Without warning it sneaks silent and deadly across the library floor
on all fours, a foul smog curling and rippling across its demonic back,
corrupting the air on its way to my chosen table. It rears up and hits me with
a blast of rotten, fetid heat, charring my nose hairs and blurring my eyes.
I am marked like a territory; one of my three fellow library patrons sitting nearby has farted, floating an air biscuit that could war for its
country.
My tee shirt gas mask pulled up over my nose, I set about profiling my quiet companions in search of the guilty.
Suspect #1
A tired-looking woman, sloppily dressed and frazzle-haired,
she sighs as she reads the newspaper with a squint because she has forgotten
her glasses, which are in fact perched on the crown of her head. I’ve seen her
in here before, and every time I’ve imagined that she’s snuck away from a house
crowded with feral children or visiting relatives, or that taken an extra long
lunch in order to avoid an annoying officemate that incessantly clears their
throat and listens to country music on their desktop speakers. Her soda cup
indicates that today’s pursuit of quiet and personal time included a trip
across the street; perhaps she consumed a few sulfur-cloud-inducing Egg McMuffins
before her ritual hiding away inside the library?
Physical proximity: 8 feet
Probability of guilt: 9 out of 10
Suspect #2
A greasy young man wearing a swimsuit, tank top, and
flipflops, his right leg bounces as if he were trying to set a personal best
record on his step-counting sports watch while he struggles to focus on reading
his book. Maybe he’s serving a summer school sentence in the library? Could his
stomach be punishing him (and subsequently his fellow library patrons) for the
over-inflated metabolic confidence of youth? I envision several slices of
pizza, a bottle of Mountain Dew, and an ice cream sundae chaser making their
way into his troubled stomach before his mother chases him off to the library
to atone for his bad grades.
Physical proximity: 10 feet
Probability of guilt: 9 out of 10
Suspect #3:
An older man, his balding dome partially hidden beneath a clean
and sensible baseball cap, his feet adorned with clean white socks and sensible
shoes. Unlike the sighing newsreader, he has remembered his glasses, and is
having no trouble seeing well enough to scribble into a notebook as he reads from
multiple reference books open on the table before him. Unlike the greasy young
man, his legs are calm, but he does squirm at the waist in apparent discomfort
every few moments. Is carrying a payload he’d rather be rid of? Maybe he’s
clenching the bomb bay doors closed, hoping to hold off his bombing run until
he’s back in the privacy and comfort of his own bathroom.
Physical proximity: 12 feet
Probability of guilt: 9 out of 10
I am at a loss; while I want to lay blame on one of the
three, there is no conclusive evidence, and I cannot pass judgment based on
speculation. I return to my writing, half hoping that in the next few minutes a
more vocal piece of evidence will present itself, thumbing its nose at but also
pleasing the social court of decorum.
A few sentences later I am distracted by the muted sound of
one hand clapping. I scan the surrounding area in an attempt to pinpoint its
source as the sound settles into a steady, rhythmic, and somehow familiar thumping.
It seems to be coming from behind the chest-high bookshelf to my left, and my
curiosity begins to get the better of me. I stand and wade through the stale
remnants of that dense, rotten, and invisible fog, making my way around the
shelf, acting as though I am looking for a book.
I come around the shelves and see a woman sitting in a comfortable
chair, a smile on her face and a blanketed bundle held against her chest. I try
not to stare as she pounds her baby’s back like she’s the rhythm chief in a
drum circle. My teeth clench at the sound, but I can’t help smile at the memory
of burping my own children.
A wet burp erupts from the tiny bundle, followed by a break
in the thumping that allows me to hear the tiny sigh of relief. A moment passes,
and the thumping continues.
This woman knows her
baby; there must be more air in there.
I turn to walk back to my table, and the baby farts. I can’t
help it; my smile bursts into a laugh.
Case dismissed.
