The Beginning

So Mr. B is ready to commit his life to paper. He told me as much yesterday.
I could tell he's been thinking it over for awhile. Finally last night he asked me when I would like to interview him.

"How about next Tuesday?"

He nodded, "What do I have to bring?"

"Your brain."

"That's it?"

"Yup."

"Pencils?"

"Nope, I got that covered."

"Do you need paper?"

"Nah, I think I've got some."

I told him that he could work on some of his artwork while he talked to me. Might be more comfortable for both of us considering I don't really have "a plan" as much as I have "an idea of a plan." I was quick to tell him that I was not a professional writer/interviewer by any stretch of the imagination and that I couldn't promise him a masterpiece. He seemed unfazed by this.

What he does seem interested in is getting "his story" out there. He said that throughout his life many people have stolen ideas from him. He sees this as a way to set things straight.

Push "pause."

I can't help but feel conflicted about this. On one hand, Mr. B is eager to tell his story. On the other...am I becoming just another person who steals from him? He trusts me and I cannot and will not break that. Or am I breaking it already? Whose glory am I seeking? His? Or mine?

He's been in a bit of a rut lately. Not doing much artwork. Not really writing his thoughts. He told me that he's not been very inspired. But ever since he's been turning the idea of this project over in his head, he's seemed keen on getting started. He told me that he'll even bring me some pictures to help tell his story. I can actually see his wheels turning. When I was talking to him last night, his gaze would often go off in the distance and he'd say, "Yeah, I've got stories." He then left me with a teaser that he was the one who invented the stealth bomber. (This motif often appears in his cards.) It's kind of nice to see him excited about something.

And then...I wonder...about cans of worms. You know what they say about cans of worms. What if I find out things that I don't want to know? I told him that he only has to share things that he's comfortable sharing. He informed that he's planning on telling "the whole truth." Will my perception of him change when I'm provided with new information? Has it changed already? Also, am I crossing a professional line? Where do "patrons" end and "friends" begin? What are the roles of public servants who work with the public day in and day out? Should we be automatons and issue terse greetings and just get on with it? Or. Are we forgetting the human side of service? I'm not an automaton (last I checked). I can't be expected to act like one. I forge relationships. I say "hello" to people by name. I know about the movies they've seen, the trips they've taken, the books they've read. I lavish praise on the children who give me hand-colored pictures even though I'm actually "not allowed" to accept gifts. When I fractured my shoulder last fall I can't tell you the amount of patrons who repeatedly inquired of my progress, shared their own stories and offered words of encouragement. This is a library not an insurance company. Our mission is to "improve the lives of the people in our community," right?  

  

Maybe this is good time to say this about Mr. B: He's a 71-year-old-man with no family nearby. He lives alone. He's never mentioned any friends. He takes medication for a variety of ailments. I'm the one who asks him if he's taking his pills. If he's eaten that day. If he's been sleeping. If he's called the eye doctor to get his glasses fixed. It's a bit of a running joke but he knows that if he doesn't show his face at the library for 5 days or more I will knock on his front door. Sometimes he'll just pop in and if he doesn't see me around he'll tell one of my co-workers to tell "Miss J that I was here."

So really...maybe I've already crossed the line? But in this profession, it gets really hard to see the line sometimes. We see children grow up before our eyes. We're with people when their spouses die. We know whose cancer has returned. You can't help it. Humans talk. We talk. We connect. We reach out. We're social beings. I can't apologize for that. 

Maybe I'm helping Mr. B. More likely, he's helping me. You see, for every question I ask him about his food intake, he tells me about something I didn't know. Do you know what a Kettenkrad is? I do now. I know about the King Ranch. And Red Adair. And the mascot at Texas A&M. He's leaving me better than I was before. I hope I'm doing the same. 

Truth is...I haven't been very inspired either. I got sick of writing about myself and I felt like it was time to write about someone else. All that contemplating my navel bullshittery. I can't help but think me and Mr. B are some kind of parallel trajectory. Kind-of a "I'll drag you and you'll drag me" type of thing. Both of us need some sort-of prodding. Me, because I rarely finish any big projects I start. Him, because he gets caught up in his own "non-special-ness." We need help to realize that together we may pull off something huge.  

Still. It's hard to shake all the "what if's." Why was Mr. B in the State Hospital? (Those tales are few and far between and very disjointed.) What happened to Mrs. B? Where are his children and why do they not speak to him? Why did he attempt to win back "power of attorney" from his son-in-law a few years ago? Why does he sometimes think people are trying to burn his house down? How far can we go? How far should we go? Do I pull the plug or let it ride? Do I choose caution or the possibility of something massively great?

It's hard to say. I suppose I'll just take it one step at a time. That's always how it is in the beginning, right?