The Body in the Book Drop

A short story

Photo by cottonbro studio/pexels

The dead body in the book drop is the least of my worries this morning.

The children’s librarian called off sick, and we have thirty toddlers signed up for her Party in My Pants story time in less than an hour. No, I don’t ask her about what goes on in the program room during that time. As long as the parents are happy, I would prefer to remain oblivious.

The college girl I hired to handle the check-out desk first shift on weekdays is twenty minutes late and won’t answer her phone. She did say she was going out of town this past weekend, so maybe she is conveniently recovering from whatever shenanigans college kids get up to these days.

I don’t like to deal with people and yet here I am, not only moments away from unlocking the front doors to the public library I manage but with a curled-up body weighing down the large cart we use to catch deposits in the book drop overnight.

Mrs. Rooney knocks on the automatic doors, and her neighbor, Mr. Boyle, presses his nose against the glass. I gag audibly at the thought of how many other noses have smeared bodily fluids on that window.

Both octogenarians are after the Sunday and Monday newspapers, too cheap to buy copies for themselves, although I can’t blame them considering how the prices have gone up over the past few years. They’ll die before giving up dibs on the exciting headlines of our small-town press, which usually feature church picnic suppers and vintage car shows. Yawn.

Rooney will shove her big bag of a purse into Boyle’s stomach while he pushes past her the second I turn off the door lock, and I’ll have to shush them before the interaction plays out and the front pages of each newspaper edition are torn.

They’ll complain that I won’t let them rush into the library early, since they can see me inside and they don’t think there’s a reason for me to make them wait. I will remind them that there’s a reason posted beside the front doors, and it’s called the operating hours.

I turn my back to them and stare at the lump in the drop. Someone dumped a stack of Peppa Pig picture books ahead of this guy, and I can see the colorful spines peeking out from under him.

At least, I think it’s a him. The flannel shirt, dusty jeans, and short tufts of hair lead me to this quick judgment, but I know that appearances can be deceiving. Working with the public will teach one this lesson hard and quick.

When I push the wheeled cart towards the staff area in the back of the building, ignoring the rattle of the windowed front doors, I wonder if I should wipe down the returned picture books. The body doesn’t seem to be bleeding or otherwise oozing, so once I’m outside my office, I slip them out from beneath him.

With the books stacked on my desk, I take a moment to consider my options. Maybe I should just store him somewhere until I have time to deal with his unexpected arrival in a proper fashion, whatever that is.

The last time I called the police was after a man robbed an older customer at gunpoint in the parking lot, and my district manager told me a report of violence on the news made the library look bad. Unsafe. I couldn’t have agreed more, nor could the victim, who was still shaking as she explained what happened to the bored cop who took the report.

Since I need my job, I know I have to handle this myself. So I do.

The short dumpster is nearly full, so once I direct the cart out back, it takes little effort to drop the body on top of the trash bags and plastic packaging from last week’s office supply delivery. I decided to think about the situation while I let the usual work begin. No reason to make Rooney, Boyle, or thirty highly caffeinated toddler moms suspicious by delaying their entrance.

I spray the book drop cart with sanitizer just in case before pushing it back against the slot in the wall at the front of the building. The opening is bigger than it looks, I guess, if someone was able to shove the body through it.

As Rooney and Boyle argue over the newspapers, I greet the moms with an apology for the cancellation of story time, a saccharine smile, and an offer to bring out the blocks and puzzles so their brats can play while they complain about their husbands together. As if they don’t catch on to the insincerity in my tone, they grow excited and thank me, which means I have to drag the toys out from the storage closet and toss them on the program room floor.

Once the door to that room is closed behind me, I clap my hands to distract the elderly news-obsessed pair from their escalating fight. I take my lighter from my pocket and flick my thumb over the spark wheel, pointing to the torn pages shared between their hands.

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll burn it all. Every single word.”

Before they can answer, my craving for nicotine drives me back to my office, where I grab the pack of cigarettes I keep for emergencies. If someone wants to check out a book, they’re going to have to wait.

I step out the back door and take a deep breath before fumbling with the package. Once I finally have a cigarette between my shaking fingers, a familiar roar breaks the silence. The garbage truck pulls up the dumpster, just as it does every other Monday, and during this general disaster, I’ve forgotten that today is the day.

The truck squeals to a stop and I head back inside, because I don’t need to smoke after all.

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originally published in The Lark