Secret Agent in the Library

It was as a trained expert in the art of spycraft that I entered the local library.  The target was the reader's advisory librarian.  The mission had to be carried out with the utmost discretion; she could never know about my status as a super-secret master of espionage.  In order to secure the data, I was going to have to play the role of library patron (which, of course, I was) and engage in a subtle and veiled exchange designed to extract the information (which she was presumably willing to provide) I needed while concealing my ulterior motives.

"I need to find a good book," I said, walking up to the desk.

The librarian looked up from her computer screen.  Her manner was relaxed and unhurried.  No other patrons stood in the vicinity.  "Can I help you?" she asked.  This lady was crafty, I could tell.

The project for this week required going to the library as a secret shopper and evaluating the advisory services of a librarian.  While, theoretically, I have no problem with this assignment, the notion of being a secret shopper filled me with a sort of dread.  Just the name "secret shopper" offended my sense of theatrics and adventure.  Also, it sounded like I was getting ready to pull an undercover operation at the local Victoria's Secret.

"Don't be alarmed, ma'am.  I'm a Secret Shopper."

Being a secret agent just sounds cooler.

The librarian greeted me in a manner that was neither friendly nor unfriendly, but rather matter-of-fact.  I explained that I was in the midst of a reading slump and was desperate to branch out from my normal reading to discover new and exciting works.  I was ready to sail into the unknown waters.  I was ready to make the landscape of contemporary American literature my bitch.

"What kind of books do you like to read?" the librarian asked.

I replied that I had enjoyed the works of Michael Chabon, Jonathan Franzen, and Richard Russo.  This question answered, the librarian turned back to her computer screen.  After about twenty seconds of mouse-clicking and a quick burst of typing, the librarian began to write a list of names on a scrap of paper:

Dave Egger
Jonathan Safran Foer
Jonathan Franzen
Zadie Smith

I should try one of these author, the librarian said, if I enjoyed reading Michael Chabon.  I was quite familiar with the names on the list; most of their collective bibliographies were, in fact, resting on my bookshelves at home.  Not remembering that Jonathan Franzen was one of the authors I had mentioned earlier, she asked if I was familiar with his work.  I responded that I had read everything--both fiction and nonfiction--that Franzen has published up until now.

With no further questions, the librarian stated that, though she had never read Chabon and was unfamiliar with his work, I should check the fiction section for these authors, as they wrote in a very similar--though not, she emphasized, precisely the same--fashion.  Did I know where the fiction section was?

The tone of her voice suggested that we had reached the end of the interview.

I was a little put off.  This was actually the first time in my life that I'd experienced an unsatisfactory interaction with a librarian.  From start to finish, the entire event had lasted approximately five minutes and I had no relevant data to point me toward a good book beyond a short list of writers whom I'd read extensively.  I found myself wishing that the librarian had taken a deeper interest in our interaction.  I wish that she'd asked more questions.  Now I was forced to roam the stacks in search of something new to read, doomed to fail, resigned to undertake a second reading of Margaret Atwood (though, I guess that’s not actually something to complain about).  I understand that people have off days, but I left convinced that the librarian had not given me a real chance.

I supposed she might have tried harder had she known that I was licensed to kill.