I had cause to pay a visit to the Tri-Metro area, recently, so I popped by the "liberry" to see everyone. The last few times I've been in, I've only seen Mrs. B, Mrs. D and Miss Temp, but this time nearly everyone was in house, including former bosses Mrs. A and Mrs. C. They're all doing fine and wanted to hear the latest news from me. ("Uhhhh, I got a cat.")
While I was there, Mr. B-Natural came in, signed up for a computer and then noticed me standing at the circ-desk.
MR. B-NATURAL— (In what I thought was an uncharacteristically bright tone for the grumpiest old man in all the world to take) Hey, you're back!
ME— Only temporarily.
MR. B-NATURAL— What? You're not working here again?
ME— No. I moved to BORDERLAND.
MR. B-NATURAL— How come?
ME— My wife got a job there.
MR. B-NATURAL— (Nods knowingly.) I need to get me a wife who has a job.
We stood there for a few minutes as I finished up what I was doing at the desk and Mr. B waited for Miss Temp to finish helping another patron and come log him on his computer.
MR. B-NATURAL— (Gestures toward the computers) Hey, you wanna put me on one of these for old times sake?
ME— Oh, sure.
They hadn't even changed the password.
Showing posts with label Mr. B-Natural. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mr. B-Natural. Show all posts
Friday, November 21, 2008
Monday, September 01, 2008
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...)
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...)
Thursday, July 10, 2008
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.
"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.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Final Monday
While at lunch with the wife, today, I mentioned that it was the final Monday I would work at the "liberry." She asked if I was saddened by this fact. I had to admit: not even a little. Cause, as has been well-chronicled here, I hate me some Monday.
What's there to miss?
As Mondays go, today was actually not terribly problematic. Sure, we had the usual Monday Madness, but not infuriatingly so. I tried to just go with the flow and live in the moment and enjoy it as much as I could. The major incident of the day came around 4p, when one of our computer patrons tripped and fell while trying to walk across a level section of floor. In this man's defense, he did suffer a stroke a while back and walks with a pronounced limp. I had just asked him to relinquish his computer for a new patron and he had been in the process of walking toward the circ desk when he fell. I was looking right at him as he dropped like a sack of dead, wet, marmosets, but I was powerless to do anything about it beyond giving off a sympathetic yelp. He fell hard, right on his arm and I was sure it would probably be broken, or dislocated or otherwise in need of an ambulance.
I rushed around the desk and over to where he'd fallen. Mr. B-Natural, who'd been seated at the computer directly beside the place where he fell also rushed over. The man was writhing on the floor, clutching at his arm. Quite intelligently, I asked, "Are you all right?"
The man looked up at me and then at Mr. B-Natural and, through a very painful-looking expression, said he was indeed all right. Mr. B-Natural began trying to help him sit up, but the man waived him off, saying, "I'm all right. I'm all right."
"Well, here's your glasses," Mr. B-Natural said, gathering them up and handing them over.
"I'll get them. I'm all right!" the man said.
"Well here's your hat," Mr. B-Natural added.
"I'll get them! I'm all right!" the man said, now practically screaming. "Please! I'm all right. I'll get them!"
"Can I help you up?" I asked.
"No! I'm all right!"
The more we tried to help, the angrier he got. But it felt very odd not trying to help him, particularly with everyone across the main floor was staring at us. I think, though, that the attention being directed at him was the problem. The man was embarrassed at having fallen and didn't want any more attention than he'd already caused himself. Slowly, Mr. B-Natural and I backed away, but not too far. This was good, because as soon as the man had clambered to his feet, he tipped over again and Mr. B-Natural was near enough to catch him.
"I'm all right!" the man hissed as Mr. B set up upright again. "I'll be fine, as soon as I can sit down for a minute," he said. Then, as though he needed further explanation for being annoyed with us, he added, "The physical therapists say it helps to do everything for myself."
"Do you need a chair?" I offered, looking for the nearest one.
"No! I'm all right! I'll get it! I'll be fine!"
So I walked away and the man hobbled over to the circ desk and leaned there for a moment. He left his hat and glasses there, then hobbled back over to Mr. B-Natural to apologize for being so gruff. I thought, if only you knew you were apologizing to the grumpiest old man in all the world, dude. Then the man hobbled off to the bathroom, where he stayed, in a seated position (if you get my drift) for quite a while.
"That guy really needs a cane," I told Mrs. B.
She agreed.
What's there to miss?
- The incessant banging on and repeatedly trying of the handles of the doors to see if we're open yet despite the obvious sign clearly stating otherwise? Gone from my life.
- The annoyed expressions when we at last do unlock the doors? Gone from my life.
- The mad rushes by innanet crowders to get to the computers before they all fill up? Gone from my life.
- The endless procession of extraordinarily needy patrons, many of whom have questions that can only be answered by a person of authority, on a day when the people in authority are NEVER present? Gone from my life.
- Long time innanet crowders who have used the computers nearly every single day for the past couple of years yet still cannot get it through their head that we close at 5 on Mondays and act all shocked and amazed every week when we tell them they don't actually have another four hours at their disposal, but have to get off in ten minutes; or patrons who walk in the building at ten til 5 with the same expectations and literally smack themselves in the head because once again their poor, swiss-cheesed memory has failed them? Gone. From. My. Life.
As Mondays go, today was actually not terribly problematic. Sure, we had the usual Monday Madness, but not infuriatingly so. I tried to just go with the flow and live in the moment and enjoy it as much as I could. The major incident of the day came around 4p, when one of our computer patrons tripped and fell while trying to walk across a level section of floor. In this man's defense, he did suffer a stroke a while back and walks with a pronounced limp. I had just asked him to relinquish his computer for a new patron and he had been in the process of walking toward the circ desk when he fell. I was looking right at him as he dropped like a sack of dead, wet, marmosets, but I was powerless to do anything about it beyond giving off a sympathetic yelp. He fell hard, right on his arm and I was sure it would probably be broken, or dislocated or otherwise in need of an ambulance.
I rushed around the desk and over to where he'd fallen. Mr. B-Natural, who'd been seated at the computer directly beside the place where he fell also rushed over. The man was writhing on the floor, clutching at his arm. Quite intelligently, I asked, "Are you all right?"
The man looked up at me and then at Mr. B-Natural and, through a very painful-looking expression, said he was indeed all right. Mr. B-Natural began trying to help him sit up, but the man waived him off, saying, "I'm all right. I'm all right."
"Well, here's your glasses," Mr. B-Natural said, gathering them up and handing them over.
"I'll get them. I'm all right!" the man said.
"Well here's your hat," Mr. B-Natural added.
"I'll get them! I'm all right!" the man said, now practically screaming. "Please! I'm all right. I'll get them!"
"Can I help you up?" I asked.
"No! I'm all right!"
The more we tried to help, the angrier he got. But it felt very odd not trying to help him, particularly with everyone across the main floor was staring at us. I think, though, that the attention being directed at him was the problem. The man was embarrassed at having fallen and didn't want any more attention than he'd already caused himself. Slowly, Mr. B-Natural and I backed away, but not too far. This was good, because as soon as the man had clambered to his feet, he tipped over again and Mr. B-Natural was near enough to catch him.
"I'm all right!" the man hissed as Mr. B set up upright again. "I'll be fine, as soon as I can sit down for a minute," he said. Then, as though he needed further explanation for being annoyed with us, he added, "The physical therapists say it helps to do everything for myself."
"Do you need a chair?" I offered, looking for the nearest one.
"No! I'm all right! I'll get it! I'll be fine!"
So I walked away and the man hobbled over to the circ desk and leaned there for a moment. He left his hat and glasses there, then hobbled back over to Mr. B-Natural to apologize for being so gruff. I thought, if only you knew you were apologizing to the grumpiest old man in all the world, dude. Then the man hobbled off to the bathroom, where he stayed, in a seated position (if you get my drift) for quite a while.
"That guy really needs a cane," I told Mrs. B.
