by Scott Kessman

Created on: August 14, 2008   Last Updated: September 16, 2008

The Jaws of Life - PAGES

In the languid light radiating dimly from the single bulb, the book was an intruder. Casually tucked away, it attempted to pass itself off as a simple replica of ignored volumes, of an unknown literary work, a forgotten novel of no great importance. Upon spying it lurking on the rickety shelf, Peter knew it did not belong here.

Peter labored in the reference wing of the library, well-suited to the dull task of straightening shelves and cataloguing books, and locating articles and papers published in journals. His six years at the library had instilled within him the overall acceptance of the boredom that pervaded his life, as though filtered through the air he breathed.

As it so happened, these tasks and the weekly paycheck he received in return became as useless to him as others saw him to the world. Peter was a husk of negative polarity, the seeds of a meaningful life were repulsed by him, scattered before him in a multitude of chaotic disarray, always out of reach and out of mind.

But his title had equated within him a sense of identity, a meager self-worth. He was Peter Hubert, Reference Librarian. His uninhibited mindscape of melodramatics had infused him with the notion that he was somebody, and this recognition was further promoted by his long-deceased father's rambling that an individual is nothing without a job. Those lectures suffered on long, dreary weekends are clearly imprinted upon his brain as if his skull had been peeled aside like a flaky crust, so that the words could be carved into the pulpy mass beneath. Long forgotten are the nights when his father would drink himself to sleep after a hard day of unemployment and debauchery.

But Peter's twisted memories of the past had rearranged themselves this evening, allowing him at last to see the true face of his life. He was Peter Hubert, Reference Librarian. He laughed. It meant nothing. His life, from his unwanted entrance into the world, to his uneventful childhood, to his meaningless existence up to this very second in time, meant nothing.

This evening, Peter had decided to undertake the arduous task of organizing, inventorying, cataloguing and cleaning the large storage room in the basement that remained nearly untouched, sometimes for weeks at a time. It was forgotten, as were the moldy, dusty tomes housed within the tomblike walls. One could almost sense the scent of decay and mausoleums wafting out from underneath the door like a thick perfume, clinging to clothes and skin

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