The Leaky Library

Books and water do not go together.

It's a struggle against nature, a battle of wits that seems petty in theory, but in practice resembles the urgency and aggression of a battle among humans. The water pours from the sky, as it does in the wonderfully wet city of Portland, and the hundred-year-old ceilings of Grant High School are no match for Mother Nature's storms. She relentlessly barrages the campus and the only roof that cannot withstand her tears is the library. The precious, precious library.

If one were to remove all of the library's books, it might look a lot like a place for prostitutes to stand in a line, each pleading with their eyes to be picked. The asbestos-laced foam ceiling tiles are falling off in four different places, each gash revealing soggy molding insulation and rotting wood. Once fall begins, the dripping is eternal and new puddle forms every week. At several "capture stations", repurposed recycling bins are set on bookshelves, with makeshift gutters made from torn plastic bags and duct tape to cover a wider area. Each bin has an emphatic sign printed on pink paper informing students that the bins are for the sole purpose of catching rain, and that they are not for garbage. Of course, students don't listen (big surprise) and each of the bins, along with an afterbirth of dirty rainwater, also has a treasure chest's worth of trash, recyclable and not. These days you can't walk to the nonfiction section without making a detour to accommodate a congregation of five-gallon buckets, each of which must be emptied each day to make room for more rain.

If  a night is particularly wet, the librarians (Ms. Battle and Ms. X) march into their manicured library and throw their bags right on the floor, ready to attempt to prevent the most amount of damage to their ancient, underfunded book supply. They call up the entire janitorial service who gets right to work bringing in buckets and tape and buckets and tape. The move the wet floor signs from the heavily-trafficked center hall to the library as soon as first period starts. They carry in every single ladder Grant has to offer. I repeat, they carry in both of Grant's ladders. If a new wet spot has formed, it is treated with an air of emergency like a live birth of a baby with four arms. At lightning speed, books are bucket-brigaded away from the deadly water faster than children from a burning orphanage. Ms. Battle screams bloody murder as she watches her precious children being destroyed by nature's evil force ("They're already wet. They're already wet!"). It is an ordeal.

It pains me to know that my entire chance at learning hinges on whether the thunderstorm comes during the weekend. It instantaneously triggers my well-worn fantasy of later becoming rich and famous and buying our two excellent librarians all the books, computers, and ceiling tiles they could ever need. Of course, by ease instead of choice, by the time I'm rich the library will most likely have evolved into Grant's second pool.

And as I sit here and attempt to learn, I find it's easier to write about the leaky library tragedy. It's only my opinion and that isn't worth much, but I do think public school students have a right to check out a book without being subjected to Chinese water torture.


Engraver