I explained that I’d need access to his databases, inventories of materials, information about how materials were presently organized and catalogued, plans for future acquisitions and so on.
He listened carefully and didn’t interrupt or ask any questions, even when I explained some of the more complex details about how the access would be centrally controlled by software designed especially for the library. I finished what I had to say then waited for his reaction. He was leaning so far back in his chair, I was afraid he’d tip over. He brushed something off his shoe. When I asked him how that sounded to him, he told me it sounded like I was telling him how to run his unit. I explained that wasn’t what I meant. This was a great opportunity for collaboration, I told him.
“You mind your affairs and I’ll mind mine. How’s that for collaboration?” he said then rose out of his seat, opened his office door and motioned for me to leave.
If I had my time back now I probably wouldn’t have complained to the Chief Librarian. I would have waited a few days instead of firing off the letter that very instant when I was frustrated and angry. I shouldn’t have cc’d Francis on it. The Chief called the two of us in for a meeting. Francis said he’d be more than willing to work with me. Not a problem. Of course I could have access to his databases and inventories, whatever and whenever I needed. “Come for a tour anytime,” he said.
I left the meeting after the three of us had shaken hands. As a rule, I take the stairs, not the lift. I have to remind myself to substitute elevator for lift, cellphone for mobile, truck for lorry, apartment for flat and so on. The stairs are adjacent to my office, whereas the elevator is at the other end of the corridor by Edith’s office. I don’t want to encourage her by walking past. She doesn’t need an excuse to think I might be interested in her. The stairwell door closed shut behind me. I trudged up the dirty concrete steps. I’d almost made it to the main landing and was thinking this was another occasion where I’d completely misread the situation. I’d fussed about Francis for nothing. The door opened and closed below. Someone was rushing up the steps behind me. I stopped to let them pass while I caught my breath. It was Francis.
“I forgot to mention a few items at our meeting,” he said, standing on the steps next to me. “Don’t think you’re going to play with my databases, inventories, future acquisitions anymore than you’re going to play with my dick. The sooner you get that straight, the sooner we’ll be able to tolerate each other. In the meantime, throw sand in my face again like you did with that letter to the Chief and I’ll bury you in concrete.”
That was my last face-to-face conversation with Francis. I’ve been avoiding him ever since.
I don’t want to open my office door if it means having to explain what I was doing with the binoculars, but the knock is persistent. “Hello,” the voice on the other side calls. The pitch is too high to be Francis. I open. She’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, frowning. “I knew you were here. I saw you come in after lunch. Oh, I see. Henry’s here with you.”
“Edith, come on in,” Henry