Fear and Loathing at the
Reference Desk

What if Hunter S. Thompson had chosen librarianship instead of journalism . . .


We were on the reference desk in a branch on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like “I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should take the next phone call . . . . ” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the library was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the desk, which was lurching about five feet up and down. And a voice was screaming: “Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?”

Then it was quiet again. My colleague had taken his shirt off and was pouring coffee on his chest, to facilitate the thinking process. “What the hell are you yelling about?” he muttered, staring up at the flourescents with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. “Never mind,” I said. “It’s your turn to take the chat sessions.” I hit file-close and aimed the cursor toward the edge of the display. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.

It was almost noon, and we still had more than six hours to go. They would be tough hours. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely twisted. But there was no going back, and no time to rest. We would have to ride it out.