Dewey Disciples
by Tom Filecco <
[email protected]>
gopher://sdf.org:70/1/users/tf/
Copyright (C)2023 by Tom Filecco
CC BY-NC 4.0
I'm sitting in the library reading the New York Post, minding my
own business, when those damn Dewey Disciples come in with a group of four
hostages. Six of them, in neat dark brown tweed suits, and round wire
frame glasses. The scent of apple-flavored pipe tobacco starts to linger
in the air as they enter. Number One had an old break-top revolver in a
well-worn holster of brown leather, like the one Harrison Ford carried in
the Indiana Jones movies. Number Two is carrying a skull-shaped bowl. The
librarian notices them, nods their head in acknowledgment, and disappears.
I decide that I'm going to ignore them, and concentrate on reading about
the current drama in the rivalry between the Yankees and the Red Sox.
Connecticut is disputed territory, but I was born in Yonkers. My status as
an expatriate New Yorker makes it important for me to know what's going on
with the teams in case I'm questioned by a co-worker. Never mind that my
favorite team has their stadium in Queens.
The Dewey Disciples have been in the news a lot recently. One of
them was arrested in Tennessee for smuggling copies of Maus into the
state, and distributing them to minors. Last month the Texas Attorney
General called them terrorists after boxes containing copies of Naked
Lunch, Slaughterhouse-Five, Our Bodies Our Selves, and Are You There God?
It's Me, Margaret showed up at school libraries across the state. The
Disciples response was a simple "Est??s pero si bien pendejo." Not to be
outdone by the Attorney General, the mayor of Austin declares his city a
sanctuary for the group. The Disciples sent him a nice postcard as thanks
with the complement. "Haces que yo quiera ser una mejor persona." Just
this month they gifted a "Fortieth Anniversary present" of Soul On Ice and
Go Ask Alice to the Island Trees High School, having written "For Steven
Pico" on the fly leaves.
Alas, my plan for minding my own business isn't going to work.
Number One walks up to my table, and tells Number Two "Place Yorick here."
Number Two sees my copy of The Post, points at it, and lets out an
earsplitting hissing shriek reminiscent of Donald Sutherland's character
in Invasion Of The Body Snatchers. The others start yelling "Give him
Burroughs! Give him Bukowski! Give him Palahniuk! Give him The Village
Voice!" Number One raises a hand, and they all fall silent. Number Two
places the skull bowl across from me, and everyone sits down at the table.
Number One sits in front of me and pulls items out of the bowl. The first
is a big old-school Silver Dollar coin, the one with President Eisenhower
on the front. The second is a deck of well-used playing cards from some
casino called The Aquarius. I think it's in Nevada, but not Las Vegas.
Finally a pair of 10-sided dice, one red, one white, that look like what I
used to play D&D with. They start chanting in what I think is Latin. "Ad
maiorem cognoscendam fortuiti viam eant. Sic fiat fiat." The other members
all reply "Sic fiat fiat."
My thoughts are racing at the speed of light. In my jacket pocket
is a little .38, a J-Frame Smith, but there are six of them, one of me,
and only 5 rounds in cylinder. I'm cursing myself for not carrying my
Glock today, but who the hell expects to find themselves in a hostage
situation at the library? Thinking further, I decide that my little
wheel-gun is a tool of last resort, and that it's best to see how this all
plays out. The librarian is nowhere to be seen, and all the other patrons
are just going about their business. It's like armed English professors
bringing in a bunch of hostages with bags over their heads and hissing at
people reading the sports pages is a normal occurrence here. Maybe it is.
I've only been coming here for a month now.
They take the bag off the first hostage's head. The hostage looks
nervous. Number One tells them, "Pick your section from Yorick." The
hostage flips the coin, heads. They take the dice and roll a 30. Another
one of the Disciples takes them into the 300 section of the stacks. They
come back with a thick tome containing essays by Lysander Spooner. This is
starting to get weird. What group of terrorists goes and forces someone to
read Lysander Spooner, of all people? I look at the New York Post in front
of me on the table, and start getting nervous. I could get up right now,
remove myself from this situation. The five shots in my J-Frame would at
least give me a chance to escape. Yet, I remain seated for reasons I can't
quite explain.
The second hostage doesn't hesitate. As soon as they hear their
fellow hostage sit down, they rip off their hood, defiance and
determination in their eyes. They flip the coin, get heads, roll the dice,
get the number 62. Without even waiting for their captors, they get up,
walk over to 620, and come back with a copy of Getting Started In
Electronics by Forrest Mims. They sit down with a righteous glare at the
disciples. They all nod without saying a word. I guess they approve of the
hostage's actions. The hostages, for the lack of a better work right now,
aren't acting someone being held against their will. Nor are the Disciples
acting like typical terrorists with hostages. Other than setting up shop
at the same table, hissing at my newspaper, and making some author
suggestions, their interaction with me has been minimal. I think that
makes me all the more nervous.
The third hostage flips the coin, gets tails. They take the card
deck, shuffle it, and lift off the top card. It's the Jack of Hearts.
Number Two tells them "The letter G." Number One says what sounds like
"Get the gimp," and I wonder if I'll have to be witness to a reenactment
of one of the more disturbing scenes from Pulp Fiction. I guess "gimp" was
really "gib" as a disciple brings back the hostage with Neuromancer by one
William Gibson. I remember that book from high school, back when I
contemplated getting a BA degree from SUNY. Instead, my parents convinced
me to attend trade school. Not that becoming an HVAC technician was a
mistake. I wonder what kind of terrorists would force someone to read
cyberpunk fiction, especially that one. There is now one hostage left, and
I wonder what fate is going to match them with today.
The fourth hostage also flips tails. They shuffle the deck and get
the King of Spades. A Disciple leads them off into the fiction section
where a heated discussion in muted tones ensues. The hostage can't seem to
decide what book to get. After about five minutes they come back with a
copy of On the Road by Jack Keruoac. The hostage is complaining about
having to read it. The Disciples take the book, and walk back into the
fiction section. The come back with a significantly bigger work. The
severe-looking visage of who could only be recognized as Ayn Rand is
staring at everyone from the cover of one Atlas Shrugged. "No!" the
hostage sobs. "Please, anything but Ayn Rand!" they entreat their captors.
The hostage's pleas are met with silence.
Their business with the hostages completed, Number One turns their
attention to me. They reach across the table, and grab the copy of The
Post I was reading. The jig is up as the copy of Utne Reader hidden
underneath the sports section is now exposed for all to see. They smile at
me, and I notice some details that previously escaped my attention. The
revolver Number One was carrying is unloaded, but that wasn't all. On the
lapel of the Number One's tweed suit is a small pin. Fans of Star Wars
would recognize it as a Mythosaur. The recognition in my face does not
escape unnoticed. "This is the way," the leader tells me. Something inside
grabs me, but they turn away before I can say anything.
The Dewey Disciples lead their hostages out of the building,
carrying the books they found or were given. The hostage who received Ayn
Rand is still quietly sobbing. I put back my copies of the New York Post
and Utne Reader, and walk out to my car. I recall something I read by
Edward Abbey in which he says, "I always write with my .357 magnum handy.
Why? Well, you never know when God may try to interfere." Tucked under the
driver-side windshield wiper of my car are two business cards. The first
is for a clothier in a nearby city. The second is an admissions councilor
at the local college. Now that I'm thinking about it, I could use a new
suit, and taking a couple classes at night might be a good idea.
This is the way.
