Innanet Crowd Onslought (Moving Days M)

As I mentioned, we only had four public internet terminals when we opened the new building. Our plan was to eventually have ten and we had already installed the desks for those--or, rather, we'd installed one gigantically long computer desk with room for ten stations and serious issues with picking up the squeezings of patrons on its surface. The other six computers did arrive within a couple weeks of opening, but the company we'd purchased them from neglected to stock enough monitors to accompany them and said they weren't expecting a resupply for months. We bought new monitors from another vendor, but before they could arrive we experienced several wonderfully fun conversations such as this...

PATRON-- So when are you getting your other computers?

ME-- Oh, they're here.

PATRON-- (Does doubletake. Looks at six empty desk spaces.) Uh, they are?

ME-- Yep.

PATRON-- Um... when are you going to install them?

ME-- Already did.

PATRON-- (Looks again. Completely ignores obviously present CPUs on the floor beneath each empty desk space.) Uh... what?

ME-- Yep. Installed the computers a few days ago. They're right there. (Points to CPUs) It's just the monitors we don't have yet.

PATRON-- (Looks again. Looks back. Appears confused and slightly irritated. Decides I'm an asshole, perhaps justifiably. Walks away.)

We decided early on that our old system of using kitchen timers to monitor the amount of time patrons were using the computers was probably not a workable system for ten machines; it was hard enough getting those accurate with only three computers in the old place, plus the idea of more than one of them going off at the same time made us edgy to even think about. So the new plan was to extend the time patrons had on a given machine from a half hour to a full hour (still with no kick offs if no other patrons were waiting), reserve two of the machines as 15 minute stations and then just keep track of everything on paper. This sounded like an enormous headache to me and I was actually quite panicked about it. I began begging Mrs. A to see if we could get some sort of computer-based monitoring system, one that would allow us to decide who lived and who died. Mrs. A said that the state techs were considering such a program to be used consortium-wide, but hadn't made any firm decisions, so we'd just try our new paper system and see how things went. And so I awaited the doom of our sanity at the hands of the innanet crowd.

Quite unexpectedly, the doom did not come--at least, not at first. Even after we had all ten stations up and running, the competition for them was surprisingly slim in the early weeks. We rarely had to enforce the 15 minute station rules and often just let users of them go for however long they wanted as there were almost always other stations open. We didn't even have to kick anybody off a machine for nearly a month into the new gig and even then it was a rare occurrence. Patrons basically could stay on as long as they wanted and there was enough turnover that we didn't have any problems with competition.

As the months passed, though, we began to have more and more innanet crowders more and more often. Word was getting around that we had a bountiful supply of computers and the crowders began to crawl from beneath their rocks and lurch in to use them. Patrons we'd not seen in years, such as Matilda the Cranky Wiccan, Mabel the Amateaur Geneal0gist, Sunday Bob, and the Formerly Sweatiest Woman in All the Land, began to become regular visitors again. Previously frequent innanet crowders such as Germaphobe Gary, Johnny Hacker, Mr. Little Stupid, Mr. Hinky, and Mr. Perfect began coming far more frequently, usually multiple times a day. And former repeat offender Innanet Rogues, such as Mr. B-Natural, Old Man Printer, The New Devil Twins Auxiliary League of Neighborhood Kids, and Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine basically needed to have their ass roots cut out of our chairs each evening for all the innanet time they were hogging up. Sonofabitch, we even saw us a Fagin or two.

All of this increased traffic made for increasing problems with paper-based monitoring process. The way it was designed to work, patrons signed up on our sign-in clip-board with their name and time as usual; the staff then assigned them one of the vacant computers and then the staff noted which one it was beside their name on the sign-in sheet; when computer patrons departed, the staff was supposed to highlight their names to indicate their absence; then, if all computers were full, whichever patron was at the top of the list of non-highlighted names (usually Gene) was automatically up for being kicked off.

This system actually worked pretty well for several months, but as our traffic increased so did the problems inherent with it, such as the difficulties in keeping track of just who has to get off and when in addition to the other duties of our jobs. If you throw in a couple of patrons who refuse to put down what time they signed on, or incorrectly put down what time they signed on, it makes things a bit more tricky. Then add to this the complaints we began to get over the slowness of our connection speed (again, mostly from Gene) and the computers and their users quickly become an even deeper source of resentment to the staff than usual. It reached the point that we really didn't care when less than fragrant patrons, such as Mr. Stanky, paid us a visit because it gave us a nice chance to clear the decks, as it were. (Well, except for Gene. The only outside force we've ever found that could shift Gene off of a computer was the day the power went out and he had no choice.)

And on the topic of Mr. Stanky, our new computer area was equipped with vinyl upholstered chairs, the kind we could spray down with disinfectant spray and wipe clean as opposed to the old cloth chairs we had that tended to soak up his "essence." Yes, we planned the chairs around Mr. Stanky.

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

Moving the Innanet (Moving Days F)

After nonfiction was moved, we decided to go ahead and shut down the old "liberry" altogether, as we knew moving everything else would negate most of its usefulness to patrons until we got the new place open. We didn't know how long it would take to reopen, because we didn't know how long it would take to organize everything, nor how long it would take the last items of necessary furniture to arrive. We guestimated two weeks and crossed our fingers. 

 Of course, the group of patrons most inconvenienced by the closing of the library was the innanet crowd. Keep in mind, back in the old building, we only had three public access computers because that's all we had room for, but there was still plenty of competition for those. We knew that once word got out we were closing for a couple weeks there would be gnashing of teeth when patrons couldn't get their daily or even hourly fix from the innanet teat. The complaints began before we'd even closed. We answered them by informing the complainers that when we reopened we'd have ten computer stations and by suggesting they try one of the four other library branches in the area, most of which had more terminals than we did to begin with. From their reactions, you would have thought we'd suggested they drive to Abu Dhabi rather than five minutes down the road. 

During the weeks we were closed, we heard from these other branches about the shenanigans of some of our regulars who began to darken their doors. 

Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine was chief among the displaced offenders. He chose to relocate to Town-C's branch where he began to spread his usual Gene-idiosyncrasies, such as telling anyone who hoved into his field of vision the suicide-inducing (or perhaps homicide-inducing) details of his geneal0gy research, printing reams of geneal0gical records and complaining bitterly about how much it cost him to do so. See our branch charges 10 cents per page for prints, but Town-C's branch charges a full 25 cents for both prints and photocopies. This royally torqued Gene and gave him cause to complain each and every time he came up to pay for his prints; which was often. Just like he did at our branch, Gene drove Town-C nuts by printing and printing and printing but coming up to pay for each batch of prints as he printed them, rather than paying for everything at the end of his session. You wouldn't think this would be a big deal, but Town-C's branch is wildly understaffed in comparison to ours, with barely two employees on their best day. Add to that Gene's penchant for long-ass stories about all the people he's related to with each print pickup, not to mention an accompanying complaint session over the price of each page and you've got yourself a damned nuisance. Finally, Town-C's director, Mrs. S (no relation to Ms. S) told Gene that she would charge him only .15 cents per page if he would simply wait to pay for his prints at the very end of his computing session. Gene outright refused, and went right on paying a quarter per print as it was printed and complaining about the cost every time. Which is pretty on-brand for Gene.

I've been itching to tell that story for over a year now. I got a few more such itches left in me and soon, oh, very soon, they shall be scratched. 

For our part, the lack of innanet crowders was pretty blissful, except for the few that would turn up and bang on the door to get in despite the gigantic WE ARE NOT YET OPEN sign we had outside. Sometimes, when we'd left the front doors unlocked to allow free access for the staff, the patrons would just saunter right in and would even ask if they could go ahead and use our computers anyway, even after being told we were not open to the public. I gave those people a complimentary kick in the teeth and sent them on their way. 

 (TO BE CONTINUED...)

Final Thursday (Final Day)

I arrived at 1p. Except for Ms. M, everyone else had gone to lunch and she was scheduled to leave when I arrived.

"So I guess I won't see you again?" she said sadly.

"Aw. I'll be back," I said. "I've got some web work still to do, so I'll probably be in next week."

Plus, there's the matter of the going away party that Mrs. A said she wants to throw but which will have to wait a couple weeks, cause she's out of town and I'm moving next week. The wife will still be in the area through the end of the month, though, so it won't be any big deal for me to pop over.

Soon Ms. D returned from lunch. She brought me a bag of coffee beans from a local coffee house.

"I asked the guy if he knew you and what kind of coffee you liked," Ms. D said. "He said he knew you, but had no idea on the coffee, so I got you house blend."

It's perfect.

The rest of my final day on the job went fairly smoothly with cameos by some classic "characters" from the blog.

The Bakers put in an early appearance and I told them it was my final day. They were happy for the wife's opportunity in Borderland, but sad to see me go. I'll miss them too. The kids have all practically grown up in the near 7 years I've been at the library. Oldest daughter, Katherine, is off to college. Middle child Brianna has changed from being a whiny, indecisive middle schooler and has blossomed into quite a stunning young lad. And next time I see little Olive, she'll probably be driving.

Mr. B-Natural came in a couple of times. The computers were glutted on his first visit, but he was able to negotiate with Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine for use of Gene's computer "for five minutes" just to check something, so Gene wouldn't have to get off. Of course, Gene's intense desire for innanet suckling only lasted about three minutes before he decided he would just leave because Mr. B-Natural was taking too long. Later Gene.