She agreed.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #139
SETTING: My "liberry" on a Monday, a day when there are traditionally only two staff members present neither of whom are Mrs. A or Mrs. C. It's a time that is ripe for issues I've never had to deal with, despite my seven years in the "liberry" ass./ninja game, to crop up. Mr. B-Natural, grumpiest old man in all the world, approaches the circ desk.
MR. B-NATURAL— Yeah, I need you to have them fax me a (STOCK RELATED DOCUMENT I'VE NEVER HEARD OF).
ME— Them who?
MR. B-NATURAL— The... the people that... They've done it for me here before.
ME— Done what here for you before?
MR. B-NATURAL— Faxed me the (STOCK RELATED DOCUMENT I'VE NEVER HEARD OF). I just told `em to fax me over the (STOCK RELATED DOCUMENT I'VE NEVER HEARD OF) and they called and had it faxed. Call up Charleston.
ME— Call up who in Charleston?
MR. B-NATURAL— (Agitated) Ya just call Charleston and have `em fax it. MRS. C's done it for me before.
ME— And that's what I'm asking you-- call who in Charleston?
MR. B-NATURAL— (Gives off a growl, then looks over my shoulder as though looking for someone in the staff workroom) Is MRS. C here?
ME— (Anticipating his next question) Neither of them are here today.
MR. B-NATURAL— Is MRS. A here?
ME— (Using exactly the same tone of voice and inflection from five seconds earlier) Neither of them are here today.
MR. B-NATURAL— (Mumbles something and walks away.)
Half an hour later, Mr. B-Natural returns to again try both my patience and to get me to call Charleston concerning this document he so desperately needs. I decide that as I have no other authority figures in house, the least I can do is phone Mrs. S at Town-C's branch to see if she knows what the hell he's talking about. Sure enough, it's a very common document as far as stock-related documents go and she gives me the name of someone in Charleston to ask for. I phone them, they don't give any indication that this is a hassle and have the documents faxed over within five minutes. Mr. B-Natural leaves with them in hand, a couple of dollars lighter in pocket, and a spring in his step at having made me dance his dance.
MR. B-NATURAL— Yeah, I need you to have them fax me a (STOCK RELATED DOCUMENT I'VE NEVER HEARD OF).
ME— Them who?
MR. B-NATURAL— The... the people that... They've done it for me here before.
ME— Done what here for you before?
MR. B-NATURAL— Faxed me the (STOCK RELATED DOCUMENT I'VE NEVER HEARD OF). I just told `em to fax me over the (STOCK RELATED DOCUMENT I'VE NEVER HEARD OF) and they called and had it faxed. Call up Charleston.
ME— Call up who in Charleston?
MR. B-NATURAL— (Agitated) Ya just call Charleston and have `em fax it. MRS. C's done it for me before.
ME— And that's what I'm asking you-- call who in Charleston?
MR. B-NATURAL— (Gives off a growl, then looks over my shoulder as though looking for someone in the staff workroom) Is MRS. C here?
ME— (Anticipating his next question) Neither of them are here today.
MR. B-NATURAL— Is MRS. A here?
ME— (Using exactly the same tone of voice and inflection from five seconds earlier) Neither of them are here today.
MR. B-NATURAL— (Mumbles something and walks away.)
Half an hour later, Mr. B-Natural returns to again try both my patience and to get me to call Charleston concerning this document he so desperately needs. I decide that as I have no other authority figures in house, the least I can do is phone Mrs. S at Town-C's branch to see if she knows what the hell he's talking about. Sure enough, it's a very common document as far as stock-related documents go and she gives me the name of someone in Charleston to ask for. I phone them, they don't give any indication that this is a hassle and have the documents faxed over within five minutes. Mr. B-Natural leaves with them in hand, a couple of dollars lighter in pocket, and a spring in his step at having made me dance his dance.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Sadie Meets Mr. B-Natural
I snuck Sadie in to the "liberry" to meet the staff. They'd heard enough about her, it was time to get some one on one time.
I'd been careful when I arrived to do a quick visual check for Mr. B-Natural's car in the parking lot, but we had a lot of cars there at the time, so I couldn't be sure. After the understandable fuss he made over various dogs that had been allowed in the building when his flea-ridden pooch Bubba had been banned, I knew he wouldn't like Sadie getting special treatment.
Sadie stayed in the staff workroom as each of the staff came in to love on her and pet the new baby dog. She was on her best behavior, didn't piddle in the floor, didn't bite anyone, and was loved and adored by one and all who saw her, including several patrons who happened to spy her through the open staff-workroom door. Eventually Sadie, with no one holding her leash, became curious enough to venture beyond the staff workroom door, then through the opening by the circ-desk and started out into the library itself.
"Oh! Oh! Better not," Ms. M whispered to me. She pointed out toward the long desk of internet stations where Mr. B-Natural sat, computing away, his back to us. I pulled Sadie back into the workroom and closed the door.
After Sadie had said hello to everyone and had even gone "big bathroom" outside, with Mrs. A there to hold her leash, it was time to leave and I hauled her out the loading area door.
As I came around the corner of the building and was headed across the grass toward my car, I happened to look over toward the front entrance of the building and saw Mr. B-Natural exit from it. He, in turn, looked over and saw us. From his perspective, I clearly had a dog on a leash and was clearly exiting the interior of the building with said dog. I waited for the inevitable grunting and growling, but instead Mr. B-Natural grinned at me and came walking over. So I turned and pulled Sadie toward him, meeting mid-way toward the front door.
Mr. B-Natural squatted down and petted Sadie.
"What sorta dog is it?" he asked.
"St. Bernard mix," I said.
"Oh, gonna be a big one," he said. Then, looking up at me with deep seriousness in his face, he said, "One thing you'll have to get used to though..."
"Yeah?"
"The shedding."
"Oh, yeah," I said. I explained that my wife had had a saint before and despite the fact that she'd died nearly nine years and four moves ago, we could probably still come up with some of her hair.
He gave Sadie a final pat on the head and walked away, as happy as the grumpiest old man in all the world can be.
I'd been careful when I arrived to do a quick visual check for Mr. B-Natural's car in the parking lot, but we had a lot of cars there at the time, so I couldn't be sure. After the understandable fuss he made over various dogs that had been allowed in the building when his flea-ridden pooch Bubba had been banned, I knew he wouldn't like Sadie getting special treatment.
Sadie stayed in the staff workroom as each of the staff came in to love on her and pet the new baby dog. She was on her best behavior, didn't piddle in the floor, didn't bite anyone, and was loved and adored by one and all who saw her, including several patrons who happened to spy her through the open staff-workroom door. Eventually Sadie, with no one holding her leash, became curious enough to venture beyond the staff workroom door, then through the opening by the circ-desk and started out into the library itself.
"Oh! Oh! Better not," Ms. M whispered to me. She pointed out toward the long desk of internet stations where Mr. B-Natural sat, computing away, his back to us. I pulled Sadie back into the workroom and closed the door.
After Sadie had said hello to everyone and had even gone "big bathroom" outside, with Mrs. A there to hold her leash, it was time to leave and I hauled her out the loading area door.
As I came around the corner of the building and was headed across the grass toward my car, I happened to look over toward the front entrance of the building and saw Mr. B-Natural exit from it. He, in turn, looked over and saw us. From his perspective, I clearly had a dog on a leash and was clearly exiting the interior of the building with said dog. I waited for the inevitable grunting and growling, but instead Mr. B-Natural grinned at me and came walking over. So I turned and pulled Sadie toward him, meeting mid-way toward the front door.
Mr. B-Natural squatted down and petted Sadie.
"What sorta dog is it?" he asked.
"St. Bernard mix," I said.
"Oh, gonna be a big one," he said. Then, looking up at me with deep seriousness in his face, he said, "One thing you'll have to get used to though..."
"Yeah?"
"The shedding."
