Libraries are magical places.  Walk into one and you sense stillness otherwise obtainable only through the regular practice of yoga or the presence of Jedi blood in one’s veins (unless you happen to go during toddler story hour, in which case a library can duplicate the hellish cacophony of a grocery store).  The children’s section has a bridge that leads to Terabithia, and a tricky wardrobe that sometimes opens to a snowy forest, a lamppost, and a faun.  Nancy Drew holds court in a corner next to the Hardy Boys, and the only mystery they can’t figure out has to do with something called a wrinkle in time.

            Some girls dream of being locked in a department store for the night.  Others imagine an evening stuck in a library after dark, alone with the characters that have taught us, the plotlines that have simultaneously appalled and inspired us, befuddled us to the point of madness during exam time, and ultimately, turned us into bibliophiles.  Books live and breathe; the proof is in the smell of crisp new pages at your nearest Barnes and Noble, but the most tangible evidence may be found in the weathered spines gracing shelves organized by call number.  These tomes sport covers cracked from the weight of hundreds of hands, bindings that flop open to ultimate fight scenes, pages stained where the dear reader was too absorbed in the story to bother with a napkin before turning a page—books are velveteen rabbits.  Once the gilt rubs off the leather and the pages become dog-eared and stick together, they become real.

Angst is palpable in the young adult section, where vampires and zombies slouch around shelves, secretly jealous of a young wizard with a lightning bolt scar but pretending not to care that he outranks them on the bestseller list.  Voldemort has a weekly poker game with the Volturi, while Dumbledore and Carlyle Cullen sit and muse about the nature of evil and adolescents over their respective cups of mead and Type O positive.     

            A few aisles over, there’s always a party going on in fiction.  Scarlett O’Hara sits on the same shelves as Carrie Bradshaw, Holden Caulfield, and that geisha who may or may not have written her own memoirs, and, while none of them get along well, the free-flowing libations during cocktail hour make for fascinating chatter.  That other Boleyn girl and the rest of the Tudors sip their ale and look down their noses at the bodice-rippers and Fabios who brazenly display the Harlequin logo, not even attempting to masquerade as respectable historical fiction.

            After the librarians leave, the hobbits on the bottom shelf join forces to reach the raunchy contemporary novels housed up top.  It wasn’t until they watched their own movie and saw Gimli tell Aragorn, “You’ll have to toss me!” that they figured out how to do it.  

            The lawyers from that infamous Firm keep trying to get tips from the Godfather guys, but Eliot Ness and his gang keep that shelf pretty well policed.   And if you miss any of it, don’t worry.  Jack Ryan and his CIA pals have got it all on tape.  And if they mess up, they’ll send Dirk Pitt out to fix it.  Just look for the explosions.    

            Over in Chick Lit, the gang is divided between New York City and London, but they’re too busy going after the wrong men to notice.  Bridget Jones is pissed, not only because of her worsening Chardonnay habit, but because she’s now considered the grandmother of the genre and must share shelf space with the likes of that shopaholic nitwit.

In the bathroom there’s always a fight brewing.  Dorian Gray won’t give up the mirror, but you know those Bergdorf blondes need to primp, too, and they’ve been listening to Kathy Griffin, so they can cut a bitch with one swing of a stiletto.  Ghandi sits perched on an outcropping of the stairs, and just wants everyone to get along, but is driven to the brink of violence by all the hedge fund wives badgering him to share his diet secrets. 

You might guess nonfiction would be about as exciting as talking to an extroverted actuary (definition: one who looks at your shoes instead of his), but it’s a wild corner.  Elizabeth Gilbert insists on yelling “attraversiamo!” while jumping from shelf to shelf with whatever poor soul she’s convinced to travel around with her in search of transcendent food.  Brooke Shields likes to sit on the cover of “Down Came the Rain” to rant about Tom Cruise.  The Freakonomics guys postulate theory after theory about the conspiracy that will bring the libraries down.  To date, their most compelling idea involves the East India Trading Company, the price of coffee, and the fact that I-485 still isn’t finished. 

            The audio/visual department is anything but boring.  That guy from the Cobra Kai is constantly shouting, “Get him a body bag!  Yeah!!!”  Johnny keeps trying to move “Dirty Dancing” from its designated spot, muttering, “Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” and Nora Ephron simply will not shut up about how badly she feels about her neck.  Late at night you can always hear Mel Gibson yelling “FREEDOM!”

            Mecklenburg County has just announced it will be closing 12 of its 24 libraries, including all of our favorite branches.  I practically live in the library.  I want my children to grow up in libraries and to love books as I do, to feel that there’s always a ready escape from this life in the form of a novel, or more information to be found in a biography.  I wish they would grow to love the characters who shaped my childhood, and I wish that would happen in our library, where those characters they’ll come to know and love will always be right there, shelved neatly and ready to pick up where they left off.   

I could give a million reasons that closing all these libraries is a terrible idea.  I’m sure none of them would be news to the county commissioners who bear the ultimate responsibility of finding a way to save these branches and their collections.

However, the most compelling thing that comes to mind is just about the one thing I’m sure the county commissioners have not anticipated.  God help the messenger that brings the news to our dear friends on the shelves after dark.  If you thought Voldemort storming the gates of Hogwarts was a sight, wait until you see what happens when he and Macbeth join forces.

It won’t be pretty.