This week I was hunting for books in the stacks of MidState U.’s library. It’s the kind of library where the shelves are on giant rollers that allow them to be expanded and contracted: “mobile shelving systems” like these. It’s a space-saving but headache-inducing mechanism: why is it that the shelves always expand in such a way that the overhead light shines right on top of the bookshelf but never down into the canyon where you stand, peering at the titles in the dark?

Anyhow, I’m in the stacks, carrying my computer bag on one shoulder, juggling a stack of books with the other arm, and peering at the titles on the shelf when suddenly I realize that the walls are closing in on me. Someone is ruthlessly cranking the handle and squishing me in the middle of two bookshelves. I let out an alarmed “hey!”, thinking it would be sufficient, but the shelves kept coming. Quickly I became jammed, my heavy bag and armful of books making it difficult for me to make a rush towards the end of the shelf. I was also closer to the other end of the shelf, so that it was more efficient for me to run away rather than towards the end with the crank handle. I made a few more alarmed but incoherent cries — something along the line of “hey! I’m in here!”, which was not perhaps the most specific way to signal my impending fate. Finally, the shelf stopped moving and I was able to squeeze out — feeling embarrassed for making a fuss.

Here’s what I realized, as I stood there breathing a little too heavily: that in a split-second during my clumsy and absurd shuffle down the corridor, just as the shelf stopped moving, I had glimpsed the backs of two students scurrying away from the scene.

I ask you: intentional death threat or accidental professor mangling?

This is just a reminder to all of you who have been ooohhing and awwwwing over the luscious bookporn at A Historian’s Craft that not all libraries are inviting spaces bathed in a warm and golden light. Some are downright dangerous.