Call me Ishmael.
That’s not my name, but since I’m not exactly in the habit of going by my legal name1See Physics Is My Middle Name, The Unbearable Lightness Of Being A BJ, A Degenerate Family Christmas. I figured “Why the hell not?”
I also asked myself, “why the hell not mix up my literary references while we’re at it?”
Well, it’s not so much a mix-up of references as it is identifying with the wrong character. Hopefully you recognized the timeless opening line above as coming from the literary classic “Moby Dick.”
Indeed, you could “call me Ishmael” if I were about to narrate a tale about some other jackass’s unhealthy obsession. But as you probably have guessed by now, I will be playing the role of Captain Ahab in this evening’s performance instead.
When I was but a youngster, say, around 9 years old, my personal white whale was another literary classic in its own right: The Anarchist Cookbook.2Further reading: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Anarchist_Cookbook
During this period in my life I was living in Springfield, Missouri and was fortunate enough to live only a block away from the local branch of the Springfield Public Library. I would end up spending most my afternoons after school there, devouring all forms of written and drawn word.3In full disclosure, I read a shit-ton of Garfield, Calvin & Hobbes, and The Far Side. Not exactly “the written word.” I was in it so deep that one might even call me a BookWhore–several levels well past your typical BookWorm.
It was most likely through all my ninja research in that library that led me to became aware of the existence of The Anarchist Cookbook. I don’t recall exactly what I knew about it and when I knew it, but Wikipedia’s description of it’s contents–“chapters include descriptions and detailed instructions in hand-to-hand combat, explosives, booby traps, drugs, [and more!]”–tracks pretty well with my memory of the situation.
I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I mean, this was a book that I, nay but a 9-year-old, could check out?!? For free? Like, did anybody else know about this? How was this awesomeness even allowed to exist?
Of course I was all about getting my hands on information telling me how to make bombs, along with other practical skills such as getting unlimited long-distance telephone calls from pay phones, aka “phreaking.” After all, McGuyver was amongst my Top Three childhood heroes (after ALF and Robert Stack, of course). And we all know that that dude never paid a dime for his many telecommunications.
Anyways, it wasn’t the mere existence of the book that kept me up at night. It was the fact that it was clearly in the library’s system, floating about somewhere in the great city of Springfield, seemingly just beyond my grasp.
But it would be mine. Oh yes, it would be mine. I never gave up hope on possessing such a fount of useful knowledge, even if it would be but for a mere 3 weeks.
After what was at least 2 years, I finally had my window of opportunity. I had verified that it was available at the Main Branch of the library, and had somehow convinced my mom to take us boys over there.
We rolled up and before she even had the car in park, I was out the door and racing in, simply unable to wait any longer to get the Cookbook in this pint-sized chef’s pudgy hands. Up and down the stacks I looked, but I couldn’t find it. And believe you me, it wasn’t for a lack of experience with the Dewey Decimal System. That was not the issue.
Eventually the trail led me to the main desk. I let them know what the object of my quest was, and that they could kindly turn it over to me now.
“Are you here with your mom or dad? Can you go get them?” was the librarian’s response.
The hell?!? Just give me the ----- book already!
I was starting to get that sinking feeling in my stomach. I was so close I could almost taste the styrofoam-and-gasoline napalm dripping off of its pages. And yet, I was still so far away.
I reluctantly trotted off and tracked down my dear mother and brought her back.
“Alright, here’s my mom. Can I have the book now?”
My impatience was indubitably palpable to the entire room.
The librarian shuffled through a stack of books behind her and pulled out the coveted item.
Placing it on the desk, she turned to me: “Now, you can’t actually check it out. But you can sit over there and read it for an hour. Then you must return it to me.”
Sure, it wasn’t ideal, but if a conjugal visit was all they were offering me, I sure as hell wasn’t going to pass up 60 passionate minutes with My Beloved. My fingers crept onto the desk and then around the book itself…
She then turned to my mom and said, “Driver’s license, please.”
Oh, ----- They check for I.D.–I hadn’t anticipated that bit. No problem, though–my mom was a bona fide legal resident, so this would just be a formality…right? My grip on the book tightened.
“You will need to leave your driver’s license here while he has the book.”
Okay, this was getting weird. But still not a dealbreaker, at least from where I was standing.
