7.

Eugene Crabbe sat at his desk in the Library of Congress, his forehead on his hand, looking down at a piece of paper with some writing on it, possibly the first lines of a new poem. His eyes were closed, but the casual passerby might not have guessed that he was asleep. The Great Poet was sunk deep in thought. He had been deep in thought for the past hour, so deep that he occasionally made a sound remarkably like snoring from his open mouth.

At eleven thirty, the digital beeping of the telephone startled him from his revery.

The caller id said the person on the line was the Librarian of Congress himself, Dr. Bernard J. Boylston, but Crabbe saw this only after picking up and saying “hello.”“Hello, Mr. Crabbe, this is Bernie. Dr. Boylston.”

“Yes,” Crabbe said hesitantly.

“Do you feel like joining me for lunch today? I’ve been wanting to have a more personal chat with you.”

“Um, I don’t know…,” Crabbe said, strangely put out. He was thinking of how having someone join him for lunch would interrupt his routine. Typically, after dining in the Library cafeteria he would wander down to the mall and spend at least two hours in the National Gallery or the Museum of American History. In addition to the disturbance of his regular habits, having to make conversation with a relative stranger could be tedious, if not downright painful. But how could he refuse?

“Are you busy or already engaged for lunch?” Boylston asked.

“Um, no…I guess not…”

“Then how about I stop by your office around noon? I’m coming over to Jefferson for a minute, anyway.”

“OK. Sure.”

“Good. See you then.”

The Librarian’s apparent cheerfulness hadn’t wavered through the entire brief conversation. Crabbe felt seriously anxious, however. Crabbe felt seriously imposed upon, angry even. Old fart, Crabbe thought, standing up from his desk for a stretch. Doesn’t he have anything better to do than disturb my lunch? Crabbe began to pace the floor nervously. His office would have been the envy of anyone, no matter if they were in the government or business world. Even Boylston did not have an office so grand as Crabbe’s, and what’s more, Boylston’s office was not even in the Jefferson building. Boylston’s office was in the rather bland, corporate-like Madison building. Whenever Crabbe thought of the Librarian’s office in Madison, he thought of mustard yellow. That was the color of the walls leading to the Librarian’s office: the color of the crap of a young human infant. Not that Crabbe knew what the crap of a young human infant looked like. He was only going on assumption there.

Crabbe’s office, however, was in one of the most beautiful buildings in all of Washington, the Jefferson building of the Library of Congress, an ornate, opulently decorated fin de siécle monument to learning. His office was one of only a few on the second level of the circular, high-domed Main Reading Room. From his desk, open to the Reading Room itself except for a plate of glass placed there apparently to keep jumpers from immolating themselves upon the readers’ tables below, he could look down to the circulation desk or up to the high, golden dome above, or across the expanse of the Reading Room to any one of the other alcoves that served as offices on this level. A statue of a famous historical figure representing some aspect of knowledge stood on a pedestal in each alcove, overlooking the Reading Room. .Shakespeare represented Literature, Plato represented Philosophy, Isaac Newton represented Science.

Crabbe’s alcove also had a statue. When Crabbe sat at his desk, he stared up at the backside of Robert Fulton, representing Commerce. Fulton even seemed slightly bent, as if bowing in that peculiar eighteenth-century manner, or as if saying to Crabbe, “Kiss my ass. I’m up here, and you’re down there.” Crabbe wasn’t sure just which.

Crabbe looked at his watch. He sat down at his desk. The paper on his desk did indeed have the beginning of a poem printed on it. One line. He had written one line of iambic pentameter since taking his post as Poet Laureate. It was not even a good line.

“A barren rock, alone upon the sea”

That was all. Nothing more. When did versifying become such a chore?

Dr. Boylston showed up a bit early, startling Crabbe by bursting open the door. A smiling, impish old face topped by unruly white hair peeked around the door.

“Why hello there,” Bernie Boylston said. “Are you ready then?”Crabbe was not ready, but as usual he felt his fate was unavoidable.

On the way down the spiral stairs to the first floor, Crabbe had time to appraise his torturer. Boylston was a small man, at least eighty years old but healthy, in a cherubic sort of way. His mouth seemed always smiling, showing a set of small, white teeth. Falsies, no doubt, Crabbe thought. His white hair was unkempt, which stood in contrast to the well-coifed image projected in the video which introduced tourists to the Library of Congress . The un-made-up Boylston was downright slovenly. He wore a white shirt and tie, but the tie had Bugs Bunny on it, and it was slightly askew and not pinned down. It swung as he walked, which probably accounted for its being askew, the thin tail of the tie almost reversing places with the fat part of the tie that was supposed to be all that people see. His pants were charcoal gray and he wore black tennis shoes with navy socks. The only other time Crabbe had met Boylston had been at the official ceremony in which he accepted the Laureateship, and at that time, Boylston had been contained, coifed, and appropriately suited. Today, he looked like a color-blind alzheimer’s patient.

Boylston had been a Professor of Russian Language and Literature in his days before being appointed Librarian, and he had been a popular Professor, too. Witty and down to earth, he had nonetheless been quite serious about teaching the young and the restless. He had more than once given students an ear-full for taking his own informality as a sign that they themselves could be informal. No chatting during a lecture, though Boylston encouraged students to engage with the Professor. Gum chewing had also been a pet peeve of Dr. Bernie Boylston’s, and he was known to actually boot students from a class who broke that rule more than once. No one ever complained, however, and Boylston’s classes were always full up at the beginning of a semester. All Crabbe knew, however, was that Boylston was a Professor of Russian. If he had known more, it probably would have made no difference. He was turned off by the man, deeming him a character.

Once on the first floor, the two men took the elevator down to the tunnels that connect the Library to the Capitol and the surrounding buildings on Capitol Hill. As they exited the elevator and began to walk through the tunnel between the Jefferson and Madison buildings, Crabbe noted that Boylston nodded at passersby, smiling and saying hello. At one point, a man wearing the smock of the janitorial staff stopped Boylston and took his hand.

“Good to see you again, Sir. How you been?” The worker said.

“Good, good, Elijah, how bout yourself?” Boylston said, smiling and apparently pleased to have met this man. Grubby-looking fellow, Crabbe thought unhappily. He kept examining Boylston to determine if this little game of greeting everyone with a smile was just a politician’s game, but he could not tell. As they moved on, he saw others take Boylston’s hands and speak to him as if they were personal friends. It really perplexed Crabbe.

Finally, Boylston turned his attention to his companion and asked, “So where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” Crabbe replied. “I haven’t eaten at any of the restaurants around here.”

“You haven’t?” Boylston said, surprised.

“No. I’ll leave it up to you. I really don’t know,” Crabbe said.

“I hope you like Thai food,” Boylston said.

“I don’t,” Crabbe said, though he had never in fact eaten Thai food.

“Oh no. You’re serious?”

“Very serious.”

“Chinese?”

“No, not Chinese neither.”

“Well, there’s the Hawk and Dove—it’s a pub, if you couldn’t tell by the name—or there’s Bullfeathers,” Boylston said.

“What do they serve there?”

“Typical American fare, but very expensive. You’ll pay nearly twelve bucks for a burger and fries.”

“No, thank you,” Crabbe said.

“How about Pete’s Diner? Can’t go wrong there. I can get some Asian food, and you can get whatever American food you want.”

“Alright,” Crabbe agreed.

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