Part 9

The tarot card tucked firmly in the inside pocket of my coat, I head east.  I make it three more blocks before the rain begins to fall.  By the time I make it the final four to my destination, I am soaked, standing outside of the public library.
 
Drip.  Drip.  I walk into the lobby, water soaking the carpet beneath me.  I stand there, ignoring the look the librarian gives me.

“Um, sir, we’re locking up in a few minutes,” she tells me.

“Thanks.  I’ll be less than that.  Do you mind if I leave my jacket up here?”  I ask as I slip out of my brown trench coat, revealing a pair of torn blue jeans and a black t-shirt that once read…  Hell, I don’t know, it was faded when I got it.  I hang the coat on the back of a chair and slosh to the back of the building, follow the bookshelves, simply labeled ‘Poetry,’ to the left.  There, covered in dust, is what I seek.  The old wooden drawers are stained brown, the labeling for the old Dewey Decimal system faded.  I count drawers, five right and three down.  It takes a little effort, the tracks stiff with disuse, but the drawer finally slides out.  I pull it farther, until it stops and I lift it out, setting the drawer, yellowing cards and all, on top of the card catalog.  I reach in to the hole, feel around, my hand finds the envelope I knew would be there.  I replace the drawer and walk back towards the entrance. 

I pass by an aisle of shelves labeled ‘New Age’ and a thought occurs to me.  I turn into the corridor, lined by books on chakra and chi, divination and mysticism, finally finding the section I am looking for.  I grab the first book that looks promising and head to the counter.  I take my coat from the back of the chair, dig through its pockets and find my library card, the same one Ive had had for years.  The librarian, still eyeing me from behind a pair of horn- rimmed glasses, scans my card, and the copy of Learning the Tarot I had picked up.

I shrug the trench onto my shoulders, use it to guard the book as I step out into the rain.  I reach into my pocket, pull out a handful of change, count it.  Just over three dollars.  Should be enough for a cup of coffee, and a warm place to sit for a few minutes.  I walk west, back the way I came and the rain lets up, but the wind still pushes me along.  I duck into the doorway of a small corner coffeehouse I had passed earlier.  The sound of an acoustic guitar assaults me, a nasally voice accompanying it.  I shake my head, ignore the music, and order a small coffee from the teen behind the counter.  I count six hoops through her right ear and one in her lower lip.  When she hands me the cup, I hold out the handful of change and she waves me off.

“He’s buying all the drinks while he’s on stage,” she eyes the young man sitting with the guitar dreamily.  “Isn’t he great?”

I nod, still ignoring the music, and take a seat in a wingback chair, setting the coffee on the table in front of me and pull the book from my beneath my coat.  I take a sip of coffee, silently cursing as it burns my tongue.  I open the tome and settle back into the chair.