I looked around. The warehouse had seen better days. With broken clerestory windows and a rusty, leaking steel roof the rain was worse inside than out. The concrete floor was uneven and wet, with the right side cleared of debris and the left still to be done. A few small trees were growing where they could. A grey day in a grey shed.
Mitt Romney was putting some pressure-treated 2-by-4's down, firmly against the faded paint of the wall. He was wearing an open-necked blue check shirt. "No, Mitt! That's not how you do it! We have to wait for all this to dry. And you're not supposed to be 'doing' the work, you're supposed to be managing it!" I showed him where the wood had to go - about a foot away from the wall. "We have to allow for air movement, and you need a lot of that with this sort place." He looked chastened and annoyed.
I walked to the other side and pulled a small ailanthus out. A pile of cheap desks looked interesting. I peered into it. Plastic veneer, printed to look like wood, was peeling from particleboard bases. Steel legs were patched with rust. I could hear a small fan, rattling slightly on its bearings. I moved some of the pile, and there was a small electric heater, plugged in. "Far too small for the space", I thought to myself. It didn't have a fan. I tugged on the cord, unplugging it. The noise stopped. I looked around. Mitt was busy trying to do something. I had to go to the library.
The guard was arguing with a woman. Stepping through a large metal detector, I asked about the Scientific American I'd reserved; the woman behind the oak counter gave it to me and scanned it. She might have smiled, I wasn't sure. I went into the Grand Room. It had faded oak panelling and tall, narrow windows with small leaded panes of old glass. Clusters of chairs faced away from a fire cheerfully burning in a majestic stone fireplace. I wondered if that was why it was merry. I sat in a green leather wing chair near the fire. A couple was arguing. Clearly an item, the two guys were getting louder until one of them said "Wouldn't it be cute if we were in the same room when we were born! We could have been!" He squealed in delight. The other patrons looked annoyed or cheered. I waved. I had no idea who they were. It seemed appropriate.
The library didn't allow clothes. The changing room was old; the same dark oak panels and a warm oak floor. Generous cubbies were placed too high across a forbidding deep counter made of the same oak. The room was a bit intimidating. I folded my t-shirt and shorts and carefully tossed them into a cubby. A young Robin Williams stood nearby. He cracked a joke. I couldn't hear the words. My phone rang. I took it from my pocket. I put on a large t-shirt dress. It had a a watercolor of large red daisy with a yellow stamen printed on it. I decided it was cute. Robin pulled a blue bra from his pocket and said something. he looked older. He was doing a news report from Vietnam. I answered the phone. It was my wife. She was telling me she was at work.
Carolyn Ann
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