Down in the tunnel that connects the library buildings, there’s a cafeteria. Inside the caf there’s a smaller breakroom with a small coffee stand. Next to the stand there’s a small bulletin board, announcing items for sale, retirement parties, etc. Once in a while I see these clippings from the Post on which someone has hand scrawled commentary, usually with the following attributes:
a) vague, fragmented English
b) highly ideological
c) words snaking around the edge of the clipping due to limited space
d) unintentionally funny, if not hahah funny then at least mmmm funny
So I’m standing there one afternoon, sipping my coffee and staring at the tackboard, looking for any new developments. I see the latest Post clipping and snap a picture, giggling.
As I do, a guy walks up next to me. Old man with a cane and a long grey beard, appearing somewhere between frazzled academic and transient, leaning towards the latter.
Mid-sip, I roll my eyes toward the clipping, like “haha check this out… ”
Seeing my interest, he beams at the clip, then looks at me. “Zis is veddy trootful” he says in a thick Eastern European, Martin Landau-as-Bela Lugosi accent. “Zis person speeks ze troot.” He then works himself into a fervor, saying things like “Zeze are all liez!! … like when I watcha da channel 9, and all I hear is ‘wahhh, wahhh, wahhh’” (eyes wide now, arms flailing wildly) “And the Post! Whah! Itz all liezzz… Liez!”
And out of the corner of my eye, I see this old, sad looking woman who had taken an interest in our exchange. She looks apprehensive … as if I’m going to call this guy out, he’s going to walk out never to be seen again, and I’d have robbed her of one of her primary sources of pleasure, coming down to the basement caf looking for new clippings, like a kid on Christmas morning. So I look down. Then I look back at him, and raised my eyes and my cup.
“Right on dude” I say. “Fuck the Post… they’re all liars anyway.” He nodded and said “Zats right! Liars!” I walked out.
The next week, after a particularly rough meeting, I ran down to the peek at the tackboard, like a kid on Christmas morning…
