5. Yes, but long-term I can see it becoming a problem

5.  Yes, but long-term I can see it becoming a problem

At the Berkeley Public Library a section of the annex was marked off for the electorate to cast their votes, it seemed to Glynda like a good but not great turn-out.  Not exactly what you’d expect from a favorite daughter she thought.  She thought it had to be Kamala’s stance on Israel.  You would have thought she’d have more sympathy for the displaced Gazans, with her mother being a poor renter in the flats all those years.

While she waited for Jason to work, Glynda looked it up, “the glass path”, then “glass path Berkeley”.  She wrinkled her forehead.  Was it just her or was the internet getting dumber these days.  There were no results, though a couple of other musicians had picked up on the phrase, look, someone had written a Guide to 126 Hidden Walkways within the City, that sounded promising.

Around three pm the false celebrations began.  Polls would close on the east coast in two hours, the women turning out in overwhelming numbers to show exactly what they thought of the evil Dobbs decision by an overreaching Supreme Court.  Glynda felt a pang, perhaps at the very moment of conception.  How could they think they could control people’s lives this way?

She looked over at Jason, sitting at the library reference desk, stoically explaining to people why their self-checkouts were not succeeding.  If you don’t push down on the spine hard enough the sensor can’t detect the chip.  In the long term the agency granted to the public by the self-checkout process far exceeded the ten percent confusion rate, Jason told her earnestly.  “Remember the old days when a Technical Librarian had to take a member’s ID, stamp the book card with the due date, physically move the items past the security barrier, etc. etc.”  It had been Jason who showed her how to access the map archives.

“My parents will be going to a victory party, you could come over.  Don’t worry, I live in a separate unit in the back,”  Jason had said.  Well, she had been planning to continue her research for the songbook anyway, not saying she had nothing else to do.

Next she tried looking up “Marquez Murillo”.  There was more on him.   1954.  So she’d been pretty much right about his age.  The Wikipedia article was brief, devoid of personal detail, but the old news stories were interesting:  “Native American Consultant testifies in E.I.R.”,  “Rancho Casino Negotiations Continue”, “Unaffiliated Tribe chooses Spokesperson.” 

“This lack of Federal recognition negates neither our existence nor our fundamental rights,” the activist was quoted as saying.  Murillo had spent two years in Federal custody, the article stated.  It implied he’d been released as part of a cooperation deal.   A sell-out.  Wow, how sad.

It seemed to Glynda that you couldn’t just tell a people they had to leave their homes, where to go, and then drop bombs on them when they went there.   It was genocide.  It made her mad to see Kamala forced to defend the immoral US policy this way.  Of course Trump was no better.

“Let’s just go home,” Jason said, interrupting her thoughts.  He was touched with the worry too.  “I’ve seen this movie before.”  The mood in the Library had become somber as early east-coast results failed to confirm a liberal landslide.   “It could be a long night.  I’ll punch out.”

Who was this librarian she had become entangled with.  Glynda feared the next invitation would be to a Thanksgiving dinner.  Was needfulness a word?  It was so very evident in Jason.  I don’t mind, she decided, long-term I can see it becoming a problem.  Jason came out from the back with his bags and she gave him a big hug so that anyone could see, not that anyone could miss all the attention he’d been giving to this cardholder.  They drove down to MLK, north across University to Rose.  “I usually ride my bike to work,” Jason apologized.  So serious.

“Let’s just turn this off,” she said, flipping the radio knob.  “It’s poison.”  She sat back, purposefully exhaling.  “This part of Berkeley is so beautiful.”  “Yeah, it is,” Jason said, swerving to avoid a pedestrian dressed in autumn drab.  “My folks moved here during the Clinton years.  I was little.”

She expected brown shake siding, was surprised by a light lavender stucco house on an ample lot, the yard a bit overgrown.  “I live in the cottage, in the back,” Jason said, turning in.