The tiny librarian was serving up heaping bowls of farina from the window that normally saw the returns of non-print items, and if anyone had stopped to think about it, it might not have seemed all that odd. The farina was hot, bland and roughly the same shade as paper.
"You chilluns want mo' bettuh farinas? Ize got summa dis' heah turpentines to lay onnit," offered the tiny librarian, affecting some sort of unnatural dialect, and holding a tablespoon brimming with turpentine over a child's bowl of farina. The child shook his head and withdrew with his hot cereal. Another little waif approached the return window in his place and held out a copy of "True Stories" on DVD.
"Hey! Datsa' nice-a film! Howsa you like it, my goomba? Hey-hey, mama mia dat David-a Byrne he's a scuppicio crazy man!" Some sort of Italian accent came out this time, along with a shaker full of sparkly material. "Howsa you like I put some titanium bits on dat farina? Huh? Ciao, bella!"
The little waif retreated with the cereal before the titanium graced its surface.
Just then an immigrant Swedish dirt farmer clad in filthy overalls approached the window. His face was reminiscent of one whose head had caught on fire as a child and whose father attempted to put it out with a rake. He spoke with great determination, "Herro...Meestah Po hea. You rike anchovy?"
The tiny librarian wept bitter tears and turned the cardstock sign over his head to read "Closed". Out the door of the library he ran, flinging spoonfuls of farina into the air and blowing kisses to the gingko trees. As he disappeared past the city limits, a man outside the shoe repair shop on the edge of town distinctly heard him singing the lyrics of "I'll Sponsor Your Procto, Sweet Ida Mae" to the music of "Smoke on the Water."
In the library a little waif reached up to the non-print return window, seeking more of that delectable farina.