"Oh, yeah," I said. I explained that my wife had had a saint before and despite the fact that she'd died nearly nine years and four moves ago, we could probably still come up with some of her hair.
He gave Sadie a final pat on the head and walked away, as happy as the grumpiest old man in all the world can be.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
"Liberry" Glossary: Repeat Offender
Repeat Offender
-noun phrase
- 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.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #118
SETTING: My "liberry" as Mr. B-Natural, cr0ssw0rd puzzle addict and grumpiest old man in all the world, walks up to me at the circ desk.
MR. B-NATURAL-- Hey, I found the Wa11street Journa1 from Friday. Except the last section in it is missing again. That's the section that has the crossword puzzle in it and somebody keeps coming in here and taking it every week. You ought to find out who keeps taking it. And string `em up from the nearest tree.
ME-- Okay.
MR. B-NATURAL-- (Looks at me a bit suspiciously)
ME-- No, that sounds reasonable.
MR. B-NATURAL-- (Smiles and walks away)
MR. B-NATURAL-- Hey, I found the Wa11street Journa1 from Friday. Except the last section in it is missing again. That's the section that has the crossword puzzle in it and somebody keeps coming in here and taking it every week. You ought to find out who keeps taking it. And string `em up from the nearest tree.
ME-- Okay.
MR. B-NATURAL-- (Looks at me a bit suspiciously)
ME-- No, that sounds reasonable.
MR. B-NATURAL-- (Smiles and walks away)
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Body Check!
I body checked a rogue patron today.
Well, okay, I didn't body check them exactly. But I did hit one pretty squarely in the chest with my elbow. And I didn't apologize for it.
According to my fellow employees, we had absolutely no patron traffic in the building for nearly the first hour of our workday. At 9:45 a.m., Mr. Perfect arrived to use a computer. Like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, the innanet crowd followed in behind him and the computers remained completely packed for the next several hours. (And when Mr. Perfect finally left our building at nearly 4 o'clock in the afternoon, Mrs. C told him that we blamed him for the crowd, as they had not arrived until he did. "Please take them with you," I urged. He declined.)
By the time I arrived Mrs. C and Mrs. A were nuts from keeping up with the computers. Mrs. C, anxious to pass the crazy baton along, told me the patron on computer #6 was the next one scheduled to be booted if someone came in. And who should arrive at that moment but Mr. B-Natural.
While he was signing up, I went over to computer #6 to alert the patron that we needed her computer. What I didn't know was that Mr. B-Natural had signed the clip-board in record time and was now tailgating me, as though there somehow weren't at least a minute's lagtime between the point I tell a patron we need their computer and the point where they actually get off, not to mention the whole matter of rebooting. It's like he thought I was going to rip her out of the chair and offer it to him right then. So after I broke the news to the patron and turned back to the desk, Mr. B-Natural was RIGHT ON MY HEELS and I wound up elbowing him in the solar plexus completely by accident.
If it had been nearly anyone else, I would have apologized profusely, but my thought at the time was that getting elbowed was Mr. B-Natual's own damn fault since he was practically up my ass to begin with. I walked away without a word and he didn't complain beyond a slight "oof!" after being struck.
I told the wife about this later. She said my behavior was very rude and that I was a horrible person.
"But it was only a little very rude," I said.
"No. It was very very rude."
"But only a little."
"Nope. Very."
I think I probably lost that one.
Well, okay, I didn't body check them exactly. But I did hit one pretty squarely in the chest with my elbow. And I didn't apologize for it.
According to my fellow employees, we had absolutely no patron traffic in the building for nearly the first hour of our workday. At 9:45 a.m., Mr. Perfect arrived to use a computer. Like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, the innanet crowd followed in behind him and the computers remained completely packed for the next several hours. (And when Mr. Perfect finally left our building at nearly 4 o'clock in the afternoon, Mrs. C told him that we blamed him for the crowd, as they had not arrived until he did. "Please take them with you," I urged. He declined.)
By the time I arrived Mrs. C and Mrs. A were nuts from keeping up with the computers. Mrs. C, anxious to pass the crazy baton along, told me the patron on computer #6 was the next one scheduled to be booted if someone came in. And who should arrive at that moment but Mr. B-Natural.
While he was signing up, I went over to computer #6 to alert the patron that we needed her computer. What I didn't know was that Mr. B-Natural had signed the clip-board in record time and was now tailgating me, as though there somehow weren't at least a minute's lagtime between the point I tell a patron we need their computer and the point where they actually get off, not to mention the whole matter of rebooting. It's like he thought I was going to rip her out of the chair and offer it to him right then. So after I broke the news to the patron and turned back to the desk, Mr. B-Natural was RIGHT ON MY HEELS and I wound up elbowing him in the solar plexus completely by accident.
If it had been nearly anyone else, I would have apologized profusely, but my thought at the time was that getting elbowed was Mr. B-Natual's own damn fault since he was practically up my ass to begin with. I walked away without a word and he didn't complain beyond a slight "oof!" after being struck.
I told the wife about this later. She said my behavior was very rude and that I was a horrible person.
"But it was only a little very rude," I said.
"No. It was very very rude."
"But only a little."
"Nope. Very."
I think I probably lost that one.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Cross Words
Being a normal Monday, we were deluged with patrons as soon as the doors opened, yesterday. In under two minutes, the innanet crowders, who had been lined up outside the doors impatiently waiting for us to open, had signed up for all of the innanet stations. As frustrating as it was for the four other innanet crowders who arrived at minute three, having all the stations full is kind of freeing for those of us on staff. We get to smile and say, "I'm sorry. It's going to be at least an hour before you can have a computer, unless someone gives up and leaves." At that point the later-comers usually look sad and depart. Sometimes, not.
Mr. B-Natural, for instance, elected to hang around and wait. He lurked on the fringes of the computer area, watching them like a bald vulture for any sign of someone departing. (And, yes, I realize vultures typically are bald already, but this would be an extra-bald vulture in Mr. B-Natural's case. Or, perhaps, an extra bald vulture who once spent several hundred dollars on a bright silver toupee which he wore for all of a week before sending back.) At one point, I was helping an innanet crowder with a computer issue that required me to reboot their computer. As soon as I started the reboot, Mr. B-Natural came rushing over to sit down at it.
"Can I help you?" I asked as he waited for me to get out of his way.
"Yeah. You were signing on that computer for me," he said.
"No. I wasn't," I said, icily. "Someone is still using this."
"Oh."
A little bit later, I spied Mr. B-Natural walking with the local newspaper in one hand, pen in the other.
Surely, oh surely, I thought, he wasn't carrying OUR copy of the local newspaper and surely, oh surely, he wasn't planning on doing the crossword in pen in the actual paper itself. No, surely not. Not after the hell he raised last week over someone taking the puzzle from the Wa11street Journal ahead of him. No, I must be mistaken, I thought. Mr. B-Natural MUST have brought in his own copy of the paper. It would be unthinkable otherwise.
Mr. B-Natural eventually did get a computer, used it for all of ten minutes and left. Shortly after this, I found our copy of the newspaper had been returned to the desk, crossword puzzle completely filled out. In pen.
Sonofa-B!
I wrote a note on the staff notepad to the effect that Mr. B-Hypocrite had done the puzzle in our paper. I figured Mrs. A would dish out some hell of her own.
Toward the end of the day, Mr. B-Natural returned to use the computer again. This time I was unable to keep my mouth shut.
"Hey, what's the deal with doing the crossword puzzle in our paper?" I said. "You were just complaining about other people doing that last week."
A look of joyous guilt passed over Mr. B-Natural's face. I saw in that expression the Rogueish Mr. B-Natural of old who used to take great pleasure in signing his name upside down on the sign in sheet and trying to sneak his coffee back to the computers for no other reason than to piss us off.
"No, last week I complained about somebody taking that whole section of the paper," he corrected. "Besides, who else you know around here even does the puzzle?"
