A resolution

The story of an irrate man in a library, inspires patience and kindness in one woman, and reminds us all to lighten up on our fellow man throughout the coming year.

It's not every day you see a 6-foot man shove a librarian so hard her glasses fall off.

I'd entered the Tompkins Square branch of the New York Public Library to return some books. I waited in the line and handed my (unread) copy of "One Hundred Years of Solitude" and to the slight young woman behind the counter.

"You have a book here on reserve," she told me. Oh? I asked, not remembering. Yes, she said, "In Cold Blood." Oh, right. I had seen "Capote," the movie, a month ago and had been inspired to read the original book. Apparently other New Yorkers had had the same idea because there was a long waiting list. She pointed to some shelves on the side of the library and said I could find the book there. I headed over and plucked the worn copy off the shelf.

Back at the librarian's counter, a line had formed, and she motioned for me to hand my book up.

"Why are you serving her first?" the man next in line asked the librarian in a louder-than-normal-library-voice.

I looked over, seeing him, really, for the first time. He wore a brown winter jacket and had a black hat on his head. He was about 6 feet tall, taller than anyone else in the line. I didn't say anything.

"She was here first," the librarian replied in a matter-of-fact tone and proceeded to check my book out and hand it back to me.

"That's not true," he said, his voice louder. Yes, it is, I thought, as I walked towards the exit.

"All I want to do is return some books," he said. "Why do you have to talk to me that way?"

What way? I thought, now pausing at the exit to watch the interaction. The man slammed his books down on the counter, saying one more time that all he had wanted to do was return some books, and she didn't have to talk to him that way. Then he stomped my way, heading towards the exit. I stepped back to let him pass. But then he stopped. He headed back to the librarian. He continued shouting at her and then placed two hands on the counter and leaned into her face. Why did she have to be so rude? Why didn't she just say, I'll be with you in a moment? Why? Why? Why?

People were looking. The librarian stepped back from the counter and asked him, in a reasonable voice, to stop yelling. I was watching from the other side of the counter, drawn to this drama, unable to leave, feeling somehow responsible. When would he leave?

He didn't. Something in his face snapped. He didn't like her look. The man stepped to the gate of the counter, opened it up, and stepped right up to the librarian, towering over her. He was a bully on a playground, a Goliath on a battlefield. He wanted to fight. But this woman was small, smaller than me at 5-foot-5-inches. She was quiet.

And then he raised his arms and shoved her. Shoved her hard. Gasps, screams from the crowd. She stumbled back and tumbled onto another librarian and fell onto a stool. Her glasses slid from her head. My hand reached inside my purse. I grabbed my phone and dialed 911. I don't really remember the next events because I was trying to remember the address of where we were.

"Where are you?" asked the operator.

"The Tompkins Square Library on… East 10th Street," I said.

"Manhattan?"

"What?"

"Manhattan?"

"What-oh! Yes, Manhattan!" Why don't these operators know the boroughs? I thought to myself. Shouldn't they know where Tompkins Square is? The man in the brown jacket walked out from behind the counter and started towards the exit. I saw him coming towards me, and I thought: please don't notice that I'm on the phone, please don't make eye contact with me, please don't hit me. He passed without a second glance and headed down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, he paused and turned to another library patron, a man who also had his phone out. "She didn't have to talk to me like that," he said to him and walked out the door.

"Did he have a weapon?" asked the operator.

"Huh? No, I don't think so…He's leaving, he's leaving," I said.

I looked back at the scene behind the counter. The librarian had picked herself off and straightened her glasses. She brushed off the questions of concern from the crowd, not wanting to make a big deal of it. "I'm fine, I'm fine," she said, and started to pile some books.

I walked down the stairs and stepped outside. I could see the man walking quickly down the street.

"He's walking down East 10th Street towards Avenue A," I told the operator who was still on the phone. "He's turning right, he's turning right." Why did I keep repeating myself? I gave her my name and number.

A few minutes later a police car, lights flashing, came speeding down East 10th Street. A man waved it over and talked to the police. I stood on the sidewalks, watching, wanting to help but not seeing what I could do.

A woman came out of the library. We didn't know each other, but we started talking immediately, somehow to confirm our feelings of horror and surprise.

As I walked away from the library, somewhat shaken, I tried to figure out what had just happened, why a 6-foot man would feel compelled to shove a young librarian half his size.

To my dismay, some part of me understood what he was trying to communicate, however poorly. I've had moments in the city where I've felt the people behind the counter, next to me on the subway, or bumping into me on the streets are not helpful, not friendly, not responding to me in any kind of way that would make me feel like a human being. Those moments, multiplied by seven days a week, 52 weeks a year, can add up.

I went to the grocery store today. At the checkout line, I looked up at the clerk, smiled, and said hello. She was reading from her book and didn't reply. She sighed when I started piling up my food and sighed again when I asked to use my credit card. She talked over my shoulder to her co-workers as she packed my bags and didn't respond when I said thank you. She didn't make eye contact with me once. I didn't get angry — my roommate and I have a running joke about the infamous customer service at this grocery store — but receiving this treatment, joke or no joke, can wear you down.

The incident at the library has made me more aware of how important our daily social interactions are. The millions of us who live and work on this superbly crowded island have thousands of possible social interactions a day. But we tend to turn inward when we step outside. We put headphones in our ears. We don't make eye contact. We ride the subway silently.

Is it possible to do anything else? At the risk of being laughed back to the small town in Massachusetts where I'm from, yes, it is.

Every day we have an opportunity to give something back: offer someone a free coffee, hold an old person's hand as they cross the street, bag our own groceries to help the clerk, or just smile and open a door to a stranger.

If I had said sorry, and let the man in front of me get his books checked out first, would he had shoved the librarian? Probably not.

It's easy to forget that the crowd is made up of individuals, just like us, who appreciate the humanness behind a sorry and a smile.