Not long after, two members of my other all-time-favorite family, The Asners, came in to pay for a fine and renew a book. It didn't occur to me in the moment, but I really should have told them that they were my favorite family. I've actually told them as much in the past, mentioning that they were a pleasure to deal with every time I saw them, but it would have been a nice parting to mention it again.

Mid-afternoon, after using the excuse of setting up the downstairs multi-purpose room for an upcoming seminar to head downstairs for a bit, Mrs. C, Mrs. B and Ms. D returned with a giant cheese cake variety pack.

"You didn't think you were getting out of here without some sort of celebration, did you?" Mrs. C asked.

"This is awesome!" I said. "Thanks."

And it was quite awesome cheesecake. We all feasted heartily.

The afternoon saw further cameos by the usual innanet crowd, including Mr. W. Perfect, Cleveland, the Hacker Family, Old Man Printer, and Germophobe Gary, who didn't even ask for a Clorox Wipe. I was really hoping for an appearance by Cap'n Crossdresser or maybe even the ghost of the Purple Nun, but at least Parka didn't show up.

And, toward the end of the day, another long lost "liberry" family member turned up in the form of Rif, the formerly high school-aged home school kid who used to hang out in the library with his sister Magenta. Rif's now a junior in college studying sports-management. His sister Magenta graduated college this year.

My duties today included checking the shelves for overdues, one last time; folding up and preparing the overdues for mailing, one last time; stuffing fund-drive envelopes, one last time; processing new magazines, one last time; and rearranging those magazines in our magazine shelf which is, as always, plagued on a daily basis by people who have no concept of putting periodicals back where they found them instead of cramming them in at random.

My final check out of the day was The Calder Game, by Blue Balliett, checked out to my writer friend Linda.

Before I clocked out, I took all of my remaining red shelving slips and pinned them to the staff bulletin board with a note that read "This color is now retired." I then gathered up my satchel ("It's not a manpurse, dammit!"), and my toiletries (toothbrush, tooth paste, bottle of Cetaphil, hair gunk, mouthwash, defunk, etc.) from my locker. I then affixed to my bag my locker's mini-post-it label of JUICE TWO-BELTS. I grabbed the remainder of my cheesecake and headed out the staff workroom door toward my car.

On my way out, I noticed that I'd left my pot of hens & chicks by the back door. I thought of stopping to get them, but I can catch `em next time. I'm not done with this place yet.

I'm also not done with this blog. There are still a few tales left to tell, not to mention a move (or two) to commence.

"Liberry" Glossary: Repeat Offender

Repeat Offender

-noun phrase

1. A member of the innanet crowd who signs in for computer time, stays for while, leaves, returns to sign up for more, leaves again, returns to sign up for more again, etc., repeat cycle until closing time. Repeat Offenders are not always rogue patrons, but often are. The offense inherent in their title stems from the fact that, due to our usual bad attitudes, the staff becomes completely sick of dealing with these people since we have to go out and log them onto a computer with each successive visit and we wish they would just get what they're doing done the first time and go away. We're particularly annoyed with patrons such as Germophobe Gary, who not only leave and return repeatedly throughout the day, but demand a new Clorox Disinfecting Wipe with each visit so that our keyboards might be rendered safe for him to touch. (We can't really blame him, but it is still a very annoying extra step for us.) Very often, Repeat Offenders are also the patrons who do the most amount of printing from the computers and are constantly pestering us to look at their prints, compounding our bad attitude toward them. Usual suspects among the current Repeat Offenders crowd include: Germaphobe Gary, Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine, Mr. B-Natural, Mr. W. Perfect, The New Devil Twins Auxiliary League of Neighborhood Kids, Johnny Hacker, Mr. Little Stupid. Former Repeat Offenders include: Parka, Crusty the Patron, Stoner Lad.
   

Back to the Paper Age

We had a scheduled power outage recently that threw our usual day into chaos, at least as far as the innanet crowd was concerned; for us, it may still have been chaos, but at least it was entertaining chaos.

Word came down, on the day in question, that at 11:30a all power for the whole area would be cut off for a couple of hours due to some sort of maintenance issues upstream. Dutifully, Mrs. C went around to all the morning's innanet crowders and warned them that the power would be going off at 11:30 and that they needed to be sure to save whatever they were working on before then. A few of them left the building at the first warning. Others, such as Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine, hung on anyway. Soon, other innanet crowders arrived to fill the empty stations. Mrs. C warned all the newcomers, but at 11:30 all ten computers were still very much in use.

When the power finally went off, around 12:30, Mrs. C was at the desk and reported the behavior she witnessed. The lights went out, the computers turned off and all the innanet crowders sat there for several seconds staring at their blank screens. Mrs. C said that they then turned their heads in unison and glared at her as though they had not been duly warned and as though their sudden loss of net-teat-sustenance were somehow her fault.

"I told you it was going to go off," she said to them.

They all then looked at one another for a moment, seemed very sad and then left the building in a mass exodus. Well, all except for Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine, who still had to gather up all of his geneal0gy crap. Despite having been warned numerous times, he was very annoyed at this turn of events and said so. Before leaving the building, he gave Mrs. B his cell phone number and instructed her to phone him immediately when the power returned. In the meantime, he said was going to go get some lunch.

I turned up around 1p to find the building's interior in peaceful shadow. It was SO quiet with the absence of the constant hum of machinery. And our phones, all of which require an exterior power source, were blissfully silent as well. Occasionally, patrons arrived to turn in their books, which we piled on the back counter to check in later. We continued to circulate by writing down barcode numbers of library cards and the books themselves. It took a bit longer and we knew it would be a pain to type them all in later, but there was also something comforting about the process. We kind of adopted a "This is how they did things back in the dark times before the age of computas" attitude, despite the fact that no one EVER wrote down barcode numbers before the age of computas.

After a bit, we realized that without power we were also without heat. It wasn't even uncomfortably cold in the building, but we could definitely feel it.

"Watch this," I said, marching over to one of our gas-powered fireplaces, visions of firing them up and sitting toasty and warm in the comfy chairs in front of them, dancing in my head. Only when I arrived there, I realized that the controls of the gas-powered fireplaces were electric, so we were SOL on toasty heat.

What warmed me instead, though, was the sight of several regular innanet crowders, (who'd had to drive through streets deviod of traffic-signals in order to get to the "liberry" in the first place, enter our building, notice all the lights were off, notice the computers were similarly off and then turn to us to ask, "So, there's no innanet?"

"No. There's no innanet," we said.

Around 2p, the power came back on and the phones began to ring with call after call from people saying, "Uhhhh, hey, is yer pa'er back ownnn?" and others complaining that they'd been calling for the past hour to ask us if our power was on and that we would not answer the phone. Another of the earliest callers was Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine, who'd phoned to report that the power was back on in Town B, so if any of us wanted to get some lunch there would be restaurants with ovens there. He returned to the "liberry" soon enough and reported that he had been unable to find any lunch himself because all the restaurants had closed anticipating the impending power outage.

Gene has still received no response from the governor regarding his complaint about our innanet being so slow. He has informed me that he has now drafted a new letter explaining to the governor that if the man doesn't have time to respond to the complaints of his citizens, then he, Gene, has no time to vote for him any more.

That'll show him.

Gene FINALLY Poops

Shortly after I arrived at work, Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine came to the desk and told me that he'd finally penned his letter to the governor complaining about the slowness of our innanet connection. In fact, he'd already printed two copies and wanted me to have the first look at his missive--you know, being as how I'm the guy who's been repeatedly telling him he needed to write this letter for the better part of six months. I was more than willing to give it a look, too, because I didn't trust Gene to get the details right. Sure enough, within less than two seconds I could see things were amiss.

Gene's first sentence was an apparent fragment caused by his use of an unnecessary period after the abbreviation of our state, a period which Microsoft Word had interpreted as a full stop and helpfully capitalized the first letter of the next word creating the appearance of a brand new sentence. I pointed this out to him. Further on, we had some misspellings, one the word "seems" spelled "seams." Gene was unhappy about this and blamed our spell checker. I informed him that Word's spell checker was working just fine and that "seams" was indeed the proper spelling of a word, just not the one he was intending to use. There were more such errors and misspellings throughout, including--and I swear I am not making this up--the word "liberrian."

He printed out two copies of his second draft, which I took from the printer to check before he could even come ask. I could see immediately he'd not fixed all the things I'd circled earlier, so I went out to his computer and offered to copy edit it for him on screen. He gladly let me have a seat and I went through and made sure his complaint letter about us was grammatically correct. I then suggested a few things he might add to it, such as placing the blame for our slow connection speed squarely on the shoulders of DubyaVeeNet, as I'd been explaining to him for months, and an added suggestion to the governor that he consider a different and more reliable internet service provider, being as how there are quite a number of them in the state to choose from.

Gene thanked me for my efforts, printed out another two copies--one for the governor and one for Gene's own records, cause he saves EVERYTHING. In fact, he had a copy of his letter from the "liberry" commissioner about the issue to include with his letter to the governor. Way to go.

Will it do any good? Eh, who knows. I sure hope so because I'm sick of the slow-ass innanet connection too. Back when I had dialup at home, it used to be that going to work was my great escape from the slow speed at home. Now that I have amazingly reliable Verizon DSL at home, however, going to work is like sliding into a nice pool of tepid tar. My boss, Mrs. A, thinks it's far more likely the governor's office will roll this particular crap ball down to the "liberry" commission who will then roll it on to her head despite the fact that we can't do anything about it.

We shall see.

