by Mark Morelli
Not long ago in the downtown Akron public library, an old grizzled, mustard-chinned man stood next to me in the book stacks. His suit was musty but he wore a tie. He opened a book and shoved it in front of my face. He pointed a dirty finger to the copyright page.
“What’s this number?” he asked.
I peered close. Finally some long dormant method of calculating the Roman numerals kicked into gear.
“That’s 1957,” I said kindly.
It was a sweet moment. I try not to feel too satisfied in helping out others. After all, benevolence, like honesty and modesty, should always be one of the daily principles that guide us, and guide us without fanfare. Should we congratulate ourselves each time we exit a store without shoplifting? No, it should just be something we do.
Anyway, for whatever reason, this slightly, or perhaps even more than slightly addled old man wanted to know what those funny numbers meant, and I was able to tell him. At that moment, I realized why I loved public life so much, where poor mix with affluent, where old interact with new. Where author and lip-reader co-mingle in a free, public institution.
“Yes, that’s 1957,” I smiled. “Just three years before I was born.” My mind wandered to 1957, when this fellow would've been in his prime. Was he a laborer in Akron's tire factories? Did his children go on to become the first of the family to attend college?
He interrupted my thoughts. The old man stretched his neck like a turtle. His bloodshot eyes met mine. He scowled, then snarled: "It’s 1947! You have to subtract!” He slapped the book shut and walked away shaking his head in disgust.
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