As much as I hated to admit it, I had to give him that one. Mr. B-Natural is indeed the only person I've known in years who's even looked at a crossword puzzle.
This whole episode, however, reminds me of a famous quote originally spoken by Groucho Marx, but more famously reused by another character with the initial B.
Mr. B-Natural, for instance, elected to hang around and wait. He lurked on the fringes of the computer area, watching them like a bald vulture for any sign of someone departing. (And, yes, I realize vultures typically are bald already, but this would be an extra-bald vulture in Mr. B-Natural's case. Or, perhaps, an extra bald vulture who once spent several hundred dollars on a bright silver toupee which he wore for all of a week before sending back.) At one point, I was helping an innanet crowder with a computer issue that required me to reboot their computer. As soon as I started the reboot, Mr. B-Natural came rushing over to sit down at it.
"Can I help you?" I asked as he waited for me to get out of his way.
"Yeah. You were signing on that computer for me," he said.
"No. I wasn't," I said, icily. "Someone is still using this."
"Oh."
A little bit later, I spied Mr. B-Natural walking with the local newspaper in one hand, pen in the other.
Surely, oh surely, I thought, he wasn't carrying OUR copy of the local newspaper and surely, oh surely, he wasn't planning on doing the crossword in pen in the actual paper itself. No, surely not. Not after the hell he raised last week over someone taking the puzzle from the Wa11street Journal ahead of him. No, I must be mistaken, I thought. Mr. B-Natural MUST have brought in his own copy of the paper. It would be unthinkable otherwise.
Mr. B-Natural eventually did get a computer, used it for all of ten minutes and left. Shortly after this, I found our copy of the newspaper had been returned to the desk, crossword puzzle completely filled out. In pen.
Sonofa-B!
I wrote a note on the staff notepad to the effect that Mr. B-Hypocrite had done the puzzle in our paper. I figured Mrs. A would dish out some hell of her own.
Toward the end of the day, Mr. B-Natural returned to use the computer again. This time I was unable to keep my mouth shut.
"Hey, what's the deal with doing the crossword puzzle in our paper?" I said. "You were just complaining about other people doing that last week."
A look of joyous guilt passed over Mr. B-Natural's face. I saw in that expression the Rogueish Mr. B-Natural of old who used to take great pleasure in signing his name upside down on the sign in sheet and trying to sneak his coffee back to the computers for no other reason than to piss us off.
"No, last week I complained about somebody taking that whole section of the paper," he corrected. "Besides, who else you know around here even does the puzzle?"
As much as I hated to admit it, I had to give him that one. Mr. B-Natural is indeed the only person I've known in years who's even looked at a crossword puzzle.
This whole episode, however, reminds me of a famous quote originally spoken by Groucho Marx, but more famously reused by another character with the initial B.
"Of course, you realize this means war."
-- B. Bunny
-- B. Bunny
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Never let the Devil know where your goat is tied.
We have a legal pad on the circ desk, near the schedule where the staff can leave notes to one another about pressing issues of which everyone should be aware. When I arrived for work, there was a note from Ms. B to the effect that Mr. B-Natural, grumpiest old man in all the world, had been in recently and complained about something. I know--shocking behavior.
According to the note, Mr. B-Natural had complained that some nefarious soul had stolen the crossword puzzle out of the Friday Wa11 Street Journa1. Furthermore, this may or may not have been happening over the course of multiple weeks, as the note was actually phrased "someone has been stealing the crossword puzzle from the Friday Wa11 Street Journa1." The note ended with the phrase, "He was MAD!!!"
Now I can certainly see how Mr. B-Natural would be mad at this. After all, he's the crossword puzzle addict who, perhaps a bit out of character for someone who has enjoyed pissing us off a great deal in the past, frequently and politely asks us to photocopy the crossword puzzle out of the Journal for his benefit, and pays a quarter for it no less. So the fact that someone callously came along and stole the puzzle before he could do this would be justifiable cause for outrage. Unfortunately, his complaint also shone light on avenues of passive agressive rogue patron torment that I'd not considered before.
After reading the note, I turned to my coworker, Mrs. B.
"Oh, MR. B-NATURAL shouldn't have told us that," I said. "Now we're just going to have to start cutting them out on purpose every time he pisses us off."
Mrs. B had evidently been considering the matter with more depth, for she then said, "No. We shouldn't cut them out—we should fill them out."
"In pen," I said, starting to snicker evilly.
"And we should fill them out wrong," she added.
This struck me as gloriously evil and immediately I was nearly crying with laughter.
"Oh, yeah... We should just cram any words we can think of into the squares. We won't even look at the clues." I could just see such a puzzle, filled up with misspelled words that didn't make any kind of contextual sense, let alone actually cross, with two letters in some squares just to fit a word in, some filled with numbers, and the expression on Mr. B-Natural's face when he saw it would be a priceless gem of victory to be treasured in my mental scrapbook of havoc wrought against the wicked. We laughed and laughed and laughed.
"No, really. We HAVE to do that," I said. "At least once."
"Oh, yeah..."
According to the note, Mr. B-Natural had complained that some nefarious soul had stolen the crossword puzzle out of the Friday Wa11 Street Journa1. Furthermore, this may or may not have been happening over the course of multiple weeks, as the note was actually phrased "someone has been stealing the crossword puzzle from the Friday Wa11 Street Journa1." The note ended with the phrase, "He was MAD!!!"
Now I can certainly see how Mr. B-Natural would be mad at this. After all, he's the crossword puzzle addict who, perhaps a bit out of character for someone who has enjoyed pissing us off a great deal in the past, frequently and politely asks us to photocopy the crossword puzzle out of the Journal for his benefit, and pays a quarter for it no less. So the fact that someone callously came along and stole the puzzle before he could do this would be justifiable cause for outrage. Unfortunately, his complaint also shone light on avenues of passive agressive rogue patron torment that I'd not considered before.
After reading the note, I turned to my coworker, Mrs. B.
"Oh, MR. B-NATURAL shouldn't have told us that," I said. "Now we're just going to have to start cutting them out on purpose every time he pisses us off."
Mrs. B had evidently been considering the matter with more depth, for she then said, "No. We shouldn't cut them out—we should fill them out."
"In pen," I said, starting to snicker evilly.
"And we should fill them out wrong," she added.
This struck me as gloriously evil and immediately I was nearly crying with laughter.
"Oh, yeah... We should just cram any words we can think of into the squares. We won't even look at the clues." I could just see such a puzzle, filled up with misspelled words that didn't make any kind of contextual sense, let alone actually cross, with two letters in some squares just to fit a word in, some filled with numbers, and the expression on Mr. B-Natural's face when he saw it would be a priceless gem of victory to be treasured in my mental scrapbook of havoc wrought against the wicked. We laughed and laughed and laughed.
"No, really. We HAVE to do that," I said. "At least once."
"Oh, yeah..."
Friday, January 04, 2008
Meet the Hackers
The "liberry" has been hacked. No, not this blog, but the "liberry" itself. And, no, not the "liberry's" computer systems, but, instead, our immune systems.
Let me back up.
One of our long-time regular and allegedly "good" patrons is a guy who I will call Johnny "Hacker" James, after the kid who hacked NASA. Johnny's a young adult who still lives at home when not attending the local community college. He and his family visit us several times a week to use the computers, read periodicals and occasionally check out books. They're all very nice people.
Johnny came in last evening and signed up for a computer. I logged him on and he sat down. During the sign up and login process, I heard Johnny cough a couple of times. They were little, hacking coughs of the sort you hear when people have a tickle in their throat. Usually, with such throat tickles, you can hack a couple of times and you're done, no? Not Johnny. He proceeded to emit one or two of those little hacking coughs every 10 to 20 seconds for the next three hours. And let me assure you, I am not exaggerating AT ALL.
Sometimes Johnny's hacks were quiet little coughs. Sometimes they were quite loud. Sometimes Johnny would add a bit of voice into it and really give it some power, but his throat evidently continued to tickle and he continued to hack away every 10 to 20 seconds. This very swiftly began to drive me crazy in a water-torture kind of way.
