I had decided to spend the day at the Philadelphia Library. I have been working on my family history for the past ten years, and I wanted to search the census records for the period of time between 1900 and 1920. I am studying my father’s side of the family.

I knew that he was an only child and had been raised from the age of seven until he was sixteen at Girard College. During that time, Girard College was a residential school for boys only. The only requirement was that one of their parents was deceased. His father passed away when he was five from uremic poisoning.

It was a beautiful crisp autumn day, so I decided to take the high-speed line over to Philly.  I arrived about a half-hour before the library opened. So I decided to walk around the corner to grab something to eat for breakfast at Whole Foods.

I bought a small container of yogurt and green tea. Whole Foods is a great food store, but they are pricey. It cost almost six dollars for these two items. I devoured the yogurt as I hadn’t eaten any dinner the night before. The tea was hot, so I sipped slowly. It was good. I’m something of a tea connoisseur. At any given moment, I can name fifty different brands and types of teas.

Unfortunately, very few people seem particularly interested in hearing my list, although some have suffered in silence as I listed them in alphabetical order. I know they don’t want to hear it, but somehow, I feel compelled to tell them.

First, I see their eyes shift from right to left, looking for a way out of the conversation. It isn’t a conversation, more of a monologue. I give them very little chance to break away. I keep talking at breakneck speed. I see their eyes glazing over, I know that they are not listening anymore, but still, I persist, naming my favorite teas, or pies, or ice cream. I have a list for just about any subject.

I decided to walk across the street to the Book Corner, a used book store operated by the Central Library. It is filled with used and donated books. Oh yes, I forgot to mention that I also collect books.

Books fill every inch of space in my two-bedroom apartment, stacked on tables, chairs, under tables and chairs, under my bed, and on the side of my bed that I don’t sleep on. People have told me that I am a hoarder of books. I say I ‘m a bibliophile. I love the feel, smell, and touch of old books. My favorite books are art books with full-color plates of art, every type of art, and periods of history. I’m a collector of many things, mostly useless facts that no one wants to hear or know about. 

I almost purchase a book on Jasper Johns, one of my favorite abstract expressionist artists. But I talked myself out of it. Since I already had this self-same book at home in one of my piles.

I start walking up the street behind the library, and I see something on the sidewalk. I quickstepped up to it and lean over and pick it up. It’s a watch, a stunning watch. I don’t own valuable jewelry myself, but I certainly recognize quality when I see it. It’s gold, a women’s watch, with a mesh watch band. There are twenty-eight small diamonds surrounding the watch face. There is a small stone on the stem of the watch, I think a blue Topaz.

I turn over the watch and look on the back there is an inscription it reads: To BlJ, from JPO, and then some words in French. My high school French is somewhat rusty since I graduated. Well, let’s just say quite a few decades ago. I decided to type the phrase into Google translator when I finally got into the library.

When I arrive at the library, I fly up the steps and push open the beautiful ornate doors. I’m never disappointed when I enter the library, they have recently remodeled the first floor, and it is fabulous. The new entry floor is gleaming marble, all new showcases. I look at each one and study its contents.

Oh, there’s going to be a visit from an author. Oh, I definitely will sign up for that. I’ll purchase a copy of her book and have it autographed by her. I feel slightly buzzed being around all this beauty and the thousands upon thousands of stacks of books on every subject.

I should have been a librarian, but I wouldn’t have gotten any work done since I would have been reading all day instead of whatever librarians are supposed to be doing. Besides, I have observed that librarians are a bit on the strange side, either very quirky and annoyed by visitors or very formal, as if they’re famous professors who don’t have the time to speak to a visitor. If I worked there, I would probably be a little of both and get fired after a month.

I check my pockets to see if my treasure is still there. It is, but I know that I will check my pocket many times to be sure. It is one of my quirky traits, excessive checking of things. Checking to see if I really locked the door or turned off the iron, or didn’t accidentally run over a cat that I thought was a bump in the road. I’m just being cautious, that’s all.

I enter the main book room next to the entrance. I‘m so pleased with the remodel it’s dazzling. I run over to the computer and go onto the Internet, Google translator. I type in the phase Mon amour éternel. It means my eternal love. God, that is so romantic. The poor soul that lost this must be heartbroken. Imagine losing such a  keepsake.

I almost start to cry right there in the middle of the library. I start imagining what it must be like to have someone promise their eternal love. I have never had that, I want it, and now I know it is probably too late for me, but still, I keep my eyes open. You never know what might happen. I want to find a way to return the watch to the owner, but I don’t know what to do.

