My Coworker Thought a Stapler Was a Communication Device
I work in a small, local library where the most exciting event of the month is usually the arrival of a new shipment of children's books. The library is tucked away in a quiet corner of town, surrounded by tall, dusty shelves and the faint, sweet smell of aging paper. It is a place where silence is not just requested, it is the fundamental law of the land. My coworker, Gary, has been a fixture in this place for nearly ten years. He is a man of few words, and when he does choose to speak, those words rarely follow a logical path. Gary is simply a strange guy, and most of us have learned to treat his quirks as part of the library's furniture, much like the uncomfortable wooden chairs or the flickering fluorescent lights. One particularly slow afternoon, the kind of day where the silence feels heavy enough to lean against, I was sitting at the front desk cataloging a stack of returns. The library was empty, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the distant, rhythmic thumping sound that had started to drift across the circulation desk. It sounded like someone was repeatedly hitting a dense object against the mahogany desk, a dull, repetitive thud that stood out sharply against the peaceful atmosphere. I looked up, expecting to see a patron who was perhaps frustrated with a slow computer or trying to knock a book loose from its binding, but there was no one in sight. The sound persisted, a steady beat that echoed through the aisles. I stood up, smoothing down my sweater, and walked toward the small back office area where Gary sat. As I rounded the corner, I saw him hunched over his workspace. Gary was holding our heavy, black metal stapler in his right hand, gripping it like a tool of great importance. He was rhythmically slamming it down onto a yellow legal pad, over and over again. He wasn't trying to staple anything, though. There were no sheets of paper being joined together, and he wasn't even using the staple cartridge. He was simply banging the flat bottom of the stapler against the paper with a precise, almost robotic intensity. I stood there for a moment, watching him, trying to process what I was seeing. It was such a surreal sight that I felt like I had stepped into a different world entirely. I eventually stepped into his office, making a small noise so he wouldn't be startled. I cleared my throat, but he didn't stop. Thump, thump, thump. I asked him what he was doing, trying to keep my tone light and professional, though my curiosity was getting the better of me. He looked up at me, his eyes wide and perfectly calm, as if he were explaining the weather. He looked at me and said he was sending a message. I was confused, so I asked him who on earth he was talking to. He stopped for a split second, looked at the ceiling with a knowing smile, and told me he was sending a message to the universe. He explained that the vibrations from the heavy stapler were creating a unique frequency, much like a grounded form of Morse code. He claimed that two specific thumps meant he wanted a coffee, and three meant he was ready for a break. I looked down at his yellow notepad, expecting to see some sort of elaborate system, but all I saw were dark, scattered ink marks where the stapler had crushed the paper fibers. It was just a messy, bruised page. He genuinely believed that the physical vibrations traveling through his desk and into the floorboards would carry his specific request all the way out into the vast reaches of the universe, and that the universe would, in turn, feel compelled to deliver a warm cup of coffee to his desk. I stood there for a long time, not quite knowing how to respond. The thought of arguing with him felt like a waste of energy, especially since he seemed so profoundly peaceful in his conviction. I didn't want to break his focus or make him feel embarrassed, so I took a deep breath and just asked him if the universe had answered yet. He paused, listening intently to the silence of the library as if he were waiting for a radio signal. He looked at me with a serious expression and told me that the connection was currently steady, but that the universe was busy and it would take some time for the message to be processed. I didn't have a comeback for that. I simply nodded, turned around, and walked back to my own desk, leaving him to his communication mission. Sometimes, when the afternoon drags on and the library is quiet, I can still hear the distant thumping of that stapler echoing from his office. He never actually receives a coffee, and his desk remains as empty as it was before he started his session. Yet, I find myself sitting at my desk wondering if the universe actually hears him. Perhaps the message reaches the destination, but the universe simply chooses to ignore his request, or maybe it just doesn't like the taste of the coffee at our local shop. Either way, Gary keeps thumping, and I keep cataloging, two parallel lives existing in the quiet, dusty heart of our little library.