As my wife can tell you, one of my greatest pet peeves in life is the coughing of other people. I know, I know... coughing fits are beyond the control of most human beings, myself included when I get sick. Doesn't mean I have to like hearing them. Not only are they offensive to me because they usually mean a sick person is potentially spreading their illness into our shared atmosphere, but also because coughing is a full stop interruption to whatever else might be going on--say a conversation taking place or dialogue in a movie that can be difficult to undertand through a torrent of coughing. And if there's one thing I've learned in my years of working at the "liberry" it's this: no matter what illness a person might have, no matter how communicable it might be, no matter how many days they've been out of work because of it or how miserable they feel, that infected soul will not think twice about coming to the library and staying for hours on end, coughing and sneezing away, because damn if they're going to miss out on some innanet time.
As crazy as Johnny's hacking was driving me, I knew it had to be completely freaking out Germophobe Gary, who was seated at the opposite end of Johnny's particular row of computer terminals. Germophobe Gary is another recent addition to our "good" or Sundry Others patron ranks. He's only been visiting us regularly for the past couple of months and has proven himself notable for the frequency of both his visits and his requests that we supply him with Clorox wipes with which he can protect himself from the patron squeezings of previous users. As irritating as this is, I can't really blame him.
Meanwhile, Johnny continued to hack and hack and hack and hack and hack and hack and hack. I desperately wanted to go up to him and scream, "Listen, Cap'n Tripps, you're going to need to take that shit outside and HACK IT THE HELL UP! Cause, if you keep coughing like that, I'm going to have to haul our PDR over here and bust you in the head with it! Try coughing when you're unconscious!"
In Johnny's defense, he did politely cover his mouth with his hand with each and every hack I witnessed. And then he would lower that infected hand back to the computer keyboard and contaminate it further. He also at least had the decency to look ashamed whenever I caught his eye during a particularly loud burst of hacking.
At one point, Mr. B-Natural happened in for a computer. I tried to put him on the available computer farthest away from Johnny--after all, Mr. B-Natural is elderly and more susceptible to infection--but Mr. B-Natural doesn't like the other computer because one time it crashed on him mid-crossword puzzle, so he insisted I move him to the one directly beside Johnny. I complied. Mr. B-Natural didn't stay very long.
After two and a half hours of solid hacking on Johnny's part, his parents arrived. Johnny's father, as usual, grabbed a few magazines and had a seat in a comfy chair where he too proceeded to hack and hack and hack. Oh, great! A whole family of hackers! Granted, Mr. Hacker's hacking was not as incessant as his son's, occurring only once every few minutes, but clearly the virus had spread.
Johnny kept right on hacking away, but also upped the ante by demonstrating how his cold had progressed into his nose by pulling out an enormous hand-towel which he blew his nose into repeatedly and ferociously, returning his freshly snotty (or at the very least snotproximate) hands to the keyboard afterward. I shuddered with every honk.
Following several particularly loud and voice-intensive hacks in a row, Johnny's mother walked over and spoke to him in stern yet hushed tones. He looked a little embarrassed at first, but then seemed to offer some protest in a kind of "What do you expect me to do about it? Stop using the innanet and go home?" sort of way. I didn't actually hear her statement, nor his reply, nor her reply to his reply, but the answer to what I presume was said seemed to be "Yes." Soon the whole family departed, hacking away.
After enough time had passed that I was sure they had cleared the parking lot, I grabbed our Clorox wipes and used three of them to scour Johnny's keyboard, mouse, monitor, his chair and the surrounding area. I also cleaned all the front door handles, the handles of the restroom door, the water fountain where he'd sipped water and basically anything I even suspected Johnny might have touched.
I never caught Germophobe Gary's gaze during the detoxification process, but I'm sure he appreciated the gesture.
Let me back up.
One of our long-time regular and allegedly "good" patrons is a guy who I will call Johnny "Hacker" James, after the kid who hacked NASA. Johnny's a young adult who still lives at home when not attending the local community college. He and his family visit us several times a week to use the computers, read periodicals and occasionally check out books. They're all very nice people.
Johnny came in last evening and signed up for a computer. I logged him on and he sat down. During the sign up and login process, I heard Johnny cough a couple of times. They were little, hacking coughs of the sort you hear when people have a tickle in their throat. Usually, with such throat tickles, you can hack a couple of times and you're done, no? Not Johnny. He proceeded to emit one or two of those little hacking coughs every 10 to 20 seconds for the next three hours. And let me assure you, I am not exaggerating AT ALL.
Sometimes Johnny's hacks were quiet little coughs. Sometimes they were quite loud. Sometimes Johnny would add a bit of voice into it and really give it some power, but his throat evidently continued to tickle and he continued to hack away every 10 to 20 seconds. This very swiftly began to drive me crazy in a water-torture kind of way.
As my wife can tell you, one of my greatest pet peeves in life is the coughing of other people. I know, I know... coughing fits are beyond the control of most human beings, myself included when I get sick. Doesn't mean I have to like hearing them. Not only are they offensive to me because they usually mean a sick person is potentially spreading their illness into our shared atmosphere, but also because coughing is a full stop interruption to whatever else might be going on--say a conversation taking place or dialogue in a movie that can be difficult to undertand through a torrent of coughing. And if there's one thing I've learned in my years of working at the "liberry" it's this: no matter what illness a person might have, no matter how communicable it might be, no matter how many days they've been out of work because of it or how miserable they feel, that infected soul will not think twice about coming to the library and staying for hours on end, coughing and sneezing away, because damn if they're going to miss out on some innanet time.
As crazy as Johnny's hacking was driving me, I knew it had to be completely freaking out Germophobe Gary, who was seated at the opposite end of Johnny's particular row of computer terminals. Germophobe Gary is another recent addition to our "good" or Sundry Others patron ranks. He's only been visiting us regularly for the past couple of months and has proven himself notable for the frequency of both his visits and his requests that we supply him with Clorox wipes with which he can protect himself from the patron squeezings of previous users. As irritating as this is, I can't really blame him.
Meanwhile, Johnny continued to hack and hack and hack and hack and hack and hack and hack. I desperately wanted to go up to him and scream, "Listen, Cap'n Tripps, you're going to need to take that shit outside and HACK IT THE HELL UP! Cause, if you keep coughing like that, I'm going to have to haul our PDR over here and bust you in the head with it! Try coughing when you're unconscious!"
In Johnny's defense, he did politely cover his mouth with his hand with each and every hack I witnessed. And then he would lower that infected hand back to the computer keyboard and contaminate it further. He also at least had the decency to look ashamed whenever I caught his eye during a particularly loud burst of hacking.
At one point, Mr. B-Natural happened in for a computer. I tried to put him on the available computer farthest away from Johnny--after all, Mr. B-Natural is elderly and more susceptible to infection--but Mr. B-Natural doesn't like the other computer because one time it crashed on him mid-crossword puzzle, so he insisted I move him to the one directly beside Johnny. I complied. Mr. B-Natural didn't stay very long.
After two and a half hours of solid hacking on Johnny's part, his parents arrived. Johnny's father, as usual, grabbed a few magazines and had a seat in a comfy chair where he too proceeded to hack and hack and hack. Oh, great! A whole family of hackers! Granted, Mr. Hacker's hacking was not as incessant as his son's, occurring only once every few minutes, but clearly the virus had spread.
Johnny kept right on hacking away, but also upped the ante by demonstrating how his cold had progressed into his nose by pulling out an enormous hand-towel which he blew his nose into repeatedly and ferociously, returning his freshly snotty (or at the very least snotproximate) hands to the keyboard afterward. I shuddered with every honk.
