In Defense Of: Marquand Bag Checkers

I admire protective friends — friends who give me a warm pat on the back, some tough love or a vaguely frightening hug. But because I only have three discussion topics that I cycle through on a daily basis, I wear out my friends very quickly. Without friends, I’ve had to settle for the only people who can truly protect me from myself: the Marquand bag checkers.

Over my two years at Princeton, I’ve developed several utterly meaningless relationships with these friendly faces. Even though we have never talked — though there are a number of pending Facebook and BlackBerry Messenger friend requests — they seem to know me so well. They know that I really don’t need to eat that bag of Combos. They know that I am just clumsy enough to spill my bottled water over the 16th century catalog of artwork three floors away. They know my inner soul. Who else is there to keep me from tripping over myself as I speed to my Pollock reading on a Tuesday night? They are my guardian angels.

Sure, they make you throw out your Goldfish. They make you throw out your real goldfish. They steal your lunch money. But here’s what the bourgeois don’t understand: They are just protecting us from ourselves. Without them, who knows what decadent or obese beings we could become.

When my new buddy peels away from her math problem set to scrutinize every crumb in my circa-2003 JanSport backpack, she is not just putting on a show for the security camera that watches her every motion. She’s not doing it for herself. She’s doing it for me.

Watch her eyes. “Teddy, I care about you,” she says. “I don’t want you to bring water into this library, spill it on a meaningless art book that has not been read by anyone but the other card checker and be sued by Allan Marquand. Teddy, I’m doing this for you.” I blush. And I also friend-request.

And the other bag checker who is further away from the door? The one who seems just a little bit more pissed off, a little bit more jaded? She’s just more protective — a mother overseeing her child in the jungle: you.

Watch her eyes. “Teddy, you piece of shit, I still care about you despite your insistence on bringing food into my library,” she says. “If you eat that entire box of Oreos, I will disown you. Your only remaining friend will be that other bag checker who thinks you’re the creepiest soul she has ever met. Teddy, I’m doing this for you.” I cry. And I also friend-request.

Now, I know that Marquand bag checkers get a bit of a bad rap. I’ll be the first to admit that their bag-checking skills seem to have dropped in recent years. But as bag checkers interbreed at sketchy pregames on the third floor of the library (ever wondered why that corner exists?), they have slowly produced offspring that are genetically able to sense water, Combos or stolen books by mere scent. They don’t need to look at your bag at all — they can smell your deceit.

But also, for heaven’s sake, this is an art library. Who are we to say what adequate bag checking is? Checking the contents of a bag is an art form that cannot be second-guessed by fellow mortals. To question the motives or aesthetics of artwork in an art library is a Neoplatonist revision of proto-fascist inquiry demanding a postmodern caustic analysis of who we are as beings. And other buzzwords.

Look, you can say a lot of things about Marquand bag checkers. You can call them reticent. You can call them apathetic. You can even call them grossly negligent. But don’t you dare call them uncaring. Their ambivalence toward me, no matter the circumstances, is one of the few constants in my life. They are a dull, inconsequential rock in my life but a rock nonetheless. When I need a shoulder to cry on, I know exactly where to send my tears.

Oh, right — no liquids in the library.