I approach the man who works at the main information desk, and he is one of the standoffish types, very formal. I’m not certain, but I believe he has some type of vision impairment, or he can’t bear to look anyone in the eyes. “Hello, can you tell me if there’s a lost and found?’ He doesn’t look at me or acknowledge my presence in any way. He starts typing on his keyboard. Perhaps he has a hearing deficit as well. I repeat my question only louder. Nothing.

Then somewhat abruptly, he says, “No book by that name but several containing that subject matter. Let me print it out for you. ”

“What, no, no you misunderstood. I’m asking if the library has a lost and found. You know you find or lose something and check to see if anyone turned it in, or you find something and turn it in. ”

“Go to the service desk. They might have an answer for you. I do not. ”

“But isn’t this the service desk?” I roll my eyes to the heavens. It’s lost on him. He has dismissed me from his mind. I no longer exist in his world. In my opinion, the library made a poor choice when they placed him at the central hall information desk. He should be sitting in the subbasement somewhere, filing something.

I walk over to the main room again toward the librarian. There are only two now since most of them were replaced by an automated checkout system. I wait patiently in line until it’s my turn. I repeat my question, “Have you got a lost and found?”

” This is the check-in or check-out department. You need to go to the service desk and ask Mr. Beaumont. He will be happy to assist you.”

“But I did speak to Mr. Beaumont. He didn’t assist me. He sent me to you. What do you suggest now?”

“Perhaps you could ask Charles, at the exit to the library; he’s the guard that checks all books as you exit the library.”

“Charles, thank you I’ll speak to him.” I walk over to the library exit, and Charles is sitting looking through a large stack of books that an older gentleman is checking out.

I have seen him before. He looks like an aesthetic, or perhaps the English actor who is tall and thin, was some sort of magician in Lord of the Rings he has very long, shiny gray hair, down to his waist, I have often seen him when I visited the art department of the library. He always keeps to himself, is surrounded by books, and spends the day taking notes, in a leather notebook.

I patiently wait for my turn. Finally, I step up to Charles, “Hello, could you tell me if the library has a lost and found?” As I’m waiting, I recheck my pocket to make sure the watch is there.

“Yes, what are you looking for?”

“I’m not looking for anything; I found something.”

“Well, I can’t help you with that, other than you write down, what you have found on this form, and a contact number or email, and I will give them your information.”

“Alright, let’s do that.” I finally feel like I’m making some headway. I give Charles my information, “Thank you, Charles, you have been helpful.”

I head over to the elevator, push the button for the second floor, and wait as it slowly makes its way down from the third floor. The doors slide open. They remodeled the elevator, too, and it looks like it belongs in a luxury hotel. I step inside, and somehow it has not lost that urine smell it always had. I hold my breath until the doors open to the second floor, make a right turn down the first hall, through the literature department, and find my way into the art department.

Oh, crap, I think. What am I doing here? I meant to go to the records department and study the census. I head to the elevator and back to the records department. I arrive safely. I step up to the desk and ask the librarian to help me find the census for 1900-1930.

She’s accommodating. I look at the records, which are digital copies of the original census books. However, the books were all handwritten and somewhat challenging to read. I spend the next three hours looking through them, meeting with some success. I find the record where my father is listed as an inmate of Girard College. An inmate, as if he were a criminal in prison. This upset me so much that I turn off the machine and decided to head home.

I buy a hotdog from the vendor on the corner, such a cheerful fellow. I say, “Thank you.”

I head towards the bus stop that will get me to the High Speedline. I arrived at the Speedline intake, and I believe I checked my pocket about fifteen times before I got on the train.

I head home, and I notice that my stomach is starting to feel a little queasy, and by the time we get over the bridge to the Camden stop, I know that I have gotten food poisoning.

I rush off the train, and I’m forced to use the public facility. Dear god, I think I will be able to make it home! I do, but just barely. I take some medicine for my stomach. It doesn’t really help. I spend the next ten hours in and on the toilet. Finally, I start to feel better. I go to the kitchen. I feel so empty and get some tea and crackers.

I decided to check my email; to my surprise, I have five hundred emails. I open the first one; Bill declares it is his watch, and he wants it back. I open the next ten; they’re all the same. I realize that I have made a mistake in describing the watch. All the rest are the same.

Chivalry has died, and so has my trust in humanity. I will put the watch away or perhaps donate it to some worthwhile charity. I think of the woman who lost her watch and said a silent prayer for her. She has lost something that was close to her heart, and so have I.

---- Sign up for Emails to our latest Posts ----

First Name

Email address:

Leave this field empty if you're human: