Shushing still happens at Central Library in downtown Spokane — as the longhaired man at a table with a gaming headset loudly talking to a friend learns when he's chided by an employee.
But noise is everywhere. An employee chats with a security guard about how much he loves the Star Trek: Lower Decks cartoon on Paramount+. Crackling walkie-talkies alert staffers they need someone to unclog the toilet on the second floor, or that they've spotted a perennial troublemaker "walk into the back corner again." An electric guitar, sound checking for the monthly Lilac City Live show, twangs and squeals.
A whole class of architectural students listens as a library employee regales them with explanations for how the remodeled design of a stairwell is meant to mirror the Spokane River basin.
"We have more events going on throughout the day that, back in 1989, could be considered disruptive," says Andrew Chanse, the municipal library systems director. "That's definitely something that's changed: We are more permissive with sound."
And that's fitting. Downtown is noisy too. When the downtown library — one of seven Spokane Public Library locations — reopened last summer, it was rebranded the "Central Library." And yet, it's never been more clear: This is downtown, with all its vibrancy, diversity and challenges.
Across days, I watch as different vignettes play out at different times at the same library table.
Gonzaga students working on chemistry homework whisper about the Dewey Decimal System. Packs of teenagers, claiming a hangout spot where they won't get chased away, swap jibes and cackles and jokes about butts.
A middle-aged woman holds an unlit cigarette between her lips, pulls aside the blind and peers out the window, muttering to herself. Before she leaves she takes one of the other cigarettes out of her pack, and tosses it on the cap of a friend of hers — a half-asleep man with a face tattoo.
It's been almost four years since the election season when mayoral candidate Nadine Woodward, horrified by reports of drug use in the library, raised the "possibility" that "maybe the homeless shouldn't be allowed in the library."
But today, with Woodward running for her second term, instead of a homeless ban, the opposite has happened. After reopening last summer, the downtown library has become, if anything, more accommodating to homeless people.
On the first floor, Seamus "Shame Dog" Galligan swings by the desk where a library employee keeps the "snack bucket," a pile of goodies for anyone who needs a bite to eat.
"I got some f—-ing Ritz crackers and some vegan cookies," Galligan says.
Once a bartender at Coeur d'Alene restaurants, Seamus describes the succession of events — a break-up, COVID, opioids, an ill-fated move to Las Vegas — that led to his homelessness and the "homeless bullshit" that's kept him there.
But the library is a good spot to be if you're unhoused. It's become a service hub.
"Goodwill comes here and they offer their services," says Joseph Sampson, a homeless man with a black scraggly beard, before mentioning other providers. "Peer Spokane. Compass."
In fact, last year, the library brought on Bethiah Streeter, an experienced social worker, and launched a partnership with Eastern Washington University to bring on four student social work interns.
"They'll go around the library trying to develop a relationship with individuals who might be needing a little bit of extra services," says Chanse. "Unfortunately, it's an indicator more of our community than anything, you know, where we've got a lot of folks that have fallen through the cracks."
The coolest thing, Chanse says, is that Streeter has already helped 13 homeless people find housing.
"We connect people with information and resources," says Amanda Donovan, a library spokesperson. "Whether it's books on history or connecting them with services for housing."
Beyond free snacks, the first floor also features New Leaf Kitchen & Cafe. Run by the nonprofit Transitions, the cafe offers not only free coffee for low-income patrons, but a shot at employment for people like Sampson.
Yet, there's a reason why the library has big signs warning people that "AGGRESSIVE BEHAVIOR WILL NOT BE TOLERATED."
Jeremy Root, a thin homeless man with glasses, says he witnessed a recent threat.
"He said, like, 'I got a .22 and I can kill all of you.' He's being recorded threatening a group of homeless people," Root says. "'Well, f—-ing come on and do it.' We could tell that he didn't have shit."
Police evacuated the library and arrested the man, according to a KREM report. But Root was right. The man didn't have a gun.
Several of the homeless people I talked to, however, said that generally it was the rambunctious teens that tend to create problems.
"We have norms at this point," Galligan says of the homeless crowd. "Norms and guardrails."
Chanse says the Central Library is experiencing more altercations and confrontations than they did back in 2019.
"If you were to look at downtown, you're seeing more incidents as a whole — we're a small section of that," Chanse says. "We've increased our security."
It's been stressful for staff members. The library has created a "serenity room" to decompress after a challenging encounter with members of the public, whether it be someone in a mental health crisis or an entitled customer.
There are other changes. The attempts in 2019 to use blue lights in the bathrooms to make it harder for drug users to find a vein have been abandoned. "We found that it just moved the behavior elsewhere," Chanse says, noting the lights could be easily defeated with a cell phone's flashlight.
Galligan says he's seen many people get kicked out of the library for using drugs in the bathrooms. He suggests that you could create "a more harmonious relationship between the unhoused and the library faculty" with a "designated drug-smoking room."
But then Root, the homeless guy with glasses, scoffs, arguing that if he does drugs, he does it "out of the f—-ing public eye, because I'm not an asshole."
"Smoking drugs is not supposed to be great," he says.
But Galligan counters with a more libertarian position. "If you want to alter your state of consciousness, I refuse to moralize that or feel bad about that," he says.
It's the kind of debate — "harm reduction" vs. "tough love" — that happened during the 2019 mayoral campaign. But the difference here is that when they're done arguing and the library closes for the night, they don't have a bed to go home to.
Root says he might camp below Kendall Yards. Galligan says he might break into a building and try to sleep there.
"It's kind of a night-by-night thing," Sampson says. "It's kind of stressful finding someplace new every night." ♦