I looked over at mom, who at that point had her driver’s license pulled halfway out of her purse. Dread started to creep through my veins, as I could see in her eyes that she was slowly realizing that what I was up to was maybe slightly less than legal–and that she was about to be on the hook for whatever happened as a result of that book falling into my hands.
“Uh…I’m not so sure this is a good idea. What was this book about again?”
Once the librarian kindly filled her in as to the nature of its content, it was Game Over for me.
The book was forcible removed from my hands, and mom had to drag me away from the main desk.
I’m not gonna lie–my heart was absolutely broken. I may have been yet a young lad, but that day I finally understood exactly what Bob Dylan/Axl Rose meant when they sang of “Knocking On Heaven’s Door.”4At least that’s what I think it means…
Can’t a boy just have his bombs? What kind of cruel world do we live in anyways?
On a rather interesting note, I later learned that the Main Branch also had Playboy magazines in their circulation (don’t ask me how I discovered this). But could a guy or gal just check one out and enjoy it in the privacy of their own home? Nope. They were only available via the exact same protocol as for the Anarchist Cookbook.
I think that knowledge just creates more questions than it answers right there, though, doesn’t it?
What the hell were they up to over there at the Springfield Public Library (Main Branch)? Were they compiling a database of perverts and subversives? One in which my dearest mother is now an entry for all eternity? Oops.
Even more disturbing is that this lends some credence to the entire generation of Boomers complaining about how “hard they had it back in [their] day.”
What if…(gulp)…
What if…they’re right?
I mean, you can’t argue with an elderly gentleman bemoaning how easy youths have it these days:
Why, when I was your age, if I wanted to look at pornography in the library, I had to show two forms of I.D., and was forced to sit directly in front of the librarian for the entire meager hour that I was allowed to enjoy my literature of choice.
And after my hour was up, she would always page me by my full name over the intercom, announcing to the whole library that I needed to return my vintage edition of Juggs magazine to the front desk.
So don’t you Millennials-splain to me about grit, dedication–or suffering!
an old crank that i pray to ----- only exists in my imagination
So, while it’s not officially the point of the story, it doesn’t hurt to be reminded that we have much for which to be grateful. Like public computers with free internet access, for instance.
And thanks to the internet, I eventually did get my hands on a digital copy of The Anarchist Cookbook.
In 8th Grade I was living in California, and though it was the very beginning of the the Internet Age, I had a friend or two who actually had internet access.
I don’t recall if I specifically requested it, or if my friend happened to have went out and downloaded it on their own. Either way, I soon was a proud owner of two 3.5″ disks containing all the information I would ever really need from the internet.
Of course, this story couldn’t have that happy of an ending, now could it? Of course not.
Almost as soon as I had a glimpse of the forbidden knowledge, I decided to go bragging about my bomb-making potential to random acquaintances on the school bus.
I don’t know who I was trying to impress, but it sure wasn’t worth the scare of being called into the Principal’s office, a visit in which they led me to sincerely believe that they were debating whether or not they needed to get the FBI involved.
Praise be to Allah,5Hah! I caught ya being racist! Yes, Reader, I’m talking to you. nothing ever came of it once they determined I was too resource-poor to do anything with said knowledge.
Again, it’s not the point of the story, but it’s worth remembering: show yourself some self-respect. You don’t need your bomb-making skills validated by other people. Especially snitches. Or junior high principals. Or the authorities. Just keep your ----- mouth shut, will ya?
While I definitely went through an “Anarchy is totally rad” phase for about 5 years in high school, at some point I came to the realization:
“Anarchy is a completely ----- stupid #GovernmentGoal. I wouldn’t last 3 days! Also, basically everyone is assured of the same opportunity to be denied a chance at prospering in any meaningful way. So, yeah. Anarchy kind of sucks, dumbass.”
The irony in all of this is that, despite what some optimists might try to tell you, there is a very real–slim, but still real–chance that COVID-19 could eventually lead to anarchy.
What’s that? I might get to live out my childhood dream? Uh…hooray?
The point of the story is…kids are stupid? No, I don’t think that is where I was going with this…
The point of the story is, as unnecessary as it should be, let us pause and be grateful that we have largely functional forms of government in place on multiple civic levels. Despite what angsty teenage me might tell you, anarchy would not be pleasant at all.
So kudos to all you citizens out there helping to keep civilization from busting apart at the seams. Old men shadily huddled behind library computer screens across the country salute you.
Footnotes & References:
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