The Under Review - Issue 4 | Summer 2021

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At Logan Avenue, I turned left, heading toward the 25 th Street branch of the public library. They were
open until eight, but I didn’t know what time it was now. I prayed the doors were not locked.
My brother was athletic, but I managed to stay ahead of him past 23 rd and 24 th Streets. Twenty-fifth was a
busy thoroughfare, and I knew I might need to pause to let cars pass before crossing. If that happened,
Richie would catch me for sure, so I resolved to turn right if necessary and head down to Market Avenue, a
major road where there would be plenty of witnesses in case Richie caught up and started whaling on me.
Luckily, traffic was light, and I shot across 25 th toward the library. I saw several cars in the parking lot and a
couple of bikes where I would park my own when I visited. I yanked open the front door leading into the
vestibule with its flyer-clotted bulletin boards and then entered the second door into the library proper.
Not once had I looked back.
The library was one large room with the main desk in the middle. On three sides stood orderly rows of
bookshelves where I’d lose myself and all track of time whenever I could. The place was blessedly quiet. All
I could hear as I staggered toward the periodicals section near the front door was the frantic pounding of
my heart. Miss Laura, the librarian, watched curiously as I sat and tried to catch my breath. She was a
skinny older lady who always wore her hair in a bun and a cardigan sweater over her dress. I waved to her,
attempting to be nonchalant despite my wheezing, then turned my attention to the door. I waited, one
minute, then two, but Richie did not enter. I thought of vampires unable to pass the threshold of a church.
The clock read 7:47—thirteen minutes to closing. Would Richie wait outside for me, like a patient lion
watching for an injured antelope to wander off from its herd? Able to breathe now, I walked over toward a
window. There, by the bike rack, paced my brother, arms across his chest, gazing up at the sky. He looked
mad—not in an angry way, but a crazy way, as if I’d stolen his wallet or his Who albums rather than beat
him in a game of badminton. The sky was turning dark, and I wondered if our parents had noticed our
absence. Probably not. They were likely waiting for The Flip Wilson Show to start.
“Attention, attention,” Miss Laura announced over the PA system. “The library will be closing in ten
minutes. If you need to check out books, please come to the front desk now. Thank you.”
As several people lined up to check out their books, I wandered over to the cinema section and read about
Stanley Kubrick for ten minutes. I’d recently watched Paths of Glory on TV. Apparently, while directing
2001: A Space Odyssey, Kubrick wore the same style of clothes every day so as not to bother with yet
another decision.
THE UNDER REVIEW