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.

Thursday, May 06, 2004

Oh Won't You Come Home, Clive Cussler, Won't You Come Home?

Beyond our Mr. B-Natural spill incident, yesterday I was in an amazingly good mood and was feeling very helpful and service-oriented. I was even helpful to Mr. Thrill, who complained bitterly that all 23 of our Clive Cussler novels are STILL checked out. I hadn't realized this was the case, but damn if there wasn't a single Dirk Pitt thriller to be found on the shelf. Very odd. It smacked, to me, of the work of an individual rather than a sudden collective urge on the part of multiple patrons to devour all our available Cussler material. Sure enough, I checked a Cussler title's computer record at random and it showed that the patron who'd checked it out had checked six others out as well. Furthermore, her mom's card was completely full with 10 Cussler titles. Knowing the sort of patron Mom is, and we do know her, she'd had a hankering for a Cussl-athon and filled up both her own card and her daughter's just to get around that pesky little 10 books per patron rule. I was feeling so service oriented that I called the woman up (well within earshot of Mr. Thrill so he would see that I bear no real grudge against him for being the bitter pill that he is) and asked her to bring them all back. They've been overdue since March anyway. (Makes me long for the new computer system, where such cheating is rumored to be an impossibility.)

I was feeling so good yesterday that I even let Parka stay on the computer all the way til closing time instead of booting his ass off at 10 til. Fortunately for him, he did not abuse my good will gesture and relinquished his computer at 6:59 without having to be told to do so. Good Parka. Extra porn and chatroom skanks for you.

Today, however, was another story.

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