Hush Please… Librarian at work.

Librarians lead a hushed existence, quiet, low stress, serene, pressure free.

They check books out to patrons. They help little blue-haired old ladies find another Agatha Christie mystery. They read Make Way For Ducklings to gaggles of silent, enthralled kiddies. They watch over old men dozing over Dickens. They help with homework. They solve problems. They research. They read.

Librarians live in a bubble of tranquility—unless, of course, they have grown children.

I refrain from naming names, but I assure you I’m not making this up.

I couldn’t.

It’s too bizarre.

Yesterday after my appointment with Dr. Oz, my oncologist, who says my PSA is 10+ now, Ginny and I met our daughter Eve for lunch

Eve works as a librarian.

Friday one of Eve’s co-librarians—let’s just call her Library Mama—showed up at work looking weary. Eve asked about her friend and Library Mama told about a 3 a.m. phone call.

Library Mama is a refined lady with exquisite taste (she buys my books and says she’s my Number One Fan). Once she gave me a beautiful antique edition of Pilgrim’s Progress. She’s nice. She looks much too young to have grown children, but she does have a daughter in her 20s.

At 3 a.m. Library Mama’s phone rings—never a good sign when you have a daughter still out on a date.

Frantic daughter calling on her cell phone.

Angry people yelling profanity in the background.

Loud bangs.

Thuds.

Crashes.

Daughter says she’s under attack by… Strippers.

Yes, Strippers.

Daughter says she was driving three guys home. Gets to one guy’s house. He gets out of her car.

A woman bangs open the door of the house screaming abuse. She’s wearing … well, a traditional stripper costume. Five or six other strippers join the first one yelling at Library Mama’s daughter. Apparently the strippers had been performing at a party (maybe a sleepover) at the guy’s house. I don’t know, maybe they were roommates living there.

Anyhow, they’d stayed up late waiting for this guy to get home.

Angry shouts as the strippers pour down the steps. They pound on the car’s roof with their fists.

Shrieking, scantily clad women began throwing things.

Daughter naturally calls her mother on the cell phone.

“Mama, they’re attacking me. What should I do”?

Strippers with long, scratching fingernails try to pry the car door open.

One stripper dashes back into the house and comes back with—you guessed it—A SWORD!

She slashes the car, denting the metal, cracking the glass of the front windshield, trying to slash the tires.

“It was like Red Sonja on the rampage,” Eve said.

Somebody in the neighborhood called the cops. Upset daughter, still holding the cell phone so Library Mama can hear it all, starts yelling at the cop. The cop threatens to arrest her for abusing a police officer.

Stripers claim one of the guys in the back seat was a dearly-loved boyfriend and they thought Library Mama’s daughter was trying to steal his innocent heart away.

She said she was just giving the guy a ride home.

Buses don’t run that late.

Cops confiscated the sword. They separated the various factions. They sent the three guys away. They sent the strippers back to bed. They sent the daughter home to Mama.

No one was injured.

No one was arrested.

Peace again reigned.

Friday morning the battered car sits in Library Mama’s drive, gnash marks across the hood, dents in the roof, gouges in the door, cracked glass from a sword slash across the windshield.

All again is calm in the librarian’s house as daughter sleeps late abed.

And Library Mama goes in to her daily work.

And in the tranquil library yesterday, Eve watched as her friend Library Mama puzzled over how to fill out the insurance company incident report so she can get her car repaired.