This is a mostly true story about a bell.
Not a bell on a Christmas tree, promoting angels to flight.
Not a bell on a shop door, jingling a welcome as the musty air shakes hands with entering patrons, the elderly keeper glancing up over spectacles grimed from unprofitable stocking.
Not a doleful Parisian bell of revolutionary times, beckoning the sans-culotte towards the café, ferment, blame of anyone else, and bloody solutions. Down with the king!
No, no, the instrument in question was a simple desk bell of polished chrome, sitting quietly on a shelf.
“I made a scene at the library getting these copies, so write something on them, OK?” I told Jim, handing him a paper to critique.
“Oh really?” he murmured, absentmindedly, bored. After a month, he already knew me well enough to not be surprised. Now, if JoAnne had made a similar declaration, we’d all drop our red pens with a clatter, push up our collective glasses, and demand to hear the anomalous story.
Perhaps it was the bright green Elf “SMILING IS MY FAVORITE” T-shirt I was wearing. Of course I caused a scene at the library. We call that Tuesday.
Did you know that chrome talks? I didn’t, either. The sun baked down on Long Mountain. A logging truck rumbled up Campbell, diesel exhaust jealous of the heat. The little red rollerskate of my car swooped into a “LIBRARY PARKING ONLY” spot.
The doors were the only thing that greeted me. The front desk stood empty.
Except for the Bell.
He sat serenely on his shelf, winking and shiny, all chrome and polish.
“Hey buddy! Welcome to the library! Remember me?”
I blinked. Was the bell talking?
“Hey buddy! Cheer up! This is the library! We’ve got books! We’ve got fun! As a matter of fact, remember last time you were here?”
“Uhh…yeah…?”
“And that librarian punched me in the head, and they helped you out?” He seemed to be jumping up and down with enthusiasm suddenly. It was contagious.
“Was that how it went?”
“Close enough! Go ahead! It’ll be fun! Punch me in the head! Punch me in the head!”
I had never been sold an idea by a bell before, and I must confess, his pitch was effective. The ceramic pig on the counter squealed a warning. “Don’t!”
“Shut up, Mr. Hodgers!” the bell yelled. “Punch me in the head, dude!”
The peal split the air, the ding echoing past the community flyers, running down the self-help aisle (two books on discipline and social graces laughed at me), bounced off the biography wall, catapulted back, and reached the ears of the librarian who had stepped, oh…ten feet away from the desk.
“Can I help you?”
“Oh…uh…the bell…I….I couldn’t resist.”
“That’s actually the staff bell. Now they’ll all come running.”
And there she was. One look at my guilty face, and she knew.
At the time, I didn’t blame the bell.
Maybe I should have.
“Do you have any books on Curious George?”
The End.