Following several particularly loud and voice-intensive hacks in a row, Johnny's mother walked over and spoke to him in stern yet hushed tones. He looked a little embarrassed at first, but then seemed to offer some protest in a kind of "What do you expect me to do about it? Stop using the innanet and go home?" sort of way. I didn't actually hear her statement, nor his reply, nor her reply to his reply, but the answer to what I presume was said seemed to be "Yes." Soon the whole family departed, hacking away.
After enough time had passed that I was sure they had cleared the parking lot, I grabbed our Clorox wipes and used three of them to scour Johnny's keyboard, mouse, monitor, his chair and the surrounding area. I also cleaned all the front door handles, the handles of the restroom door, the water fountain where he'd sipped water and basically anything I even suspected Johnny might have touched.
I never caught Germophobe Gary's gaze during the detoxification process, but I'm sure he appreciated the gesture.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Mr. B-Natural Slakes his Thirst for Righteous Vengeance with the "Liberry's" Blood
It's been a long time since we've had any trouble from Mr. B-Natural. Mostly he's been an ideal patron. He even came in recently and asked me if I would teach him how to save files to a CD ROM using his new laptop. I showed him how and he seemed quite friendly about it and far from his usual Grumpiest-Old-Man-in-All-the-World self.
Last week he got far grumpier.
Long-time readers may recall the saga of Mr. B-Natural and his beloved dog, Bubba. They might also recall the night to day transformation Mr. B-Natural underwent after he first acquired Bubba and began bringing him into the "liberry" as his emissary to the world. They might also recall how, three years back, Bubba brought a plague of fleas into the "liberry" and was subsequently banned from setting foot in the building.
At the time of the banning, Mr. B-Natural protested that Bubba didn't have fleas and staged a walkout over the matter, refusing to set foot in our building himself. After a few months of this, though, he realized that this was hardly punishing us so he came back. Occasionally, if Mrs. A was about, he would drop comments about how Bubba sure does miss the library and how he still doesn't have fleas. Mrs. A would only smile and tell him that we too missed Bubba and that we would love to come out to Mr. B-Natural's car and visit the dog sometime.
Over the past year, though, other dogs have begun to visit us. One of our patrons, Carrie, a frequent and very, very generous donor, began bringing her dog into the library. Granted, she was only there with the dog to briefly visit us or drop off a check and never to hang around, but there were several near-misses with Mr. B-Natural almost seeing the pooch. With Carrie being a massive donor (who actually made a huge donation in her dog's name; an event which prompted us to joke that when Bubba came up with anything approaching that amount he could come back too) we were a little hesitant to forbid her to bring her dog in.
Next up, a member of our board of directors, Mrs. Em, recently bought a puppy which she has insisted on bringing into the building despite the fact that she knows full well that animals are not allowed and that Mr. B-Natural will rain shit down on our heads were he to ever see it. I like her dog even less because it bit me, but, again, what are you going to do?
Then Mr. B-Natural did see Mrs. Em's dog.
Saw it several times, even.
In fact, for about a week running, Mr. B-Natural seemed to have developed the mutant ability to arrive at the "liberry" only when Mrs. Em was in-house with her dog. And, as before, he began dropping comments to Mrs. A about how the puppy would make a wonderful playmate for dear Bubba. Mr. B-Natural never got mad or raised a big stink, but he was understandably unhappy about it, as he has been for years now. Mrs. A tried to explain things to him by saying that the other dog was only passing through on business and was not hanging around for hours at a time like Bubba used to. Mr. B-Natural's reaction to this was to turn and walk out.
Mrs. A thought about this situation and decided that if she couldn't ban the dogs of donors and board-members, she couldn't very well ban Bubba. It was time to stop playing favorites. She announced to Mrs. C that we would need to change our policy to allow visits from dogs, provided they remained on the tiled area just inside the front doors. They would break the good news to Mr. B-Natural when next he visited
When I came in for work this past Friday, I saw a sign taped to the glass of our front door that read "Service Animals Only." I wondered what the story behind it was and soon the alphabet squad of Mrs.es A, B and C told me.
Mrs. A explained her decision to rescind Bubba's ban. However, before she could alert Mr. B-Natural to it, he'd phoned Mr. Hooter, the president of our board of directors, to raise hell about the veritable zoo we were letting run free in the "liberry." He insisted that if Bubba was banned all other animals should be banned as well, save for service animals. Furthermore, Mr. B-Natural wanted a signs put up to this effect and wanted the policy enforced for all parties. Mr. Hooter was in agreement.
"I can't blame him," I told Mrs. A upon the conclusion of the tale. "I would have done exactly the same thing in his position." Granted, there's the irony that if he'd kept his trap shut for another day or so he would have finally gotten his way and been able to bring Bubba back, but I completely see his perspective of the issue. It isn't fair to let other people bring dogs in and not him. And since he'd already complained to Mrs. A on any number of occasions, he felt he had no other course. Mrs. A said she saw his point too, but would have handled things differently had she been in his shoes.
"So, I guess we won't be seeing him for a few more months?" I said.
"Oh, no. He's been in three or four times since Wednesday," Mrs. B said.
"He keeps checking to make sure we have the sign up," Mrs. C added.
And, an hour or two later, Mr. B-Natural did arrive for some computing time. I made it a point to smile at him when he came in, hopefully communicating that I bear him no ill-will and am, for once, on his side.
Last week he got far grumpier.
Long-time readers may recall the saga of Mr. B-Natural and his beloved dog, Bubba. They might also recall the night to day transformation Mr. B-Natural underwent after he first acquired Bubba and began bringing him into the "liberry" as his emissary to the world. They might also recall how, three years back, Bubba brought a plague of fleas into the "liberry" and was subsequently banned from setting foot in the building.
At the time of the banning, Mr. B-Natural protested that Bubba didn't have fleas and staged a walkout over the matter, refusing to set foot in our building himself. After a few months of this, though, he realized that this was hardly punishing us so he came back. Occasionally, if Mrs. A was about, he would drop comments about how Bubba sure does miss the library and how he still doesn't have fleas. Mrs. A would only smile and tell him that we too missed Bubba and that we would love to come out to Mr. B-Natural's car and visit the dog sometime.
Over the past year, though, other dogs have begun to visit us. One of our patrons, Carrie, a frequent and very, very generous donor, began bringing her dog into the library. Granted, she was only there with the dog to briefly visit us or drop off a check and never to hang around, but there were several near-misses with Mr. B-Natural almost seeing the pooch. With Carrie being a massive donor (who actually made a huge donation in her dog's name; an event which prompted us to joke that when Bubba came up with anything approaching that amount he could come back too) we were a little hesitant to forbid her to bring her dog in.
Next up, a member of our board of directors, Mrs. Em, recently bought a puppy which she has insisted on bringing into the building despite the fact that she knows full well that animals are not allowed and that Mr. B-Natural will rain shit down on our heads were he to ever see it. I like her dog even less because it bit me, but, again, what are you going to do?
Then Mr. B-Natural did see Mrs. Em's dog.
Saw it several times, even.
In fact, for about a week running, Mr. B-Natural seemed to have developed the mutant ability to arrive at the "liberry" only when Mrs. Em was in-house with her dog. And, as before, he began dropping comments to Mrs. A about how the puppy would make a wonderful playmate for dear Bubba. Mr. B-Natural never got mad or raised a big stink, but he was understandably unhappy about it, as he has been for years now. Mrs. A tried to explain things to him by saying that the other dog was only passing through on business and was not hanging around for hours at a time like Bubba used to. Mr. B-Natural's reaction to this was to turn and walk out.
Mrs. A thought about this situation and decided that if she couldn't ban the dogs of donors and board-members, she couldn't very well ban Bubba. It was time to stop playing favorites. She announced to Mrs. C that we would need to change our policy to allow visits from dogs, provided they remained on the tiled area just inside the front doors. They would break the good news to Mr. B-Natural when next he visited
When I came in for work this past Friday, I saw a sign taped to the glass of our front door that read "Service Animals Only." I wondered what the story behind it was and soon the alphabet squad of Mrs.es A, B and C told me.
