Men In Stacks

An odd thing happens at the library
late at night. I’m finally comfortable,
studying as a student should and nursing
my favorite beverage. Then, 2 a.m. rolls
around, and the library 86s me for no
good reason.

I am kicked out of the James Branch
Cabell Library.

If VCU truly is a place of higher
learning, shouldn’t the library – the
institution that is the brain of our entire
civilization – remain open 24/7?

Instead of studying for my statistics
exam in the wee hours of the morning, as
the honorable Eugene P. Trani intended,
I am turned out on the street.

About to walk home, I soon realize
it’s pointless to try to study there. My
roommate is having an intense tantricsex
session complete with whips, chains
and an orangutan-there is no way I
can study there.

As I walk down the Richmond streets
trying to plot my next move, three men
in black suits accost me. Despite the fact
that it’s almost three in the morning,
they are wearing Ray Bans.

“Who are you guys?” I ask.

“Librarians, division six.” They drug
me and throw me into the trunk of their
1964 Chevy Malibu.

When I come around, I am in an
interrogation room with two of the
men.

“What is your association with the
Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ
of Latter Day Saints?” one asks.

“Where am I?” I say.

“Area 51. We have some questions
we’d like to ask you. What is your
association with the Fundamentalist
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day
Saints?”

“I have no association with them, and
I have no idea what I’m doing here,”
I say. My head feels about three sizes
too big.

“You have no association with the
Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ
of Latter Day Saints?”

“Could you shorten that? It’s kind of
a mouthful,” I say.

One of the men sits down next to
me and pulls out a dossier. Inside is a
family tree.

“Jebidiah Aloysius Griset.
Y o u r g r e a t – g r e a t – g r e a t
grandfather. He was a former
member of the FLDS.”

“No way,” I say. “I don’t
believe it.”

“They kicked him out
for trying to marry a
sheep in addition to his
37 wives. Apparently,
the sheep thing was
just a little too weird
for them.”

“I had no idea,”
I say. The room
starts rotating top
to bottom, and I
grab the edge of the
table for support.
They ask me a few
more questions and
then put me in a
group holding cell.

I can’t believe my
eyes. Elvis, the Ghost
of Amelia Earhart
and three aliens are
sitting in the room.
But weirdest of all are the 40 women
from the FLDS.

They all wear weird, matching, blue
dresses and have oddly pompadoured
hair. Most have unibrows.

One of them approaches me.

“Are you our leader?”

“Ummm. No,” I say. The women all
begin praising the heavens.

“Only our true leader would say that
he wasn’t!” she exclaims. They flock
around me, and one begins cooing, “My
name is Naomi.”

“You’ve really done it now, man,” Elvis
says from across the cell.

“Wait, wait, wait! How does this make
sense? The FLDS was in Texas, Arizona
and Utah. Area 51 is in Nevada,” I say.

“I believe you have found what is
referred to as a ‘plot hole,’ ” says the
Ghost of Amelia Earhart.

“Naomi, how long have you been here?” I ask.

“My name isn’t Naomi. It’s Sarah,” Naomi says.

Things are getting weirder by the second. The men
in black come back to the cell to pull me out.

“Hey,” Elvis says. “Look out, man.”

I follow the government agents down the hall.

“This is Agent J. I’m Agent K. We need your
help,” says J.

I laugh.

“Like in the movie?” I ask.

“What movie?” There is an awkward pause, then
we continue walking down the hall.

“We need you to try to talk to Warren Jeffs. He’s
the former leader of the Fundamentalist Church of
Jesus Christ. We’re looking for a secret government
briefcase.” K pulls out a picture of a black briefcase
with its rollers on “666.”

“It contains all the knowledge in the universe.”

“Why would you want me to talk to him?” I
ask.

“Because your great-great-great grandfather was
in the same cult. If you ask where the briefcase is,
you might have more luck,” K says.

“How did he get the briefcase in the first
place?”

“Aliens have all sorts of means at their disposal,”
K says.

“Damn straight, son,” adds J.

“Sorry about J. He likes to think he’s a rapper,”
K says.

I walk into the same interrogation room as earlier
and sit across from Warren Jeffs.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m Rich Griset. My great-great-great grandfather
was part of your church, I’m told.”

“Oh yeah! Old Jebidiah Aloysius. I remember
him-The Sheep Guy.”

“Thanks,” I say. I can’t believe a polygamist leader
is talking smack to me.

“No offense, mind you. That sheep was pretty-
much more attractive than most of his wives,” Jeffs
says.

“Hey man, you better respect my great-great-great
grandmothers I didn’t know I had. Where’s the
briefcase?”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. However,
if you answer this question, I might be able to help
you out: A woman shoots her husband. She then
holds her husband underwater for 15 minutes. She
then hangs her husband, and – 30 minutes later
– leaves their house and has a wonderful dinner
with her husband. How is this possible?”

I contemplate this riddle and know the obvious
answer-the one he wants me to say: she is a
polygamist. That can’t be the answer, though-he
only believes in men having multiple spouses.

“She’s a photographer. She shoots her husband
with a camera, develops him underwater, then puts
the framed picture up on the wall. Then, she goes
to dinner with her actual husband.”

“Darnit. You’re the first person to get it. All right,
it’s in a locker in Sky Harbor Airport,” Jeffs says.
“Let’s move,” says K.

“You damn right,” says J.

We jump in a boxy black 1987 Crown Victoria
LTD and skyrocket out of Area 51, driving toward
Phoenix. We get there in a half-hour-or half a
galactic week.

The briefcase is retrieved, and J and K give me a
ride back to Richmond.

“You know, you can ask this thing anything you
want, and it will give you the correct answer,” K
says. He opens up the briefcase, which emanates a
blinding golden light. “Want a freebie?”

In my mind, I think of all the government coverups,
societal secrets and questions of the universe I
know of; then, I realize what I want to ask.

“How do I get the Cabell Library to stay open
past 2 a.m.?” I ask the briefcase. It explodes in K’s
hand.

“Nice job, sport.”