An employee of a small town "liberry" chronicles his quest to remain sane while dealing with patrons who could star in a short-lived David Lynch television series.

Wednesday, February 04, 2004

Update on Chesta D. (P.) M.

I think Chester the (potential) Molester may finally be getting the hint that we're on to him as far as his stealing our magazines goes.

On Tuesday we saw his car parked out front, in the half-hour parking spaces, for two hours, and knew a visit from him was imminent. Unfortunately, Mrs. A and Mrs. C fled home before he could turn up, leaving me to deal with him alone when he finally did. As he began his usual rounds, inspecting the place for preteens, no doubt, I figured he'd go right for the magazines and pilfer a Parents or Seventeen yet again. Being the lone gunman in the house, though, I didn't exactly have time to ride herd on him while leaving the desk unguarded. But I did have time to take a load of non-fiction upstairs.

So up I went with my pile O books. Only, instead of sneaking up behind Chester, who I'd assumed was nearly to the magazines already, I found Chester sneaking up behind me, as he'd actually been in the bathroom. (And, no, Chester's not the serial shitter. I've already investigated that avenue.) Well, this is awkward, I thought. Then I had an idea. When I reached the top of the stairs, Chester at my heels, I walked over to the magazine rack and very conspicuously and thoroughly scanned its contents, doing an obvious mental inventory of all the magazines, sending to Chester, I hoped, the message I'll know what's missing when you leave. It seemed to work. Chester grabbed YET another FAFSA booklet, finished his inspection of the upper floor, and then hightailed it to his car.

That was Tuesday.

Today his car was back in the half-hour parking. We'd already resolved to clock his dumb ass and call the meter maid the minute his car's half-hour was up, but he didn't give us the chance. While I was back filling my water bottle at the fountain near the bathroom, here he came on his pitstop at the can. I immediately abandoned my water and raced upstairs. As I did, I caught the eye of Mrs. A in her office. I gave her the international sign-language motion for "Chester's in the can downstairs, but is about to come up and try to steal a magazine. I'm gonna hassle him." To which she replied with the international motion for "Good one."

So I sat back in one of the comfy chairs adjacent to the magazine rack and flipped through a copy of Rolling Stone while I waited for Chester.

...And waited... And waited.

"You can give up now," Mrs. A said from the window of her office. "He just left."

Left? Left without even trying to hork a magazine? No way.

Gosh, I sure hope he doesn't think we don't like him.

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