Mrs. A explained her decision to rescind Bubba's ban. However, before she could alert Mr. B-Natural to it, he'd phoned Mr. Hooter, the president of our board of directors, to raise hell about the veritable zoo we were letting run free in the "liberry." He insisted that if Bubba was banned all other animals should be banned as well, save for service animals. Furthermore, Mr. B-Natural wanted a signs put up to this effect and wanted the policy enforced for all parties. Mr. Hooter was in agreement.
"I can't blame him," I told Mrs. A upon the conclusion of the tale. "I would have done exactly the same thing in his position." Granted, there's the irony that if he'd kept his trap shut for another day or so he would have finally gotten his way and been able to bring Bubba back, but I completely see his perspective of the issue. It isn't fair to let other people bring dogs in and not him. And since he'd already complained to Mrs. A on any number of occasions, he felt he had no other course. Mrs. A said she saw his point too, but would have handled things differently had she been in his shoes.
"So, I guess we won't be seeing him for a few more months?" I said.
"Oh, no. He's been in three or four times since Wednesday," Mrs. B said.
"He keeps checking to make sure we have the sign up," Mrs. C added.
And, an hour or two later, Mr. B-Natural did arrive for some computing time. I made it a point to smile at him when he came in, hopefully communicating that I bear him no ill-will and am, for once, on his side.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Dear Robert Palmer...
The strangest thing happened yesterday.
Mr. B-Natural came in, sans laptop, and signed up to use one of our normal patron computers. His face clean shaven. And his golf cap, seemingly identical to the hole-ridden one he's been sporting, was completely free of holes.
I don't know what this means, but it caused me to question whether or not I'd dreamed up the whole laptop / moustache / lost-a-fight-with-a-leaky-battery-hat thing he's had going for the past week.
Tell me, am I dreaming?
Mr. B-Natural came in, sans laptop, and signed up to use one of our normal patron computers. His face clean shaven. And his golf cap, seemingly identical to the hole-ridden one he's been sporting, was completely free of holes.
I don't know what this means, but it caused me to question whether or not I'd dreamed up the whole laptop / moustache / lost-a-fight-with-a-leaky-battery-hat thing he's had going for the past week.
Tell me, am I dreaming?
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Mr. B-Moustache?
Mr. B-Natural, as he threatened, is now wireless laptop equipped. He proudly marches into the "liberry," laptop case slung casually at his side, and gestures at us using the international sign-language for "Gimme a 4 hour session of wireless time, I've got a crossword puzzle callin' my name."
The odd thing is that along with his acquisition of modern personal technology, Mr. B-Natural has also acquired both a moustache and a golf-cap that looks as though it lost a fight with a leaky car battery. The cap is riddled with holes, allowing its padding to show through in places, but he wears it proudly all the same. While the moustache has yet to fully grow in, I have to admit that it kind of suits him. Or, at least, it works far better than the shiny silver toupee he sported, a few years back, before returning it, presumably to the toupee store, scarcely a week later.
The odd thing is that along with his acquisition of modern personal technology, Mr. B-Natural has also acquired both a moustache and a golf-cap that looks as though it lost a fight with a leaky car battery. The cap is riddled with holes, allowing its padding to show through in places, but he wears it proudly all the same. While the moustache has yet to fully grow in, I have to admit that it kind of suits him. Or, at least, it works far better than the shiny silver toupee he sported, a few years back, before returning it, presumably to the toupee store, scarcely a week later.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Mr. B-Notary?
Speaking of dogs in the building, one of our favorite neighbors of the "liberry" is a lady named Carrie, who bought the house of our former "liberry" neighbor Mona, when Mona moved away a few months back. Carrie visits us frequently and is a considerable "liberry" donor. Unfortunately, she owns a small yap dog which she insists on bringing with her where ever she goes and almost always brings it into the library when she visits. Mrs. A has been concerned that Mr. B-Natural would catch sight of the dog and then throw a big, righteous, Grumpiest Old Man in all the World hissy that someone else's dog was allowed to come in the building but his was banned. She's not been so worried, though, that she's asked Carrie not to bring her pooch. (Did I mention she's a major donor?) So far, Mr. B-Natural hasn't seen the dog, but there have been some close calls.
In the middle of last week's story hour, Mr. B-Natural came up to the desk clutching a fistful of papers.
"I need to get these notarized," he said. "You a notary?"
"No, I'm not and both of our others are busy at the moment," I said. Then I recalled that Mrs. A was actually in the building and is a notary. I told Mr. B-Natural that I might have one for him after all and went upstairs to find Mrs. A.
Upon returning to the desk, I told him, "She'll be down in a couple minutes." I then tried to find something productive to do while we both stood there waiting.
"I already signed these papers," Mr. B-Natural offered.
I gave him the long, slow burn look. "You're not supposed to sign them until the notary can witness it," I said. "MRS. A won't be able to notarize that unless she witnesses you sign it." THAT'S THE WHOLE POINT OF A NOTARY!
"Ahhhhh, I can just sign it again," he grumped.
Mrs. A came down from her office, saw that he'd already signed the papers and reiterated the purpose of a notary to him. Mr. B-Natural told her he could just sign it again over his previous signature and she reluctantly agreed to witness that. While he was doing so, the door opened and in came Carrie and her pooch. Carrie was dropping something off and came right up to the desk, within a foot of Mr. B-Natural, and passed it over the desk to Mrs. A. Fortunately, Carrie had somewhere else she needed to be and departed before Mr. B-Natural had a chance to look up. As Carrie left, Mrs. A turned and gave me a horrified look at the bullet we'd just dodged. It's not that she's afraid of Mr. B-Natural's wrath, but that doesn't mean she wants to listen to it either. Plus, he would have a point. We're playing favorites with dogs. Granted, Carrie's pooch is far less likely to be riddled with the kind of fleas Bubba has delivered to us in the past, but it's still not being completely fair.
A-MINUS: 4
In the middle of last week's story hour, Mr. B-Natural came up to the desk clutching a fistful of papers.
"I need to get these notarized," he said. "You a notary?"
"No, I'm not and both of our others are busy at the moment," I said. Then I recalled that Mrs. A was actually in the building and is a notary. I told Mr. B-Natural that I might have one for him after all and went upstairs to find Mrs. A.
Upon returning to the desk, I told him, "She'll be down in a couple minutes." I then tried to find something productive to do while we both stood there waiting.
"I already signed these papers," Mr. B-Natural offered.
I gave him the long, slow burn look. "You're not supposed to sign them until the notary can witness it," I said. "MRS. A won't be able to notarize that unless she witnesses you sign it." THAT'S THE WHOLE POINT OF A NOTARY!
"Ahhhhh, I can just sign it again," he grumped.
Mrs. A came down from her office, saw that he'd already signed the papers and reiterated the purpose of a notary to him. Mr. B-Natural told her he could just sign it again over his previous signature and she reluctantly agreed to witness that. While he was doing so, the door opened and in came Carrie and her pooch. Carrie was dropping something off and came right up to the desk, within a foot of Mr. B-Natural, and passed it over the desk to Mrs. A. Fortunately, Carrie had somewhere else she needed to be and departed before Mr. B-Natural had a chance to look up. As Carrie left, Mrs. A turned and gave me a horrified look at the bullet we'd just dodged. It's not that she's afraid of Mr. B-Natural's wrath, but that doesn't mean she wants to listen to it either. Plus, he would have a point. We're playing favorites with dogs. Granted, Carrie's pooch is far less likely to be riddled with the kind of fleas Bubba has delivered to us in the past, but it's still not being completely fair.
A-MINUS: 4
Monday, May 14, 2007
Mr. B-Wireless?
Mr. B-Natural has let it be known that he just ordered a laptop computer and will soon be taking advantage of the "liberry's" wireless access. No more will he have to wait in line in order to get right to his "innanet" crossword puzzle. No more will he be busted off the computer in the middle of a very important game of solitaire in favor of a child who only wishes to spend hours on MySpace. He will be footloose and fancy free... provided he remains within the as yet undetermined confines of our wireless signal.