Perils of Patrons Posting Pictures

Mr. Little Stupid approached the circ desk. At first I thought he was going to ask how to spell a word, as usual, but instead he asked if I could show him how to upload pictures to the internet.

"Oh, uh... sure," I said. I followed him back to his computer where he was already logged into his MySpac3 account and had made it as far as the pictures upload section. Naturally, MySpac3 wanted to install ActiveX on our machine, which I knew our security would never allow, but it also offered a less intensive option as a backup, albeit very slowly. Eventually, our overtaxed servers coughed up the new page at which point I showed Mr. Little Stupid how to select pictures from the CD he had brought with him. It's not a difficult process, but I wouldn't have expected anyone to learn it completely on the first try, much less Mr. Little Stupid--a man famous for completely Mementoing on us in the past. It would take at least a couple of tries and that was fine.

What concerned me was what was going to happen when I showed him how to turn the browse listing of his CD contents directory into thumbnails so he could select the one he wanted to upload more easily. As unmodest as Mr. Little Stupid has been about printing out saucy pictures of potential mates found on MySpac3 in the past, I was a little worried what sort of pictures he'd be sending out. It was one of those bomb diffusal situations where you brace for the blast and then clip the red wire. So I braced myself, clicked thumbnail view and up popped lots of very innocently staged outdoor pose pictures of a fully and tastefully-clothed Mr. Little Stupid. Whew!

And, yes, it did take about four tries before he seemed to finally understand the process, a situation not aided by our slow-ass "T1 Line" innanet connection.

The slow internet connection is a major source of contention with both the usual innanet crowd and the staff. We all hate it, but we're kind of shackled with it at the moment. See, the "liberries" of the state have service through an outfit called DubyaVeeNet, which provides net access for a great deal of DubyaVee. The trouble is, they provide SO much access to SO many schools and libraries and sundry other clients that they've taxed their own ability to share the love and the whole thing has become infuriatingly slow to the point that our T1 line is about as fast as dialup. We regularly get complaints that our computers are too slow, at which point we can do nothing but agree with the complainant and suggest to them that they write the governor about it. We've been told by state "liberry" central that they are just as fed up with it as anyone, but that DubyaVeeNet has been given the state contract and only the governor can alter this when it comes time to renew. Until then, we're pretty much stuck on the 1500 baud, Information-Unpaved-Huntin'-trail.

Mostly the complaints come from Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine, who can't get his geneal0gy research done fast enough on a good day, let alone the normal very slow days. We've explained the situation to fifty times now, but getting him to listen and follow up on our suggestions has been the problem. For instance, we've repeatedly told him to contact the governor about it since that's what our techs have advised. And after continuing complaints from him and no action, I personally went to Gene and explained the situation YET AGAIN, advising him to write the governor. What did Gene do? Oh, he wrote to the "Liberry" Commissioner to complain, instead. The "L"C then rolled it back down hill to Mrs. A and suggested we tell Gene to write the governor as the "L"C's hands were tied.

"Why didn't you write the governor like we told you to?" I asked Gene to his face, days later. And his reply, at the time, was something along the lines of, "Oh, you wanted me to write the governor?"

YES, YES, YES, THE GOVERNOR!! WE'VE ONLY TOLD YOU FIFTY-ONE TIMES, THE MOTHER-$&#*ING GOVERNOR!!!!

So, some months back, Gene attempted and, I believe, failed to write the governor. Oh, he tried to send the gov an email about it at least once, but said that the governor's home page kept blanking out his email form-field after he'd spent a very long time composing his email into it, frustrating him further. He didn't so much blame the governor's faulty website as our computers for conspiring to stay slow.

In the meantime, Gene still seems to feel there's something we're either doing or not doing to cause his computer to be slow, no matter which one he's using. (Actually, while attractive on the surface, slowing Gene's computer down intentionally would not be a good idea at all because Gene tenaciously refuses to give up simply because it's taking him a far longer time to access the information he wants.) And despite being about the third worst computer neophyte I've met in this job, Gene naturally has magic remedies that he thinks we should try in order to fix the situation. Such as his recent suggestion that our connection speed would increase somehow if we rebooted all the computers that weren't currently in use. We pointed out to him that it's standard operating procedure to reboot each computer after use, so his theory was bunk.

Since Gene won't take our advice, our attitude toward him has become one of If he refuses to do the ONE THING we've been told might have some effect, then he can just stew in his slow internet. However, last week, Gene complained YET again and I could no longer hold my tongue. I looked at him, dead in his face, and asked, "Have. You. Written. The. Governor. About. It. Yet?"

Gene admitted that he had not and referred once again to his emails that had been eaten by our computers.

"Then don't send an email," I said. "Send the governor an actual letter on actual paper. People pay far more attention to actual letters they can hold in their hands than any email."

And, as though this brilliant idea had never occurred to him, Gene announced that he would.

We shall see.

Actual Semi-Paraphrased Second-Hand Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #111

SETTING: My "liberry" as Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine comes up to pay for his many many prints, having spent the entire afternoon pounding away at the geneal0gy engine in the company of fellow local genal0gist Mrs. Trout. Mrs. Trout had earlier paid for her own many prints and departed. Ms. D is running the desk.

GENE— (To Ms. D) You know, I like MRS. TROUT, and all, but she sure can talk your ear off.

MS. D— (Stands in stunned silence as she processes the astounding levels of irony contained in Gene's statement.)

GENE— I can hardly get anything done.

MS. D— (Remains unable to speak.)

(Upon hearing this tale recounted, I noted that it's fortunate I wasn't there to hear it personally, for I would have been hard-pressed to keep from saying, "Oh, I know what you mean! I once had to gnaw off my own leg to escape a conversation with YOU.")

PATRON FIIIIIGHT!!!

"You missed all the fun on Friday," Ms. M told me upon my arrival for work Monday. "We had a fight."

"A fight?!" I said, practically salivating that fisticuffs were engaged in and wondering what on earth could have caused a "liberry" throw down. Maybe someone finally hit Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine in the mouth? Maybe Parka came back and got into a fight with Mr. Creepy Guy over which one of them was rightfully the skeeveist? Maybe there was some sort of Mr. Stanky and Bear Piss Man Vs. the Sweatiest Woman in all the Land and Mr. Stankier tag-team stank off?

"What happened? What happened?" I asked.

Ms. M shrugged. "I don't know," she said.

"You... you don't know?"

"Nope."

Perhaps after seeing my confused expression, Ms. M then explained that on Friday, while everyone else was out at lunch and she was running things solo, there had been two adult women in the library who apparently got into some sort of intense disagreement with one another and decided to take it outside. Evidently it was the least disruptive intense disagreement in the history of such things, because despite the fact that they and Ms. M were all essentially in the same room, Ms. M's first and only clue that anything was amiss came when a police officer entered the building twenty minutes later to inquire what Ms. M might have witnessed of the fight.

"There was a fight?" she reportedly asked.

"Yeah. In the parking lot. You didn't see it?" the no doubt surprised officer reportedly then said. After Ms. M admitted her cluelessness, he went on to say that, according to the ladies themselves, they'd started out arguing in the library and then resolved to take their argument outside and transition it into one of a more physical nature. Ms. M told the officer that she never heard any raised voices, nor saw any other indication that anyone was unhappy with anyone else inside the library or out. It was all news to her. The officer took her statement and went away.

Later in the day, the husband of one of the ladies phoned the library and spoke to Ms. M to apologize on behalf of his wife for causing such a ruckus. Ms. M assured him it was fine and that she hadn't actually noticed any of it, had no idea what it was about and didn't need to know.

This, of course, just pissed the rest of us right off, cause if there's going to be fighting in the "liberry" we damn well want to A) see it for ourselves, or B) get all the juicy details about it otherwise. Ms. M had clearly fallen down in her duties as a member of the "Liberry" Clubhouse Junior Detectives and/or "Liberry" Junior Gossip-Observers League.

Mrs. A has now vowed to use her connections in the police department to learn the details, but so far everyone is keeping mum.

Jumpin' Gene (PART III)

At some point during Gene's detailing of his rock & roll heritage, my ears tuned out again. Probably when my fight or flight skills kicked in and I began plotting clever ways to escape.

If only I'd had the good sense to leave my cell phone in silent mode, I could have reached into my pocket and touch dialed the front desk, allowing me to escape to go answer it. Better yet, I should have had the foresight to program the number into one touch dialing! Then again, Ms. D was still at the desk and would likely have answered the phone before I could move.

While Gene wasn't looking, I glanced back at Ms. D over my shoulder, hoping to catch her eye and, using only my eyebrows, give her the international sign-language for &%$*ING COME SAVE ME!!! She was still engaged talking to a patron, though, and didn't look up.

Meanwhile, Gene was still climbing up through limb after limb of his family tree. Eventually, and I shit you not about this, he was able to show me what he thought was proof that he was not only related to Elv!s, as he'd already shown, but was also related to L0retta Lynn. Ah, so he was related to both rock and country music royalty.

Unfortunately for Gene, ten minutes had now sailed by with all the speed of the Pigot Glacier and my good will with him had run out. Why had I thought being nice would get me anywhere? I was much happier back when I was steely and rude and all Shields Up with him.

