My hope that we'd not see Mr. Creepy Guy for another 20 years lasted only a week. Holy shit, is that guy creepy! And this time, I got to see some of it first hand.
There were already bad omens of his return a day or two back when I heard Mrs. B discussing Mr. Creepy Guy with Mrs. A. Okay, first off—and I cannot stress this enough—if there's one basic rule I've learned when it comes to creepy assed patrons and keeping them away, it's: DON'T SAY THEIR NAME, IT ONLY GIVES THEM POWER!!! Time after time, and example after example, I've seen unsavory and unwanted patrons magically appear at the sound of their own name. This particular discussion of Mr. Creepy Guy arose because of issues over his permanent address on his patron record. It seems he doesn't have one and, much as Mrs. A predicted, truly is living in his car. Still, he had a valid card issued by a neighboring branch, so we apparently let him check out a book anyway.
Today he appeared in a puff of brylcream fumes to return his book. As he passed it to me to check in, he was all genial smiles and actually seemed, at first, to be a fairly normal and not necessarily creepy soul. I'd assumed his thinning mane of slicked hair was dyed due to its raven-black sheen. However, if you're living out of your car, can you really afford Just for Men? Maybe I'm wrong on that point.
Mr. Creepy Guy asked if there was a pay phone in the building. There is not. Generally, we let patrons use our desk phone if it's just a short call, but I didn't want him using our phone, so I suggested a pay phone down the street. Mr. Creepy Guy then asked if he might use our desk phone if he paid for his call. I had to then admit that, yes, this was possible, as long as it was a local call. While I was saying this, though, the phone rang, Mrs. B answered it then passed the receiver to Mrs. A, who happened behind the desk at that moment. I told Mrs. B that Mr. Creepy Guy needed to use the phone. And while I didn't spell it out, I was pretty sure the indication that Mr. Creepy Guy should have to wait his turn and use the desk phone only after Mrs. A was finished with it went without saying. Apparently, though, it did not and I should have spelled it out. I was, however, busy trying to find an excuse to get away from the desk myself and grabbed some books to go shelve.
I returned from shelving, less than a minute later, to see that Mrs. A was off the phone but Mr. Creepy Guy was nowhere to be seen. At first I assumed he'd left or gone to the can. Then I heard his voice, looked around the corner and saw him in the staff workroom, seated at Mrs. B's desk, yacking away on her extention.
ME— (In low voice to Mrs. A) Why is MR. CREEPY GUY in the staff workroom?
MRS. A— I don't know. (Turns to Mrs. B) Why is MR. CREEPY GUY in the staff workroom?
MRS. B— (Looks deservedly guilty) Well... you were on the phone... so I told him he could use... my phone.
ME— That's not a good idea. (Pause) At all.
MRS. A— No. It's not a good idea at all. You'd better watch him like a hawk. He's a con-man and he'll steal us blind.
ME— (Looking at Mrs. B with hurt expression) My stuff's in there.
Immediately, I went into the workroom and made my presence known. It sounded as though Mr. Creepy Guy was trying to confirm that someone had received a change of address request from him, switching from General Delivery to a P.O. box. As I pretended to do something with my computer, I glanced down and noticed that the top page of my Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist note cube atop my desk contained the exact description of Mr. Creepy Guy's woody station wagon as well as his full real name. I'd been standing in that very spot almost exactly one week before, taking down the description while scoping out his car through the window. And I'd written his real name at the bottom of it just in case he shot me dead during my proposed attempt to sneak out and jot down his license plate number. Good thing Mrs. B had put him at her desk instead of mine. I removed the page and put it in my pocket.
Mr. Creepy Guy finished up his call and stood up. He thanked me for the use of the phone and said he'd pay us 50 cents, as that's what it would have cost him at a pay phone. Not making eye contact with him, I told him he didn't need to do that, but he insisted, so I told him he could pay Mrs. B.
MR. CREEPY GUY— What's your name?
(Why couldn't I have just said, "Cecil"?)
MR. CREEPY GUY— Good to meet you, JUICE.
And there followed another pause, but I refused to turn away from my screen for fear of being offered a paw to shake.
Mr. Creepy Guy left the room, returned to the proper side of the circ desk and paid Mrs. B his 50 cents. What I next heard him say, however, I was scarcely able to believe, even while hearing it with my very own ears.
MR. CREEPY GUY— (To Mrs. B) What's wrong with you?
MRS. B— What do you mean?
MR. CREEPY GUY— Well, yesterday you looked beautiful...
(Wait for it... WAIT FOR IT...)
MR. CREEPY GUY— ...but today you look plum gorgeous.
(And the world shudders at the concentrated power of his skeeviness.)
MRS. B— I think you need to get your eyes checked.
Mr. Creepy Guy ended the above exchange by telling us all to have a nice day. He then went and fell asleep in a comfy chair by the window, where he snoozed for nearly a full hour. We don't have any policy against sleeping in the library, cause it so rarely comes up. However, if we'd had a policy against it, I don't think any of us would have enforced it then. I'd much rather have him asleep and quiet than awake and chatty.