The Pervert at the Library


The Pervert at the Library. For my term paper in high school, I chose to write about “Human Blood”. “Creepy”, you say. Not quite. I was reasonably certain no one else would choose that subject. I sure didn’t want two other people writing about what I wrote, and the teacher having a cross-reference to compare writing. I don’t think she would have given three A’s, but rather an A, B, and C. I didn’t want to be sitting there with a C.

I worked at the grocery store after school on Friday, and until 9 on Friday night. Too late for a date. Saturday was 9 to 7. It would have been 7 to 7 if I had been stocking the store instead of sacking. I dashed home to get ready for a date.

I wasn’t about to be term papering on Sunday afternoon. That was my second date time for the week end. Sunday night was for homework.

That left after school Monday through Thursday to first go to the community library for the beginning research. I was able to get info from a couple of encyclopedias and another book at the local level, actually probably enough for the entire term paper. There was one problem. Teach required seven references and a quote or two from each. That was by design. Teach wanted us to avail ourselves of the more extensive downtown library, and as a consequence every student at some point went there.

The downtown library was open until 9, so I would have an early supper, then go there to cram my brain. On this particular night I was in the reference room, where you couldn’t check out books. I ran across a good book. I can’t remember. I believe it was written by a doctor, and I was reading and making notes, finding there was very good info to add to what I already had. The table where I sat was furtherest away from the entrance door. Suddenly over the top of my book, I noticed this fellow, probably forties, bending over as if to tie his shoelace. I put my book down, and saw he wasn’t tying his shoelace, but trying to look up the dress of a young HS girl who was facing him at the table over next to him (third table from mine).

Surely someone else saw him. I took a quick perusal of the room. If anyone saw him, they weren’t still staring at him. I looked over at the librarian. Her head was stuck in a book. I continued to stare at him. Finally, I suppose because he felt my eyes boring a hole in the back of his head, he turned around and looked at me. He got up and left his table, and I assumed left the library.

I don’t think the library had a security guard at that time, and I only saw women employees. Had I told the librarian in the reference room, about the only thing she could have done was to call the police. The man was well-dressed, and it would have been my word against his, provided no one else came forward, which I thought they would not. This would not be my only night at the library, and I didn’t want to be kicked out, never to return because of the commotion.

He was gone, so I let it go. At least I thought he was gone.

Later I went in the restroom, a rather small restroom. He emerged out of the stall and grabbed my arm, and tried to twist it behind my back. By his actions I knew this guy not only liked to look up women’s dresses, but he was a pedophile as well. I broke loose from him, and went out the bathroom door. I stood at the entrance door to the reference room for a few minutes, waiting for the guy to come out of the restroom, but he didn’t.

This was somewhat the same scenario as when he tried to look up the girl’s dress. Tell the librarian, and if she believed me, she’d call the police. By the time they arrived, he would lie about what happened, or he would be gone.

I certainly was not going to tell my parents when I got home. The downtown library was essential for me to complete the term paper.

At seventeen I was not without my resources, and I decided that was the solution. I was certain a couple of my buddies would be more than willing to help.

On future trips, if he were there, I’d summon my buddies from nearby, go into the restroom where he would follow me. They would follow him, and the three of us, neither individually as big as he was, would beat the hell out of him.

On subsequent trips to the downtown library, I never saw him again.

Those of you who say that would have been the wrong thing to do, to beat the hell out of him, didn’t experience what I experienced. Don’t pass judgment on me about my course of chosen action. You weren’t there.

I thought about telling the teacher when I turned in my term paper, but that might have scared the hell out of her, and I didn’t do it.


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