Even as he was talking to me, I began to edge away from him, positioning my body in such a way that it was practically facing back toward the circ desk, a less-than-subtle indication that this was the direction in which I was hoping to move. Gene kept on. In fact, even though only a little of what he was saying was actually making it past my boring-ass-lecture filters, I could tell that Gene had actually moved on from the subject of his own geneal0gy and had now started telling me the details of a completely different family he wasn't related to in any way! Not only that, but the details he was conveying were about the family history of another patron. I can only presume he was doing this to somehow show the superior nature of his own family history in comparison. This must be how geneal0gists in the wild establish which of them will be the dominant alpha geneal0gist of the pack.

"Hah hahhhh! My Elv!s trumps your Joey Bishop. The more comfortable computer chair is mine!!"

(Whoa! I was trying to pull the name of one of the lesser members of the Rat Pack for that reference and found that my choice of Joey Bishop just died yesterday. OooooWEEEEOOOO! NOTE FOR BIRTHDAY LADY: February 3, 1918.)

Through a series of hand gestures, pointing back toward the desk, I was eventually able to escape Gene's clutches and return to what I hoped was the safety of the circulation desk. It still didn't feel safe enough, though, so I hid in the staff workroom, leaving the desk to Ms. D. Unfortunately, she left for the day soon after and I was forced out of my darkened hidy hole. I should have started programming my phone right then, for Gene was not done with me. On two occasions over the course of the evening he attempted to engage me in lectures again. The first time he spied me attempting to shelve some books and beckoned me over. At first I thought he was finally asking me to help him attach a file, so I went over only to have him say "You want to see something interesting" as I got within his field of power. I was able to escape fairly quickly, but vowed to not leave the desk again. So on the second attempt, Gene came up to the desk bringing printed pages of "something interesting" to show me there. I went all glassy eyed and stone faced in an attempt to fend him off and he left after only a minute.

I soon took to lurking just inside the door to the staff workroom, where I could see approaching patrons, but Gene could not see me. Eventually, I was able to come out of hiding, not because Gene left, but because an older couple he knew had entered the building. They often come in together to check email and, being in Gene's general age-bracket and having at least a minor interest in geneal0gy, are frequent victims for his lecture traps. I like to call them, Mr. and Mrs. Alternative Target. I boldly came out of hiding to watch the action.

Gene spied them and pouched. Mr. Alternative Target, being a gentleman, stepped into the attack zone, allowing Gene to seize upon him and his wife to escape unharmed. She retreated to the comfy chairs to read the newspaper while her husband was being mauled. The mauling went on for some time, throughout which I moved freely about the floor, safe in the knowledge that I was now immune from attack.

Apparently, the internet was not big enough to contain the lecture and Gene wound up leading Mr. Alternative Target to our local history room to continue. He looked SO happy. At this point, Mrs. Alternative Target bravely attempted to save her husband by stepping near the door to the local history room and interrupting Gene to alert her husband to the fact that they needed to leave soon. Unfortunately, Gene's power increases in the presence of dusty old tomes and Mr. Alternative Target was mired but good no matter how visibly impatient she looked. She stepped over to the circ desk.

"That man is certainly... interested in family history," Mrs. Alternative Target said to me.

"He sure is," I said.

"I suppose it's good to have something you can be passionate about like that."

"I suppose so."

Not long after the Alternative Target family finally made their escape, Gene left too. He seemed tired after such a long day, but very happy all the same.

The next morning, I related the tale of my evening to my coworkers. I also told them of my plan to program my phone to dial the desk in emergency situations. Mrs. A suggested we also needed to set up a series of signals we could give one another in order to facilitate rescue in case any of us were caught in Gene's vortex of boredom. Stomping our feet, Mr. Ed style seemed the most popular of the possible signals we could use. However, the signal we adopted was Mrs. C's suggestion: If any staff member sees any other staff member engaged in conversation with Gene we are to immediately run over and save them by any means necessary.

The simple solutions are always the best.

Jumpin' Gene (PART II)

Having made my decision to have a good attitude in my dealings with Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine, I greeted him warmly when next he darkened our door. And Gene, for his part, seemed to notice my good mood. In fact, he seized upon the opportunity to mention that he was looking to take one of the genuine long lost relative pictures he'd been emailed him and resend it to his daughter. He wondered if, perhaps, I might show him how to attach it to an email later.

"Whenever you're ready to send it, come get me and I'll show you how to do attach it," I said cheerfully.

That was pretty early in the day. Throughout much of the remaining six hours Gene was with us, I kept waiting for him to call me over to do the attachment. I was actually looking forward to putting my best face on it and being a helpful and service-oriented "liberry" ass. instead of the spiteful, passive-aggressive one I'd been lately.

Around 6 p.m., when only I and Ms. D were still on shift, Gene finally called me over to his computer. I should have been alarmed when I saw that his screen wasn't immediately open to his email account, but no warning alarms sounded within my head. Even when he uttered his familiar and usually terrifying phrase, "Let me show you something interesting," I still somehow was not afeared. Only when he clicked to a new window and I saw the branches of a family-tree pop up on the screen did I finally scent danger.

"Look here..." he began, and immediately trailed off into his latest geneal0gical discoveries.

Oh %#$&ing heck, I thought. I've just allowed myself to be willingly lured into one of Gene's patented geneal0gy lecture traps!!

And indeed as I thought it, it sprung shut around my foot.

For months now, I and the rest of the staff have kept a very Shields-Up policy when dealing with Gene. We try not to make eye contact. We try not to linger in proximity to him. We try not to speak to him in anything but the most clinical and utilitarian of language. For we know if we allow him even the smallest of openings, we'll be trapped in geneal0gy lecture purgatory until one of the other staff members can emergency dial Zelda Rubenstein and she can come and pull us from Gene's deadlights. (Just to mix my Poltergeist metaphors with my Stephen King's IT metaphors.)

Even before my forced good mood, however, I suspect we've gotten a bit lazy about our Shields Up policy. Now that we have more than three computers at our disposal, there have been zero occasions when Gene has had to wait around until a computer came free and he's therefore had no cause to inflict such lectures on the staff in order to motivate us to get him a computer faster. Recently, though, Mrs. J and Mrs. B have become mired in Gene-land by being too friendly too close to him and now it was my turn to suffer.

I braced myself for this earthly equivalent of Vogon Poetry and hoped I could find an excuse to dash away or, more likely, to claw my way across the carpet, prone and nearly lifeless. Alas, there was no readily apparent excuse to do so. Sure, there were people at the circ desk, but newbie Ms. D had them neatly in hand—damn her ungreenhorn-like efficiency and natural ability!

Then something Gene said caused my ears to actually turn on and listen. It took them awhile to overcome their natural aversion to boring-ass-lectures, but if I was hearing correctly, I could have sworn Gene had just proven a lineage trace to someone who had actually been interesting.

"You're related to... Elv!s?" I asked, just to be clear. Gene gave me an odd look, for he'd clearly just told me that, albeit in long-and-rambling-begat form.

"Yeah," he said, and pointed back to the screen where there was a detailed family tree showing how Elv!s's people had come originally from North Carolina and then a branch of them had gone to Mississippi where the king himself was eventually born. This seemed interesting enough for the moment, so I listened as he did more begats. Minutes crawled by.

(TO BE CONCLUDED...)

Jumpin' Gene (PART I)

I decided that I've had something of a bad attitude about my job as of late.

(*COLLECTIVE GASP* "No!!!")

Yes, yes. I know it is difficult to accept, but it is indeed true. I have had a bad attitude at times, particularly when it comes to dealing with Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine.

Okay, sure, Geneal0gy People are among the most irritating of all the patron archetypes—what, with their frequent whining about your library's lack of vital research documents, such as a complete archive of all county and state obituaries, passenger manifests for every ship that crossed any given body of water from the years 1476 through 1957, and, of course, a complete and accurately-researched geneal0gy record for their entire family, and all. But it's also very easy to get annoyed with those who don't whine, especially when they spend as many hours per day hard at their own research as Gene does, not to mention constantly tormenting the staff with tales of their boring-ass ancestry. Still, even all of that should not be cause enough for staff members to be rude to the Geneal0gy People, even if said Geneal0gy People have decided to take their irritation a notch further.

Case in point, Gene recently purchased a jump drive because somebody told him he should. It's actually not a bad idea, because instead of printing out a ream of paper per week, as Gene does, he could simply save all those important online documents he finds to his drive and explore them later. Gene doesn't quite see the logic in this, though. No, mostly what he wants to save are pictures of his long, lost, dead relatives that have been scanned and emailed to him by other long-lost yet recently-found, not-yet-dead relatives. Unfortunately, and despite my best efforts to kill the rumor, I've developed a reputation around the "liberry" as the go to guy for tech questions, so Gene always comes to me for help.

So, one day I showed Gene how to save things to his jump drive.

The next day, I had to show Gene how to save things to his jump drive again.

The next day, I showed Gene a third time.

And so the pattern went, with me becoming increasingly irritated about it the more times I had to show him.

Part of my irritation was that each time I showed Gene how to save images, he kept trying to make the process far more complicated than it actually is. He would open all such tutorial sessions by complaining about his inability to see his picture in advance of saving it. I repeatedly tried showing him how to choose OPEN from the selection provided by the download menu, but, depending on which computer station he was seated at, nothing tended to happen when he did this. This further cemented the complaint in his mind and the irritation in mine. And the more irritated I became, the more it showed in my voice and manner, which surrounding patrons could no doubt detect too. (Granted, they were all probably very sympathetic to me, having been on the receiving end of Gene's lengthy lectures about the intricacies of his family tree, not to mention how interesting the life of his great aunt Loofie had been, many times themselves. But still.)

