Blockade

Originally written Saturday, January 7, 2006 (cont.)

We descended to the remote basement-level stacks, quiet and stocked with books in languages even I was not certain I recognized, devoid of reading carrels and lit by bare, low-hanging lightbulbs encased in cage-like enclosures. The lights were off when we entered; they operated on a thirty-minute timer that the visitor could set by twisting a dial and that would rattle down the time noisily until clicking to an end and casting the room back into pitch darkness. Because this is probably the least-frequented room in the building, the timer was practical; without it, each time a library patron forgot to turn the lights off behind him, the bulbs would likely burn out entirely before the next person arrived. In the corner of the room opposite the stairwell, there is a solid metal door labeled “Maintenance Personnel Only” and sporting a fallout shelter symbol. Although it has no lock, nor even a knob, it is very heavy and is mounted on tight springs that make it even more difficult to push open than its weight alone ensures. It also contains very little of interest—some mops, dustpans, and brooms, and a few crusted cans of enamel—and unlike the lights in the stacks, the bulb was not replaced the last time it burned out. Nevertheless, Dennis and I allowed the heavy door to swing shut behind us, leaving for illumination only the thin lines that seeped through the bottom and sides of the portal (and that would themselves disappear when the timer ran out). In the closet wall perpendicular to the first door, there is a second door; because the first swings into the closet and not outward, the second is only accessible when the first is closed. This door is unmarked (we couldn’t see it today because neither of us had brought a flashlight, but I’ve seen it on other occasions) and leads to a narrow corridor, about two feet across, that turns a sharp right immediately and shares its first six feet of wall with the maintenance closet while it slopes gently downward. After about a dozen yards and another turn of a corner, it opens into one of the larger arteries in the labyrinth of hallways and storage rooms that criss-cross the underside of the campus.

We’d arrived there without having unlocked a single locked door or crawled through a solitary ventilation shaft, and the only restrictions to access are library hours, university affiliation (necessary for library entry via ID card), and the (highly unlikely) presence of others in those particular stacks. There are many sections of the tunnels that remain in active use as storage facilities, but the vast unlit portions, the infestations of vermin, and the lineage of ghosts and vampires that have taken up residency over the years, as well as the sense of private pride and possession enjoyed by those few who brave the feeling of descending into their tombs and negotiating the complexities of keyless entry as we did today, keep the mortal traffic to a minimum.

The events of this day to be continued...