Bridge of Sighs

that the only conclusion you could come to was that she’d never been looking at you in the first place, either that or you’d been there for a time and then disappeared.
    At school Jerzy sometimes would be with her, but he never acknowledged me either. From being thus ignored, I learned a lesson: it might be true that I could choose who to be, but that didn’t necessarily make me memorable.

    T HE T HOMASTON F REE L IBRARY WAS LOCATED, seemingly out of fairness, on Division Street, at the upper end next to the cemetery. From the rear windows of the first-floor stacks you could see, at least in winter, the obelisk that marked the tomb of Sir Thomas Whitcombe, next to the flagpole at the cemetery’s highest point. On Saturday mornings I generally rose early and helped my father open Ikey’s, but by eleven or so he’d shoo me out, telling me to go do something fun. The money I earned at the store got put directly into my college fund, but on Saturday I was given an allowance to cover the matinee that day and my small weekly expenses. The movie started at one, so I usually spent the two hours in between at the library, returning the books I’d read the week before and checking out a new batch. During the school year I couldn’t read as many books each week as I did in the summer, so I took more time making my selections. My habit was to take a dozen or so books over to a small table in the stacks and examine the plastic-sheathed back covers and inside flaps more thoroughly.
    There, one Saturday, I thought I heard singing outside, and looking out the window I was surprised to see Gabriel Mock weaving down the path that led through the cemetery and into the library’s rear parking lot, singing at the top of his lungs. I couldn’t make out the words because they came too fast, but the refrain ran “no more, no more, no more, no more,” and this was the part he bellowed loudest. He carried a bottle-shaped brown paper bag, and at the edge of the parking lot he stopped, put the bag to his lips and drank, his head thrown back, until whatever was in the bottle was gone, after which he stared at it, dispirited. Then something funny occurred to him and he resumed his singing with an even greater gusto—
no more, no more, no more, no more
—as if the unexpected dovetailing of song and circumstance was just the funniest thing ever. He continued his journey, unfortunately without noticing the shin-high metal guardrail that ringed the lot, over which he tumbled.
    He went down hard enough to hurt himself, but was quickly back on his feet and looking around to see who’d tripped him. The bottle lay at his feet, apparently unbroken, and he took it out of its bag and held it up to the light to make double sure it was empty, then turned it upside down and shook it like a ketchup bottle to make triple sure. “No more no more no more no more,” he warbled, with somewhat diminished enthusiasm now, the joke having worn thin. Hearing the commotion outside, Mrs. Dirkus left the circulation desk, came over and peered out my window, shaking her head at the sight of a little drunkard singing in the parking lot, then, muttering, returned to her desk.
    Gabriel was standing between two cars, one of which happened to be Jack Beverly’s new Cadillac. I knew whose car it was only because I’d seen him and Nan climbing out of it just a few minutes before with an armload of books. Now they were standing at the circulation desk while Mrs. Dirkus stamped due dates on the little cards in the jacket sleeves, a task she approached with utmost seriousness, making sure each stamp sat squarely in the center of the next tiny rectangle on the grid. Other librarians stamped willy-nilly, but she countenanced no such slipshod work, and I admired that about her. The impatient look on Mr. Beverly’s face suggested he didn’t share my appreciation. Nan, peering down the long row of stacks, saw me in my window seat and smiled, causing me to look around to see if there was someone else she might be smiling at, and by the time I’d determined that her smile must’ve been intended for me, she and her father had picked up their books and turned for the front door.
    I was contemplating all of this when I heard the sound of glass shattering outside and saw my fence-painting friend doing a little jig next to the Cadillac, the ground around it now glinting with broken green glass. “No more, no more, no more, no more, hit the
road,
Jack,” he sang with