The other major annoyance was that only one of the images he asked me to help him save was actually of a relative of his. The rest were just odd internet flotsam; like a picture of three dogs against a field of blended colors, or a texture tile jpeg. Gene couldn't figure out why the long-lost relative he'd been corresponding with had chosen to send these to him, and he was angry that she was wasting his time. He was also angry that each and every one of her emails to him had at least two such images attached.

During our third tutorial session, after I'd showed him how to save an image that turned out to be animated smiley faces, I finally realized that the lady wasn't intentionally attaching any images at all, but had set her email account to include them as part of her signature file or as backgrounds for the email itself. I nearly laughed out loud at this, and it fortunately served to diffuse my anger at having to deal with Gene, for I had been about to strangle him.

I then explained the concept of Signature File Crap to Gene and told him to ignore those images unless a third image was attached titled with the name of one of his relatives. He seemed satisfied by this. In fact, Gene seemed downright apologetic over the next couple of days. Whenever he came in, he'd be sure to tell me how he'd attempted to save a few things again and he thought he might have even gotten it right. "I'm still learning," he'd say.

That's when I started to feel bad about my own behavior and decided to adopt a better attitude toward Gene. There was no reason to be pissy with him. No matter how many hours he might spend hogging up our computers per day, he's still pretty green to computers. I really should be able to help him do whatever he needs to do without ire, if for no other reason than it's my damned job.

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

Creep Sweep Blues

I only recently began closing on Fridays again, but wouldn't you know that first one I was scheduled for would coincide with me having some place else I was supposed to be come our closing time of 7p. Not wanting to trade out with Ms. M (who I already owe for numerous previous trades) or Ms. D (who was working the rest of the weekend) I decided to just work extra hard to get all my crap done early so I could depart as close to 7 as possible (i.e. get Gene off the damn computer at least 10 minutes til close). I figured I could do it, as the place I had to be was nearby.

Shortly into the last hour of my shift, a lady patron came in. A minute later, another lady patron, a friend of the first, came in and they saw one another. The two apparently had not spoken in ages, so they went into the nonfiction stacks and conversed most of the hour away while browsing, usually in front of the section where I was looking to shelve books.

About fifteen minutes until 7, they wrapped up their conversation, the first lady checked out some books and then departed. The second lady, still tucked deep in the stacks, slipped out of my mind entirely and I forgot she existed. After all, I was busy trying to get Gene and the computer users to relinquish their computers so I could shut them down and clean up all their grubby fingerprints. Soon they were all gone, the building was completely quiet and I was at last able to finish my crap in peace.

Minutes later, when I went out to unlock the book return, I noticed a vehicle still in the parking lot. I was pretty sure I was alone in the library, so I wondered if the vehicle belonged to someone who had simply parked in our lot to walk elsewhere in the area. Didn't seem likely, as we're not exactly located conveniently near anything of interest, but stranger things have happened. I locked the front door and proceeded to finish writing down the stats for the day.

Normally when closing alone, I do a creep sweep of the entire building, moving along one side of the nonfiction stacks, eyeing each aisle and every nook and cranny, then checking young adult to make sure the Coot hasn't fallen asleep in the comfy chairs there again. Then I circle back around to the other side of nonfiction, then through reference, cross the main floor, check the mysteries and general fiction stacks before cutting past large print books and into the juvenille and easy reader sections, pop in for a check of the restrooms and then head downstairs for a quick once over. However, on this particular night, due to my need to be elsewhere and my false confidence that I was the only person in the building, I decided to forego those steps. For a moment, I did consider activating our intercom system to announce we were closed, just in case the owner of the vehicle outside was indeed still in the building and was, perhaps, downstairs, but I couldn't remember how to activate it, so I just gave up and shut off all the lights.

"Ahhh!" a female voice called from the nonfiction stacks.

"Oh. Oops," I said, flipping the lights back on.

"I take it you're closing?" the voice called again.

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, I thought I was alone."

The second lady from earlier came out with her selection of books and apologized for being so quiet in the library. I apologized for nearly locking her in, checked out her books and sent her on her way.

Then, so as not to make the same mistake twice, I went ahead and did the creep sweep of both floors, found no one and hoofed it out the door myself.

No, seriously, we don't take those.

A lady came huffing and puffing through our double doors, lugging a medium-sized box which she set on the circ desk.

"I've brought you a box of donations," she said.

"Oh. Thank you very much," I said. One flap of the box was open and allowed me a limited glimpse into the box itself. There I could see a row of books that looked remarkably close in size and shape to text books.

"Are some of these text books?" I asked.

"They're all text books," the lady said.

"Um... I'm sorry, but we don't accept text books," I said. "We don't take donations of Readers Digest condensed books and we don't take text books."

The lady stared back at me, but was not angry at my dismissal of her gift. "Yes, that's what the woman I spoke to on the phone said. But," she added, adopting a hopeful tone, "she said you could sometimes get rid of them for us?"

No, what the woman she'd spoken to on the phone had probably said was that if we received any text books we would just throw them away. Not the same thing, but I could now see her angle on this. This lady wasn't thoughtfully donating books she thought we could use; she clearly knew we wouldn't use her text books. Instead, the idea of throwing them away herself was so repulsive that she was intentionally passing her moral book-dilemma on to us. She had already been told that we would throw them away, but if she didn't have to be there to see it then it somehow wasn't as bad. It's like the practice of loading one gun in a firing squad with blanks; she's allowed to live in a world where she can hope that maybe, just maybe, we took pity on those books and added them to our collection despite policy. This is, after all, the primary reason people donate so many boxes of moldy, rat-gnawed, estate-sale books to us: because they can't bear to throw them out. And it's why our annual book sale is such a public service. We throw out a vast quantity of books most years, but the public is spared the horrors of seeing us do so.

In retrospect, I probably should have been Mr. Cool, taken the lady's text books, patted her on the shoulder and assured her we would take good care of them. I could then have put the box out by the garbage and she could have gone on living in her happy, sunny, little candy-colored world, where all books are loved and have cozy homes and get snuggles and treats. Yep, that would have been the Mr. Cool move to make. But I wasn't feeling like Mr. Cool. I'd had a bad afternoon of it already and had just spent several tense minutes trying to teach Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine how to use his #%&*ing jump drive, YET AGAIN, and was not in the mood to coddle anyone. She'd turned up knowing full well that we didn't accept what she was bringing and she could therefore throw her own books away.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't know who you talked to, but our policy is that we do not take text books."

The lady looked a little sad, but gave me a sheepish grin and hauled her box away.

Mr. Stanky: The Return

A seizure of horror gripped me as I casually glanced out our front window. There, in our parking lot, was the open-sided, plywood-roofed Jeep that we know as the Stankmobile. More horrific still, it was empty, which meant its owner, one Mr. Stanky, was no doubt coming up the walk outside of my field of vision. This was the moment I'd been dreading for weeks.

Because of our recent introduction of additional patron computers, we've increased the amount of time our patrons can have at a station from a half hour to a full hour. This is almost meaningless, however, for we only enforce that time limit on the rare occasions that all the computers are full, including the 15 minute stations. Most of our regular computer patrons, such as Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine, really like the new rules since it means they potentially have no time limits whatsoever. As long as there's at least one computer available, and there usually is, they can stay on all day. The major drawback I foresaw weeks ago was that this new setup would also work to the advantage of our more tenaciously repulsive patrons, such as Crusty the Patron and Mr. Stanky. I was afeared to my very soul.

Within seconds of my Stankmobile sighting, the front doors bumped open and in he came, clad in the usual sweat-soaked, sweat-stained T-shirt and shorts, which he had, no doubt, been clad in for at least a week. I remained at the far end of the desk, away from the computer sign-in sheet, which Mr. Stanky noticed shortly and for which he made a slow lunge. I hadn't yet caught a whiff of him, and was looking to prolong the time before I was gifted with that inevitable experience.

I scurried away from the desk and went out to log him onto a computer, so that I would then have time to scurry away from the computers before he got close. But which one to put him on? There were only two people on computers at that moment, but despite the fact that one of them was Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine (who had already been on the entire morning), I politely decided to place Mr. Stanky equidistant from both computer users. Before I could get that particular machine logged in, though, Mr. Stanky was upon me. I tried to take in enough breath to sustain me back to the circ-desk, but he was too close and I wound up inhaling some of his fumes.

Sweet Melissa!! It was worse than usual, if such a thing is even possible! Had he been rolling around in a carcas all morning?!!

I made my escape, but the stench just seemed to follow me. It felt like it was not only in my nose but permeating my clothes, sticking to my skin like some sort of stank napalm. I wanted to take a shower—a nice, long, radiation-scrub shower administered with a wire-bristle brush on a long stick, Silkwood-style.

Where the hell was the Febreeze?! The Lysol?!! The Easy-Off?!!!

I retreated to the staff workroom, but the fumes followed me in there, too. Every time I took a sip of my instant tea from my hard-plastic sippy cup, my nostrils pulled in Odeur de Stanquet, nearly causing me to gag.

Unfortunately, I couldn't stay in the relative safety of the workroom because the front doors opened wide, a stream of people seeking computers began to flow through them and beyond Mrs. J, I was the only staff member not out at lunch. I tried keeping the newcomers away from Mr. Stanky, but there was only so much I could do before most other available spaces were taken. When Mrs. J took a turn at logging people on, she sat some poor kid directly next to Mr. Stanky despite the fact that the 15 minute station furthest away from him was available. It would have been kinder to seat him beside a mace-fogger, really.

