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.

Monday, January 24, 2005

Snow Job

Today, after nearly two hours of mopping up after the patrons who had tracked in more water, snow, ice, salt and gravel, I came to realize that I no longer cared if they ignored our doormat and wiped their feet off on our runner carpet, provided THEY WIPED THEIR FEET AT ALL!

Of course, I also have to admit that our genuine doormat on the front step is pretty much useless now, having been soaked through by slush and salt. I imagine that the few (try ONE) patrons who've used it have probably come in with more ice on their feet than they had before they stepped on the doormat. But that would be okay if they would just go ahead and use the runner carpet to get some of it off. No, they step right onto the hard wood and start sloshing a happy trail throughout the building.

I've noticed a propensity among the most-slush-ridden patrons to wind up using one particular computer in our computer hall. I can't really blame them for the choice, as I'm usually the guy who assigns them to the computer, but so far I've done so with no prior knowledge of the condition of their feet, yet the slushiest patrons always wind up at that one computer. I mop up after each one leaves, but as soon as the next one comes in there's another puddle.

Mrs. A just laughed at my efforts to keep the place dry. That is, until I pointed out the potential for lawsuits should someone slip, at which time she went outside to sweep the walk and try to get some of the salt out of the main path so people would stop tracking so much of it in.

Still, I'm just irritated to my core that people have no more manners than to track the corpse of Frosty the Snowman throughout my library. You KNOW they don't behave like that at home and would be disposed to unkindness should I show up at their doorstep and proceed to do the same to their floors.

I told Mrs. C that the whole thing makes me want to station myself at the front door with a mop-bucket full of road-slush. Then whenever a patron comes in and doesn't wipe their feet, or tries to wipe their feet on the runner, they get plastered in the face with a filthy icy mop. That'd teach `em. Might even be worth the resulting lawsuits.

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