The Censor

I watched the woman fume at the librarian as she returned a “filthy” book. She said it was so dirty she couldn’t read past the first fifty pages. Delighted to have a front row seat to a breaking news event, I looked out the window to see if the Westboro Baptist church was picketing. The woman’s self-righteous demeanor suggested she might be one of them. There were no pickets, just a lone, self-appointed censor.

She blathered on about using taxpayer funds for offensive material. She was a bit too indignant to be believable. Truth be known, her concern was that a salacious book was on her permanent record at the library.

The woman struck me as the sort of individual who would put pants on the statue of David, but only after she peeked. I’ll bet she is a closet romance novel junkie who checked out something racier than her usual selections. She stopped after reading the first fifty pages? Nah, she plowed through the whole book. I picture her making popcorn and burning the midnight oil reading non-stop. It may have filled in the gaps for information her mother could not imagine nor explain. She probably cranked up the air conditioning and enjoyed every hot, titillating page.

I couldn’t see the title of the book she clutched to her bosom. I considered asking her how “Fifty Shades of Grey” ended. Her response might have produced the name of the book and satisfied my curiosity. If the book was “Grey,” unless she just arrived from Mars, she had to know this is a highly publicized erotic novel.

I will never discover the title of the offensive tome. I wanted to ask the librarian but as soon as the offended patron left, she slapped a “closed” sign on her desk and made her escape. I don’t know why people waste time watching reality television. The oddballs at the public library are more interesting and there are no commercials.

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