Fortunately, Mr. Stanky didn't stay the entire afternoon, but cleared out shortly after an hour. If only the lingering evidence of his presence had cleared out with him, for we were forced to share space with its slowly diminishing returns for another couple of hours still, thanking God that we'd had the good sense to order vinyl-covered computer chairs to replace the old cloth ones.

Attack of the S.E.W.S.

Recently, I began noticing that every time I checked our public men's restroom to make sure it was clean and stocked with necessities, the countertop around our sink was awash with water. This seemed very odd, to me, because the sink's faucets are quite tame in their water pressure and wouldn't have splashed onto the countertop without a goodly degree of help.

I theorized that we had another mystery patron on our hands, akin to the Serial Shitter. This new shadowy figure, however, could only have been known as the Serial Excessive Water-Splasher, which isn't nearly as sexy a name.

Now, granted, we're very happy that our patrons are washing their hands after making tinkle or stinky, but it's very annoying to have to mop up excess water several times per day. And, sure, our paper towel dispenser is nearly three feet away from the sink itself, requiring some degree of travel from the sink, over the countertop and a small section of floor to reach the towels. However, the fact that I'm perfectly capable of washing my hands in the very same sink without leaving even one drop on the counter would seem to indicate that this wasn't the root cause of the problem. I tried various ways of testing the sink to make sure it wasn't a defect in its manufacture, but could not recreate the water pooling effect through natural use. The additional fact water is often splashed on BOTH sides of the sink and not just the one nearest the paper towels indicated to me that someone was intentionally moistening our countertop.

Mrs. A suggested it was the doing of some of our Unobstructed Doors clients. That I would be able to accept, but for the frequency of the occurrence. This was happening not only daily, but multiple times during the day. This was the fault of a regular, which narrowed the spectrum of the search somewhat.

Right away the list of my top suspects included Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine, Mr. Little Stupid and The Coot. I was particularly suspicious of The Coot, because while Gene and Mr. Little Stupid can hog up the innanet for hours at a time, the Coot regularly stays parked in our comfy chairs by the windows for the entire day. He builds himself a little nest there, with stacks of books and magazines and personal belongings on the tables nearby. We even had a recent incident in which the Coot vanished, leaving his nest behind including his glasses and a light jacket. We searched the entire building for him, fearing he'd crawled off somewhere and died, but couldn't find a trace of him. Eventually, he walked in the front door, having gone on a stroll outside for a while, returned to his nest and remained there for the rest of the day.

Yeah, I could see the Coot splashing water. He was probably one of these people who eshewed the use of paper towels entirely, preferring either an air-dryer or, because we lack an air-dryer, to just fling the water from his hands in the general direction of our countertop. The only problem with this is that there is never water to be found on the mirror above the sink, which you would expect to find following a hand-flinging. Also problematic, the water on the countertop usually appeared in a volume that was more than could have dripped off of two hands on one try. Again with the evidence of premeditation.

Days later, I noticed the Coot was in-house and that someone had again moistened our bathroom counter excessively. I cleaned it all up and set about to keep watch on the people who went into the restroom. After a couple of hours, the Coot gathered up his belongings (leaving behind all the piles of magazines and books he'd been browsing) and departed the building. Less than 30 seconds later, he returned, stepped into the restroom for a minute, then departed for good. I bolted for the restroom. Sure enough, there was a damned lake atop our counter!

"AH HAH!" I cried in a low whipser upon exiting and making my way back to the circ-desk. "It's the Coot!"

Mrs. B looked confused until I told her the breakthrough in my investigation. She found it improbable that the Coot was the only suspect, as the ladies room seems to have its fair share of excess water splashing too.

I then dashed to find Mrs. A and tattle on the Coot. I figured she'd be up in arms, as he's one of her least favorite people, even though he no longer parks outside her office to groan and fart and sing. She wasn't surprised at the news, but said there wasn't much we could do about it. It would just be one more thing to add to the list of annoying habits this man exhibits in our presence, for several hours at a stretch, on a daily basis.

And the stars aligned (a.k.a. "The Password STILL is...")

Wow the computers were lousy with Rogues! At one point we had Matilde the Cranky Wiccan, Jimmy the Anonymous Snitch, Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine and three members of The New Devil Twins Auxiliary League of Neighborhood Kids using at the same time. This is even more impressive than last week's Rogue Constellation Alignment when Mr. Big Stupid and Mr. Little Stupid were both using at the same time.

As usual, the League of Kids descended on us in a clump to sign up for computers. I went out and logged them onto the second, third and fourth computers on one side of the computer bank, skipping the first one, a 15-minute station that I'd logged off not five minutes before. I then returned to the sign in clip-board to mark which computers I'd placed them on and make sure they'd listed their sign on times. When I turned `round again, though, I noticed that one of the kids was seated at the 15-minute station and had its desktop loaded up and everything.

Dammit! They knew the passwords AGAIN!

Okay, so it wasn't exactly a difficult password to hack, especially considering it was actually the old password that the League already knew. With all the recent computer installation and printer and password issues that have been going on, we finally got the tech guys to go in and set all the logins and passwords to the same thing and make the stations all print to the same printer. Only, the tech guys changed all the passwords back to the old old password, the same single letter it had been back before we got them to change all the passwords to my initials. The League all knew the old old password, so here they were again with free access.

Not that it really matters in the grand scheme of things, since the only reason to have passwords—y'know, beyond our whole need to wield power over people and feel all mighty and stuff—is that requiring them forces patrons to come sign in at our clip board, allowing us to both count them as computer users in our stats and to know who signed on when so we'll know who to kick off when.

I busted the kid off the 15 minute station, didn't say anything to him about knowing the password and then went to write a note to Mrs. A explaining the situation.

We've now changed all the passwords, this time to the initials of a staff member other than myself.

Trout Fishing In America

Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine arrived for one of his daily research sessions. As I was logging him onto his computer he said, "I see you're back."

"Yep," I said, wondering where I'd been hiding that he hadn't seen me recently. No, I'd really like to know, cause I want to go back there and stay.

"I see you're back," he repeated.

"YEP," I repeated at a louder tone. Then I noticed Gene wasn't talking to me at all. He was talking to Mrs. Trout, who was seated on the opposite row of our computer station.

Before the advent of Gene, Mrs. Trout (and to a lesser extent, Mabel) had been our resident amateur geneal0gist. These days we see less and less of her, which is unfortunate because we prefer Mrs. Trout to Gene at a 29 to 1 ratio. In addition to being a sweet and grandmotherly lady, we primarily love Mrs. Trout because she keeps the mind-numbingly boring details of her geneal0gy work to herself and doesn't try to lecture about them to anyone who strays within five feet of her. Unfortunately for her, Gene seems to have figured out that they share a hobby.

From the circ desk, I could hear their entire conversation as Gene began expounding upon his latest research breakthroughs to Mrs. Trout. At one point, Mrs. Trout mentioned that she hadn't had much luck recently, at which point Gene inquired as to what online geneal0gy services she was using. She told him and he gave off a polite yet derisive snicker. His sources, I inferred, were far superior.

"What's your last name?" he asked.

Ah ha, I thought, now he was going to look her up and do her entire family history just to demonstrate how superior his online sources truly were.

"Well, it's my mother's people I'm researching," Mrs. Trout said.

"But what's your last name?" Gene said.

"My last name is my husband's last name," Mrs. Trout said gently. "It's my mother's people I'm looking for."

"But what's your last name?" Gene insisted.

Mrs. Trout finally told him and Gene launched into his search. Mrs. Trout then wrapped up her computer time, paid for her prints and departed swiftly thereafter.

Further Confessions of a Complete Goober

My moms in law is in town this week. As always, it's been fantastic! See, Ma likes to spoil us with comfort foods, including such favorites as blackberry cobbler, strawberry rhubarb crisp and her world-famous banana pudding. Also, because Ma can't stand a mess, our house is more or less spotless. I tell you, there's no downside.

Since I had the day off, and since Ma was around to provide me with transportation, I decided to take my car to the repair shop down the road to have a few of its many ailments seen to. I walked back, resumed my day off and soon discussions turned to what we were to have for dinner. We didn't have quite all of the ingredients for the chicken alfredo pizza Ma had proposed, so I agreed to take her car and head out to the store.

"I'll probably stop by the gym, first," I told her. Gotta work off some of this cobbler, after all.

I unlocked Ma's vehicle using the key fob button on her keychain, but found I couldn't open the driver's side door. Ma had warned me, though, that her driver's side door doesn't always open via the handle, so I would have to go around and open it from the passenger side. This I did.

On arriving at the gym, I found myself with a dilemma. Ma's keychain is a massive construction, largely due to the commercial-kitchen-sized canister of pepper spray she lugs around on it. Now, I have no problems going to the store and buying maxi-pads or tampons or Midol or any of the other things most guys typically have issues with being sent to the store to buy. I just don't see what the big deal is about it; after all, no one is going to assume I'm buying such items for myself, but, instead, will assume that I'm buying them for a girlfriend or wife, further indicating that I am equipped with a woman and therefore not a complete loser.

That said, damn if I was lugging a big ol' can of pepper spray into the gym on a set of gargantu-girly keys. Instead, I removed the vehicle's key from the key chain, clipped it to my own keys and went in to work out.

Afterward, I returned to Ma's car where I again had to open the driver's side door from the passenger side. I didn't even have to use the key, though, for I'd left the car unlocked.

