My childhood memories of the library are warm and dear images of a younger me checking out “Choose Your Own Adventure” books by the armload and trying desperately to unravel the Dewey decimal system. In hopes to return to this similar state of nostalgic euphoria, I went to the library on 136th Street to get a card. I’d soon have an endless cache of media at my disposal.

I walked in, found the front desk, and slapped down my Virginia driver’s license and an old Netflix envelope as proof of address. “I believe this is sufficient documentation,” I said with an eager grin. It wasn’t until this moment that I took a look at the woman behind the desk. Had I taken stock of her sooner, I probably would’ve reevaluated my happy-go-lucky approach.

She was tall. Monster tall. And muscular. She had a look about her that said she was not only able to eat a human being, but that she had done so in the past. Her shirt was long-sleeved, I presume, to cover up prison tattoos. And she didn’t smile the entire time, probably to conceal her fangs.

“It’s not as easy as that to get a card here, Mr. Love,” she said. I don’t remember exactly how I replied, but my lip trembled and I imagined her tearing off my arm and slapping me in the face with it.

The process that followed was outrageous. There was the standard address form to fill out, of course. Piece of cake. But everything after that just seemed, well, unnecessary.

She swabbed my mouth with cotton for a DNA sample. She made me hold my breath for two full minutes underwater. She made me do jumping jacks while several trained gorillas whipped me with cats-o’-nine-tails. Then I had to wrestle a midget and pin him to the ground (not an easy proposition after being abused my man’s closest genetic relative). The midget was a dirty fighter, so I now have a nice dental impression on my leg where he bit me. I’m no expert, but it looks like he’s got an overbite.

After the blood test was complete and my fingerprints had been taken, after faxing my credit report to the library’s main branch and saying the alphabet backwards while hopping on a bed of hot coals on one foot, she produced a small box the size of a deck of cards. The gorillas traded their whips for violins and started playing sweet, sweet music.

“Get down on one knee,” she said. I knelt, no questions. I didn’t want to see what else she had up her sleeve.

She opened the box. A beam of light shot out of it and illuminated a majestic armada of doves circling inside the library. The doves turned into horses and galloped out the door and down 136th Street. It was so beautiful I almost forgot about my massive blood loss from being whipped. She reached into the box and retrieved the fruits of my labors – a New York City public library card.

The next time I want to reread To Kill a Mockingbird, I’ll probably just go to Barnes and Noble.