A woman with the lushest, most beautiful black eyelashes I have ever seen wanted a copy of Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons. She specified, “I don’t want the everyday copy. I want the special copy that has the circle writing.”
“What kind of writing did you say? Circular?”
All exasperated, “You know, the special kind of writing that goes around and around and around and has messages in it. Like the Masons.”
As if the mention of the Masons weren't enough to clue me in, her smell, that distinctive sweaty metallic odor of schizophrenia, hit me in the face just then like a deploying airbag. I told her that all of our copies were checked out.
“How about Good News for Modern Man?”
After checking the catalog I said, “I’m sorry, but that’s not in either.”
She began to get agitated and sway her head back and forth like an owl. “I need to see that copy! It has messages for me. Important messages vital to national security.” She leaned in and whispered, “I’m descended from Mary and Joseph.” Clearly distraught now, she wailed, “Why don’t you have it? Would you look up my library record for me, then? I don’t have my card. It was stolen.”
“All right, then. What’s your name?”
“Mary Magdalene.”
The dialogue I have with the mentally ill at the reference desk reminds me of the sort of nonsense conversations I have with people in my dreams. I often have long, involved talks with people in my dreams, but usually the pieces I manage to remember are bewildering word salad. Even though they make absolutely no sense, I get the strange feeling that what people are saying to me is mildly prophetic and meaningful, as if the person talking is trying to convey an important message or impart wisdom, but in riddles. When schizophrenics start on their riffs, babbling like Sibyls or raving like prophets, I often feel like I’m in a dream. As fascinating as it can be, it is also extremely disorienting, like I'm not sure if I'm dreaming or awake.
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