At the grocery store, I decided to leave my MP3 player in the car. To make sure that it was still there when I returned, I hit the door lock and headed on into the store. Some 20 minutes later, I emerged, laden with groceries, and attempted to unlock the driver's side door with Ma's key. The key barely made it half-way into the lock before stopping. No amount of wiggling would allow it any further.

Oh, that's the broken door, I thought. I then tried the passenger door and had the same result. No deal.

Aw, shit, I thought. I've locked myself out of the car. How dumb. My MP3 player stared up at me from the passenger seat, as did the enormous can of pepper spray and the magic door unlocking key fob clipped to it. I stood there for a minute, the sun beating down on me, my two canisters of Minute Maid concentrated orange juice mix thawing in the plastic bags at my side. Then I dug out my cell and phoned Ma.

I've had to confess a lot of dumb things to my mother-in-law over the years. For instance, there was the time I drove from Tupelo, MS, to Hickory, NC, to see Ashley, but took a wrong turn in Atlanta and wound up taking I-75 instead of I-85. Unfortunately, I was in Chattanooga before I realized my mistake. I knew I'd need to phone Ashley to let her know I would be late, but didn't have her number at work, so I had to phone Ma to get the number, at which point she interrogated the truth out of me. Not fun, but to her credit Ma did eventually let me marry her daughter despite my repeatedly proven status as a complete goober.

Ma took the door-locking incident in stride. She admitted that she wasn't sure if there was even a door key on the ring, as she always used the key fob to unlock the door. She did say that she had an emergency back up key in her pocketbook, but since there were no other vehicles at home I would have to find a way to come get it.

"Can you get a ride with someone you know there?" she asked.

Oddly, I had seen a handful of patrons in and around the store who knew me from the "liberry." There was Mrs. French, who is a patron I like a lot and have worked with in local theatrical productions, but I'd just seen her drive away as I arrived at the car. There was also Mabel, a lady who used to be one of our resident amateur geneal0gists before Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine usurped her throne. I'd seen her heading into the store on my way out. And, unfortunately, there was also Mr. Perfect.

I've only written about Mr. W. Perfect peripherally in the past. He's a patron of ours who's a nice enough guy, but distinguishes himself through his insistence on using only W0rd Perfect for his word processing. He loves W0rd Perfect and, given the opportunity, will go on and on about it, praising Corel for having created the program in the first place, lecturing us on how it has enriched his life and proclaiming his undying devotion to it. I personally hate W0rd Perfect, mostly because of Corel's insistence of refusing to use the same keyboard commands as other, superior products and generally being in league with the devil. I therefore find such devotion to it irritating and kind of creepy. Whatever. Unfortunately for Mr. Perfect, only one of our patron computers still has W0rd Perfect on it and he tends to only need to use it when that computer is otherwise taken. He's always very cool about it and never raises a stink, but often fills any amount of time he has to wait for it with flowerly soliloquies about how grateful he is to live on the same planet as W0rd Perfect and his barely platonic love for the program.

Even as I stood there in the parking lot, I spied Mr. Perfect approaching his own car. I considered going over and asking him for help, but asking someone to drive you home and then back was kind of a big favor to ask, particularly of someone you're not friends with in the first place. I didn't imagine he would turn me down, or anything, but I really didn't want to owe Mr. Perfect any favors. There are patrons I like, patrons I don't like, patrons I tolerate and patrons I'm more or less indifferent to. I'm indifferent to Mr. Perfect, other than that whole vaguely creepy feeling about his lust for W0rd Perfect. But our relationship is pretty much one of cordial distance and I like it that way and don't want to upset that balance.

As I watched, Mr. Perfect opened the hood of his car and began staring into his engine. Ah, great. So he too had car problems. Maybe he was just putting in new oil.

I turned away and began searching the wheel wells for the magnetic key holder that Ma had said had been hidden in one of them at some point in the past. I didn't find it in any of them, so I lay on the pavement to check beneath the car itself, trying to ignore the strange looks I was receiving from passers by.

I considered my options. I could try calling my insurance agency, but I didn't think they would pay for a locksmith to open someone else's car. I then considered phoning Mrs. A or Mrs. C and asking them to come over. They'd probably do it, but I hated to have to ask. I could just sit there and wait for Ashley to get off from work, but she's working out of town this month so a wait for her return would be fairly lengthy. I could walk home. As the crow flies, I didn't live very far away, but there was really no crow-path to my house that didn't involve crossing angry-bull-inhabited fields.

I sighed and looked back over my shoulder toward Mr. Perfect's car. It was gone. In its place, however, was a new car driven by my church choir director, Martha. I almost wished Mr. Perfect had still been there, because I owe Martha pretty big already. I've not been to choir practice, let alone sang with the choir since before going to Alaska. Granted, I've been out of town a lot and our summer choir practice schedule has been fairly thin, but that choir is hurting for tenors and I haven't been out of town so often that I couldn't come in. Martha would never broach the subject, but I knew she was thinkin' it.

"Are you having trouble?" Martha asked.

"Uh huh," I said.

Upon hearing my tale of woe, Martha graciously offered to drive me home and back. My fear was that Ma's back up key would be another ignition key, but instead it was an emergency door key that unlocked the doors just fine. I thanked Martha and told her she was my guardian angel. And though it was never discussed, I estimate that it will take at least three months of regularly attended choir practices to pay off this debt.

Who's Got the 10 and a Half (minus the half) 2007?

My fellow "liberry" ass. and former newbie greenhorn, Ms. M, is almost always willing to fill in whenever any of the rest of the staff have pressing outside scheduling conflicts. I had one of those earlier this week and she was kind enough to fill in for me during it. She's actually racked up quite a bit of credit with me in that regard over the past few months, so when I heard she needed Thursday off I figured it was time to pay her back. Granted, I was already scheduled to be at work from 9 to 1 today, which would turn this into a 10 hour shift. I agreed all the same. It's been a while since I've had a 10 hour shift, but in the past they've been great blogging fodder. And at least with Mrs. A, B, C and J present, it wouldn't be a 10 hour solo shift, which is what my previous 10 hour shifts have usually been. The drawback to it being a near full staff shift, though, is that it's difficult to blog it in real time. So I spent the day jotting notes to myself on scrap paper and tucking them into spare pockets to be able to reconstruct at home the following day. 

9:02 a.m.— I arrive at work 2 minutes after 9 due to leaving the house a bit late. However, it was completely necessary for me to make a new thermos full of coffee.

9:05 a.m.— The Coot arrives for what will likely be a 10 hour stay himself. He heads for his favorite seat outside Mrs. A's office where, as in accordance with tradition, he will groan and wail and burp and fart whenever Mrs. A has to use the phone or, indeed, her voice. 

9:15 a.m.— I process the huge stack of periodicals that have piled up since I was last here. As I do so, Mrs. C and Mrs. B are inspecting the general fiction walls, pulling shelving slips out of books and noting whether or not they are shelved correctly. Newbie Greenhorn Ms. S, as per usual, has several that are misshelved, a surprise to no one.  

9:37 a.m.— The staff discusses the fact that we have to move story hour from our usual activity area to the upstairs nonfiction floor due to the fact that we're having a class of violinists and their instructor in today to play for the story hour kids. We put signs up to that effect on the activity room door and then another on the library's front door in the hope that our traditional late comers, (i.e. little Kayla's family), will note them and be quiet when entering. 

9:41 a.m.— Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine arrives for his first computer shift of the day. 

9:45 a.m.— A few months back, Ms. S ran out of her usual orange shelving slips. At that point, she cut out and carefully initialed a large supply of pink shelving slips and in the intervening months, she's continued to use both orange and pink. Recently, former newbie greenhorn Ms. M ran out of her yellow shelving slips, so she too cut a bunch out of pink ones and carefully initialed them, apparently so that they wouldn't be confused with Ms. S's pink shelving slips. While sorting the various slips that Mrs. C and Mrs. B pulled earlier, I make a command decision and announce to the rest of the staff at hand that I am throwing away both sets of pink slips on the grounds that it is moronic to have them in the first place.

9:54 a.m.— The Bakers arrive for story hour. They bring 12,000 books to return. Amazingly, all of their books are from our library branch. 

9:55 a.m.— Mr. B-Natural arrives for his first computer session. He puts 10:00 as his signup time, no doubt thinking it will give him five extra minutes. I start his timer so it won't. 

10:00 a.m.— Story Hour begins. Kayla's family fails to arrive, a surprise to no one. Tuning of stringed instruments can be heard through the very floor above my head. I'm sure the Coot is thrilled.  

10:05 a.m.— I start checking the shelves for this week's overdues.  

10:10 a.m. — Little Kayla's family still has yet to arrive. 

10:27 a.m.— Mr. B-Natural departs, inquiring about the violin noise as he does.  

10:46 a.m.— While still checking shelves for overdues, I see that someone's flagged one of the books I shelved as being misshelved. I double check it, but cannot determine how it is misshelved. It's a mystery book shelved in the mysteries section, it's way too old to be in new fiction, and it's author, Davis, is shelved neatly after Davies and before Debin, just as it should be. What gives?  

11:00 a.m.— Story hour concludes. I notice Gene disappeared at some point, for he is no longer on his computer, nor the can, nor elsewhere in the building. 

11:16 a.m.— No way. It's not even noon and the mail has already arrived. Glory be!  

