The live Blues band was the last straw. For about a year I had been attending a monthly meeting of a Memoir Writing Group at the Manhasset Public Library. The silence and work environment of the library attracted me and I believed it would allow me to concentrate on my work, away from distractions and noise.
The library was extremely strict about talking, phone usage, conversations or basically any source of sound other than the endless white noise hum emanating from its air conditioning systems. Occasionally I would forget myself and attempt to engage in conversation with someone but before the seventh word of my first sentence had any chance of coming out of my mouth a library attendant, who had very rapidly zig zagged their way to us, would remind us that sounds of any kind were absolutely unacceptable. They often did this in an exaggeratingly polite way, with a bit of a bow and a stern stare.
My speaking partner and I would embarrassingly apologize in a muddled whisper and then attempt to explain. The library attendant would instantly raise their hand, palm facing us, as a sign to remind us that excuses also required sound to be emitted and thus were strictly prohibited. We immediately ceased to utter a word, continuing in facial and hand gestures only.
Over the months there were many sound emanating accidents that were almost instantaneously and mercilessly squashed by the ever alert library staff who seemed to have been trained by some passive aggressive ex-KGB officer with a penchant for perfect silence. I was unknowingly being brainwashed to also expect and require complete silence. In hindsight the whole experience was quite possibly venturing into trauma since I had developed a spontaneous negative reaction to any sound whilst in any library.
Over time my creative sessions in complete silence at the Manhasset Public Library began to lose their consistency, their spark, their purpose. In hindsight perhaps the complete silence was driving me a bit mad as I found myself increasingly distracted and disturbed by the slightest sounds. Toilets flushing on another floor, keys clicking on a keyboard somewhere, the gulping sounds of someone attempting to avoid dehydration and even the sound of a zipper unzipping on an already loud enough puffer jacket. I decided I needed a change. A change of venue, a change of town… in short, a change of library.
The Port Washington Public Library was a completely different animal. The architecture was brutalist, with exposed concrete slabs, modern layouts and double height volumes. The lower level had meeting rooms and even an art gallery.
I found my new creative home on the third floor. A balcony-like floor looking down into the double height open reading room. The third floor had all sorts of accoutrements of modern productivity, single and double person screened working pods, partially enclosed reading seats with matching footstools and even sound proof glass telephone booths with desktops for working.
Along with the double height full wall of glass in the reading room looking down onto the town below and beyond to the bay and then further onto Kingspoint, it was a magnificent discovery that I was sure would produce some of my best work. Unfortunately, I began to realize that there was one teeny tiny quality of the Port Washington Public Library that could quite possibly pose a problem to achieving my goal.
The Port Washington Public Library was not quite as instantly fierce and disciplined at rooting out all sources of noise to ensure complete silence at all times as the operatives who ruled with an iron fist did at the Manhasset Public Library. In fact, my first impressions were that in Port Washington they could quite possibly be lenient about such things.
Often teenagers at the library would have quiet conversations whilst doing their homework or projects. Other teenagers from throughout the library would come visit and inevitably the conversations became longer, louder and more boisterous. This was shocking for someone like me who had become used to the totalitarian regime at my hometown library.
I imagined that in Manhasset, these teenagers would have been locked in a soundproof meeting room until their parents or the proper authorities arrived to escort them out and then be banned for life from ever entering again. I giggled a little to myself at the audacity they had in Port. It felt kind of liberating. It felt fresh and promising… until it wasn’t.
I slowly came to believe that the Port Washington Public Library was quite possibly the antithesis of the Manhasset Public Library. Each time I went it seemed the number of people increased. Soon, if I didn’t arrive a few minutes before the doors opened there would be no available booths, pods or bubbles for me to settle in. I would be relegated to the large double height open reading room that I once looked down upon from my third floor. Forced to sit at the open 8-person tables as if we were attending some sort of communal celebratory event.
Each week brought additional people and additional distractions. Bored housewives began to gather and sit near me to share stories of affairs, bankruptcies and misbehaved children. It seemed a day care center had spontaneously appeared in the art gallery several stories below. A large number of nannies with at least three children each would gather there. The nannies would catch up with the latest news and the children would run around and scream incessantly, loud enough for me to hear on the third floor.
Even simply getting into the library became difficult. Each time I arrived the number of free parking spaces dwindled until one day they simply disappeared altogether, forcing me to maneuver around adjacent neighborhoods looking for anywhere to park and often finding nothing. A few times I had to circle around for over an hour, making it feel like it was alternate sides of the street parking day in Manhattan.
I started to suspect they were trying to get rid of me. The teenagers, housewives and daycare center were relentless. Towards the end an older gentleman became a regular who would frantically pace the floor of the third floor balcony on his phone loudly discussing business deals. Back and forth, offers and counteroffers, putting people on hold to take another call. It was driving me a bit insane. Each time he passed me the urge to give up increased. I couldn’t go on like this. I hadn’t gotten anything done in weeks.
That’s when the Blues band started to play.
From the sound of it they were in the art gallery below performing for several patrons in addition to the entire day care center ensemble. Electric guitars with amplifiers, a full drum set and a multitude of microphones were all part of the noise making machine. I really couldn’t believe this was happening.
I calmed myself by thinking that this was so incredibly outrageous that surely someone was going to complain or cause a scene or something and make it all stop.
An hour and half later the band thanked the crowd and informed them that they would take a short break and come back with an exciting finale set.
I packed my bag and left.
I drove straight to the calming comfort of the Manhasset Public Library and its insanely strict operatives. I very slowly unzipped my jacket and gently sat down at one of the many booths. I instantly started working and realized my productivity had already increased noticeably.
Nonetheless, I was feeling a bit nostalgic so I reached for my phone. I put it up to my ear and made believe I was gently whispering to someone on the other end of a call. Within a millisecond someone was standing over me vigorously gesturing that phone calls were strictly forbidden. I looked up at him and silently mouthed that I was sorry and put the phone down immediately. As he slowly walked away satisfied with my instantaneous compliance, I smiled.
Renato Passalacqua 