The Goober

By Bob Deakin

There he is. The Goober. Every morning at nine he settles into his nest at the corner table of the library. I come to write on random days once or twice a week, always early. It is quiet, friendly, and I get work done. The change in scenery does a writer good.

How does this guy get here in the same prime seat every morning? Does he sleep here? Does he ever leave? 

Who is he? I’ve nodded in passing, as I do with everyone, but he never looks up. I don’t care, but I admit it arouses judgment, which I know is wrong. He dresses as indistinctly as someone can: Rumpled hair, jeans, hoodie, backpack, coffee and laptop. 

I wonder what he’s working on if anything? Maybe he’s escaping something? Perhaps life at home is not happy time, and I sincerely hope that’s not the case. 

He might be the greatest guy in the world, a d-bag, or he doesn’t speak English and is adjusting to a new world. He’s a serial killer, runs his own ministry, or is authoring the next great novel.

I shouldn’t call him the Goober, even if only in my mind. I’m going straight to hell. 

But he’s always here! Every day, all day, in the same seat. 

It’s his general unsociable nature, constant presence, refusal to look up, be nice to the passing library personnel, or even smile when a little kid runs by. 

Dare I use the term creepy? I didn’t say that.

I have nothing but the best vibes for the Goober. I assume he’s a nice person who brings his gifts to the world every day, from that seat. The world is a better place with the Goober in it. 

That’s my take. Okay, what was I doing?

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