11:28 a.m.— I sneak away to my hidy-hole in the supply cabinet and retrieve my emergency toothbrush, with which I head to the sink outside our little public restroom under the stairs to brush my teeth and rid myself of coffee breath. No sooner is the brush in my mouth than the Coot squeezes past me to use the can. No good can come of this. I hurriedly brush my teeth and flee the area before he can release any fumes at me.  

11:30 a.m.— I spy the Coot outside, headed for his car. He better have flushed.  

11:40 to 11:47 a.m.— Mrs. A, Mrs. B, Mrs. J and I all stand around and tell Ms. S stories, chronicling her latest misadventures in dumbassity. 

 11:50 a.m. — While pulling some shelving slips Mrs. C and Mrs. B missed, I find another pink shelving slip, this one with Ms. S’s initials on one side and Ms. M’s initials on the other. Damn, they’re conspiring together now!!  

12:03 p.m. — I walk down the street to the local market to pick up one of their impressively generous and patron-awe-inspiring salads for lunch.  

12:10 p.m. — I return to the "liberry" and begin eating my impressive and tasty salad.  

12:18 p.m. — Mr. Little Stupid arrives for a computer.  

12:28 p.m. — I finish my salad and go brush my teeth again. Eww, salad breath.  

12:34 p.m. — I receive a phone call from one of the New Devil Twins Auxiliary League of Neighborhood Kids. I think it's Delbert. He inquires as to whether or not he will be allowed to use a computer should he turn up at the library. It's our policy, you see, that school-aged children of appropriate computer-usage age, even equipped with a permission slip on file, are not allowed to use a computer during school hours, unless they are home school students doing genuine research. According to Delbert, though, he is being schooled in an alternative school, which means he's gotten in trouble at regular school and has been sent there for reform. The alternative school doesn't meet until after 4, so he thinks this is a loophole. I bring it up to Mrs. A and C and they say he can only use a computer during normal school hours if he has a signed letter from his alternative school teacher saying he can, and then can only use it for genuine research. He can't come in and surf MySpace. I gleefully inform him of this.  

12:40 p.m. — Jimmy the Anonymous Snitch arrives for computer time. He brings his mommy with him, who I believe he still lives with and is likely his only means of transportation. What a colossal loser. 

12: 42 p.m. — The rest of the staff leave for lunch. It is Mrs. J's birthday and they're taking her to Crapplebees. Wow, and I thought we liked Mrs. J.  

12:57 p.m. — Jimmy and mommy leave.  

1:00 p.m. — I get a few minutes of peace and begin typing this up in hopes of putting some of it up on the blog early. 

1:04 p.m. — Sudden rush on computers, including a usually clueless wireless guy who will no doubt have trouble logging on and then have to get me to help him.  

1:10 p.m. — Our first "What are your hours?" call of the day. 

1:13 p.m.— Mr. Little stupid approaches the desk and asks me how to spell the word "talk." I tell him.  

1:15 p.m.— Lennie arrives for his Thursday shift. He complains that "it's so hot you can't stand it." He notices me typing and becomes very interested. I stop. 

1:30 p.m.— An old man with a long silver beard arrives saying he has 25 boxes of book donations for us, where do we want them? Since we aren't busy at all, I tell him to drive around to our storage area (i.e. the basement) and I'll come out and help him haul them in.  

1:31 p.m. — There's a sudden rush on the desk, with checkouts and reference questions. The phone also starts ringing with people calling for Mrs. C. I'm the only one on staff, except for Lennie and now can't leave the desk to go help this old man haul boxes. Instead, I send Lennie out and tell him to go unlock the basement and help haul boxes. He leaves.  

1:38 p.m.— The patron tide stemmed, I dash out to the basement door. The old man has two other slightly younger men helping him haul boxes out of a truck and into the basement. Lennie is standing there idly, saying that he'll lock the door back when they finish. I tell him that he's supposed to be helping them, but he doesn't move. One of the old men tells me that they have quite a few more boxes of books they wish to donate. I tell him he'd better give us a few days to get things sorted and cleared out to the BIGGER storage area, before bringing in any more. Mrs. B, our resident donation sorter and reboxer, is going to faint when she sees all these boxes. She only just yesterday got the basement and current crop of book donations sorted and sent off to our larger storage area, off property.  

1:40 p.m.— I dash back inside where a patron is waiting. 

 1:56 p.m. — Lennie won't quit snooping whenever I try to continue typing this up. I don't know how much he's capable of reading, but I learned long ago not to underestimate him. He seems to sense that I'm doing something of interest, though, and keeps asking me questions, like "Who are you writing a letter to?" "Myself," I tell him. I switch from the screen to a scrap of paper, but he's even now trying to get a gander of this very note.  

2:00 p.m. — The rest of the staff returns from lunch.  

2:07 p.m.— I ask Mrs. C and Mrs. B why my book in the mysteries was flagged as misshelved. They say they weren't the ones who flagged it, though. Must be a dumbass newbie greenhorn who did it as some sort of half-assed revenge for my flagging all their misshelved books over the past few months. They can't even get that right.  

2:12 p.m.— I leave for an extended break. Mrs. C tells me I can take more than an hour, as I'm the poor soul on til closing.  

3:30 p.m.— I return. Mrs. C says that drama has occurred in my absence. She says an older lady phoned and asked Mrs. B if there was a man here delivering books to be donated. When told that there had been some men delivering books earlier, who were now gone, the lady said she wanted to leave a message for the man that he needed to phone home. Then the lady burst into tears and hung up. No idea what that was all about. The other news, though, is that the old guys who donated the books took all the empty boxes we'd been saving to sort donated books into. Mrs. B had been begging for some for a week and now they were gone. Lennie told Mrs. C that the men asked him if they could take the boxes but he didn't answer them, so they took them anyway. We'll get them back, most likely in a few days when they bring more books. 

3:45 p.m.— I see that Delbert, the aforementioned Neighborhood Auxiliary League Member, is now using a computer. It's after school hours are over, so there's no rule against it. However, he's been on for over half an hour now and I have to bust him off for another patron. Mr. Little Stupid is still around too, but had, apparently been busted off before because he's now on a different computer than when I left. When I go to reboot Delbert's station, Mr. Little Stupid asks me how to spell "work."  

3:59 p.m.— Fatty Manchild arrives for a computer. He's not wearing jams, per se, but he is wearing shorts. They look to be of the no-print, off-white, board-short variety.  

4:06 p.m.— Mr. Little Stupid finally leaves.  

4:18 p.m.— A woman and three children, each of whom is whining for books, approaches the desk. I hear her tell them that they can't have any books from our library because they have their own library at school to borrow from. They persist. She tells them that kids aren't allowed to have library cards at our library. Never mind the fact that they just exited the CHILDREN'S room, this is what she says. I suspect she's lying to them to get them to quit whining. They continue. She spies me and says, "Kids can't get library cards here, can they?" Her "can they?" seems loaded with intent. "Um... I guess that all depends on what answer you're looking for," I tell her. "The truth," she says. "Okay. Sure, kids can get library cards here." This is not what the woman (their baby-sitter, I think) wants to hear, because she immediately tells the kids that she didn't trust them to check books out on her card since they'd lost so many from school. "But I only lost one, this year," one of the kids says. I gamely try to back her up a bit by telling them that we're really serious about getting our books back and will send our enforcer, Mrs. J, to come get them. They leave with only the sitter's books.  

4:30 p.m.— Yay! I get to make a trip to the post office. People hate us at the post office. Not the postal workers themselves, who seem incapable of caring how many packages we have to mail each week; it's the other customers who hate us for clogging up the lines for 10 minutes at a stretch. I feel their pain. Fortunately, we only have one box and an envelope to mail and I get them sent off without incident.  

4:47 p.m.— I return to find that someone has had a blowout in the public restroom while I was gone and the whole reference hall is super butt-fume stinky.  

5:05 p.m.— Everyone else on staff leaves for the day.  

6:00 p.m.— Been pretty slow going. I've called all my holds and had time to type a bit.  

6:01 p.m.— A patron brings in a book for return. He looks ever so slightly miffed that he actually had to come in the building to do this, as the book return stays locked during hours we're open. 

6:05 p.m.— Wow, an honest to God reference question! A lady wanted organizational information about the W0rld Hea1th Organizati0n and the Pan Amer!can Hea1th Organizati0n. We have no books specifically on them but EBSC0 had loads of articles, two of which seemed to suit her criteria. I print them for her. She writes us a check for a whole dollar. 

6:18 p.m.— A little kid—who's here with his mom and is maybe 7 years of age, if that—comes up to the desk to tell me about how much he likes Shrek and Shrek II and Shrek the Third, even though he's not seen it. He has matching fake tribal tatoos extending from beneath his short sleeved shirt down his arms nearly to his wrists. At least, I hope they're fake; his mom is sporting a few real tattoos. 

6:24 p.m.— Some child is screaming outside. It's that sort of high-pitched, make a dog's ears bleed and your spine seize up sort of squeal that should be reserved only for occasions when murder is about to be committed, but whatever kid it is seems to be flinging it around the neighborhood pretty liberally. It's not a cry of distress. Most likely it's more a scream meaning: "It's raining and I'm getting wet!" 

6:45 p.m.— Closing duties begin in earnest.  

6:47 p.m. — the Purple Nun's brother arrives, but leaves within a few minutes. 

6:55 p.m.— And I am alone and nearly finished for the day. 

6:56 p.m.— Some goofa pulls up outside, no doubt with 400 books to return. 

6:56 p.m.— False alarm. They were just parking here to walk downtown. 

7:00 p.m. — We are officially closed.