Lost Memory of Skin

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IT ISN’T LIKE THE KID IS LOCALLY FAMOUS for doing a good or a bad thing and even if people knew his real name it wouldn’t change how they treat him unless they looked it up online which is not something he wants to encourage. He himself like most of the men living under the Causeway is legally prohibited from going online but nonetheless one afternoon biking back from work at the Mirador he strolls into the branch library down on Regis Road like he has every legal right to be there.

The Kid isn’t sure how to get this done. He’s never been inside a library before. The librarian is a fizzy lady — ginger-colored hair glowing around her head like a bug light, pink lipstick, freckles — wearing a floral print blouse and khaki slacks. She’s a few inches taller than the Kid, a small person above the waist but wide in the hips like she’d be hard to tip over. The sign on the counter in front of her says REFERENCE LIBRARIAN, GLORIA… something — the Kid is too nervous to register her last name. She smiles without showing her teeth and asks if she can help him.

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