Late Millennium Fever

Just when I thought the ire of most crabby patrons had settled regarding our now SIX MONTH OLD library cataloging software and the SIX MONTH OLD policy of requiring patrons to have their library cards, this happens...

A semi-regular male patron came in, late in the day, and went upstairs to look for books. He came back down, around 10 minutes shy of closing, put his selection of books on the counter and began digging in his wallet for his card. After a lengthy search, during which I have to stand there and wait for him and not attend to any of my closing duties, he belched up the inevitable question: "Do I really have to have my card?"

"Yes, you do," I replied, not at all as snottily as I wanted to. His demeanor did a quick shift all the same and the whole transaction instantly became a hideous inconvenience to him.

"Well, I guess I'm going to have to go out to my car and look for it," he said, in much the same tone he might have used to say, "Well, I guess I'm going to have to punch myself in the taint."

Off he went. He was gone so long that I was nearly able to finish all of my closing duties before he came back, empty handed. He didn't even bother coming up to the desk and just stood in the doorway, shouting at me as though the 15 feet of dirty blue runner carpet were a great chasm dividing us.

"I'll just have to put those back," he said, gesturing to his pile of books on the circ-desk. "I can't find it anywhere!"

"Okay," I said. I knew that when he said, "I'll have to put those back," he really meant, "You'll have to put those back because I've no intention of coming any farther into the building." Whatever.

He wasn't done with me yet, though.

"This is just the stupidest thing I've ever heard of! Just the stupidest!"

"Okay," I said.

"I'm going to write a letter to the... Uh... what is this, some sort of state library association policy?" He didn't wait for a response. "Well, I'm going to write a letter to them saying how stupid I think this is."

"Okay," I said again, my collar starting to heat up now. "You do realize, of course, that this policy is for your protection, though?"

"Oh?"

I then explained at length and with justifiable irritation the whole concept of our "liberry" being just one of a collection of 33 "liberries" in 20 counties who all shared the same patron database. I pointed out that if we did not require a card then anyone in the surrounding 20 counties who happened to share his name or even just CLAIMED to share his name could check out books using his account—books which HE would then be held responsible for since they were on HIS account. I told him that even back when our database included only our library, we had lots of trouble with that sort of thing and so it was agreed that the new collective would adopt this policy in order to head off the enormous headaches we would have had without it. I explained that "liberries" requiring cards was a—no doubt—centuries-old tradition which we are carrying on into the 21st century. I then told him he was free to write to whomever he wanted to about it and that Mrs. A would gladly provide him with the proper address, but at the end of the day we were doing this for his benefit.

"Oh," he said when I was finished. He then remained quiet for several seconds, allowing me time to realize that I'd just mildy gone off on a patron. Sure, it's nothing Mrs. A herself wouldn't have done, but I still think it's not a good idea for me to do.

"I, uh, I didn't mean to imply that you were stupid, or anything," the man finally said.

"Oh, no. Sure," I said, taking a very genial tone.

"I still think it's stupid that we have to have our cards."

I just stared at him. After a few more seconds under my glare, he left, sans books.