"Hey, will I be able to use it outside, so I can sit there with my dog?" he asked last week.
"Not sure," I said. "Probably. Some people have used it in their cars, out front."
"What about at the picnic table?"
The picnic table is a bit far away for what I imagine are our signal reach limits. However, I'd be willing to drag it closer to the building if only for the sake of his dog, Bubba—a wonderful animal who we like far more than we do its owner.
Eventually, he will realize that with a wireless connection he can use outside, we'll no longer be able to prevent him from drinking his coffee as he uses the internet. And when he spills that cup of coffee in his own keyboard, he will have to live with the consequences.
A-MINUS: 5
"Hey, will I be able to use it outside, so I can sit there with my dog?" he asked last week.
"Not sure," I said. "Probably. Some people have used it in their cars, out front."
"What about at the picnic table?"
The picnic table is a bit far away for what I imagine are our signal reach limits. However, I'd be willing to drag it closer to the building if only for the sake of his dog, Bubba—a wonderful animal who we like far more than we do its owner.
Eventually, he will realize that with a wireless connection he can use outside, we'll no longer be able to prevent him from drinking his coffee as he uses the internet. And when he spills that cup of coffee in his own keyboard, he will have to live with the consequences.
A-MINUS: 5
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
And the password is... (2007)
When it comes to the New Devil Twins and their Auxiliary League of Neighborhood Kids, we rarely encounter any of their parents. The most we usually see from the parents is when they pop their heads in the front door to ask if their kids are on the premesis, almost as if they are afraid of setting actual foot in the building.
Last week, though, the mom of two of the primary League members stopped by, with her kids in tow, to sign up for computers. We only had one available at that point, which I knew because I'd gone back to reboot it some minutes earlier. The other two computers were occupied by a no-name patron and Mr. B-Natural, respectively. I told the mom she and her kids were welcome to use the computer we had.
The eldest son, Mark, signed up and headed on back leaving mom and little brother at the desk. Mom said that her younger son (points to younger son) had told her about some permission form we needed to have her sign in order for him to use the internet on his own and asked for one of those. I forked it over and waited while she started in on it.
"He's not going to be able to look at anything bad, is he?" she asked.
"Well, he'll have access to pretty much anything that's on the internet," I said. "Well, anything that can get past our filter."
"But nothing gets past the filters, right?"
I shrugged. "You'd be surprised. It's pretty good, as filters go, but it's not foolproof."
She gave the boy a long appraising look.
"MooooOOOOoommm! I'm not gonna look at anything bad."
"You better not."
While they were filling out the form, I went back to log on the computer for Mark. Only, when I came around the corner into the computer hall, I saw Mark was already using it to load a webpage. Mark looked up at me and I saw guilt cross his face.
"Now, how exactly did you do that?" I asked him, knowing full well that I had rebooted that computer earlier and that it had returned to our login screen where a password is required to proceed. "You're not supposed to know the password."
"No... I didn't," he said. "I just hit this button, but I didn't know it." He pointed to the single letter that has served as our password for the past few months. Granted, it's no great feat to have paid attention to our hands during the 200 times we've logged him onto a computer in that time, so it's not exactly surprising that he knew it and he's certainly not the first to have mastered that trick. His brazen use of it, however, was a bit off-putting.
"I'm sorry," Mark added.
"Let him tell me what it is," Mr. B-Natural said in a hopeful tone.
I gave Mark a stern yet forgiving look and told him it was okay. Then I left a note to the staff that we need to change the passwords again.
We've now changed the passwords, yet again. At my suggestion, we're going to use a password of multiple letters. Mrs. A then suggested and instantly approved a choice: my three initials.
Immortality is mine!
(Now if we can only convince Mrs. J to stop saying the letters aloud as she types them.)
A-MINUS: 10
Last week, though, the mom of two of the primary League members stopped by, with her kids in tow, to sign up for computers. We only had one available at that point, which I knew because I'd gone back to reboot it some minutes earlier. The other two computers were occupied by a no-name patron and Mr. B-Natural, respectively. I told the mom she and her kids were welcome to use the computer we had.
The eldest son, Mark, signed up and headed on back leaving mom and little brother at the desk. Mom said that her younger son (points to younger son) had told her about some permission form we needed to have her sign in order for him to use the internet on his own and asked for one of those. I forked it over and waited while she started in on it.
"He's not going to be able to look at anything bad, is he?" she asked.
"Well, he'll have access to pretty much anything that's on the internet," I said. "Well, anything that can get past our filter."
"But nothing gets past the filters, right?"
I shrugged. "You'd be surprised. It's pretty good, as filters go, but it's not foolproof."
She gave the boy a long appraising look.
"MooooOOOOoommm! I'm not gonna look at anything bad."
"You better not."
While they were filling out the form, I went back to log on the computer for Mark. Only, when I came around the corner into the computer hall, I saw Mark was already using it to load a webpage. Mark looked up at me and I saw guilt cross his face.
"Now, how exactly did you do that?" I asked him, knowing full well that I had rebooted that computer earlier and that it had returned to our login screen where a password is required to proceed. "You're not supposed to know the password."
"No... I didn't," he said. "I just hit this button, but I didn't know it." He pointed to the single letter that has served as our password for the past few months. Granted, it's no great feat to have paid attention to our hands during the 200 times we've logged him onto a computer in that time, so it's not exactly surprising that he knew it and he's certainly not the first to have mastered that trick. His brazen use of it, however, was a bit off-putting.
"I'm sorry," Mark added.
"Let him tell me what it is," Mr. B-Natural said in a hopeful tone.
I gave Mark a stern yet forgiving look and told him it was okay. Then I left a note to the staff that we need to change the passwords again.
We've now changed the passwords, yet again. At my suggestion, we're going to use a password of multiple letters. Mrs. A then suggested and instantly approved a choice: my three initials.
Immortality is mine!
(Now if we can only convince Mrs. J to stop saying the letters aloud as she types them.)
A-MINUS: 10
Thursday, April 26, 2007
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.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Mr. Crab Finally Poops
Mr. Crab, third grumpiest old man in all the world, happened in this week, approached the circ-desk and inquired to Mrs. B as to the whereabouts of our copy of the Wa11 Street J0urnal. Now, it might seem odd that Mr. Crab would ask about the location of our Wa11 Street J0urnal copy when we have a perfectly good and well-identified periodicals section upstairs where one might expect to find such things as, say, periodicals. No, Mr. Crab's reasoning behind his question is two-fold: A) he firmly believes that, two years ago, we spent six full months without a subscription to the Wa11 Street J0urnal and he enjoys broaching that particular subject even though reality reflects that we only spent about a month and a half without it; and B) at our "liberry" the mail does not arrive on a schedule preferable to anyone, except, I assume, our postmaster.
For years, our mail used to arrive faithfully each morning at around 9:30. In the past few months, however, our mailman's route has been fiddled with by the postmaster on a number of occasions, causing it to arrive later and later in the day. (We know this because our mailman doesn't like it either and ratted out his boss to us.) First we started getting our mail around 1p. Then, it arrived closer to 2, then 3. Now it can come anywhere between 3 and 5 o'clock and arrives earlier only when the mailman has several large and heavy packages for us and doesn't want to have to lug them around all day.
Still, when the mail does finally arrive, we're rarely in any hurry to put the Journal in its place on the newspaper rack. The only people I've ever known to actually read it are Mr. B-Natural (first grumpiest old man in all the world), Mr. Smiley (second grumpiest old man in all the world, but who hasn't graced us with his presence for over a year now), Mr. Crab (the aforementioned third) and a long unseen patron who used to refer to the Wa11 Street J0urnal as "the Capitalist Tool," which, in turn, was how I came to refer to him. Often, the Journal just stays on the lower shelf of our downstairs shelving cart awaiting some good soul to haul it upstairs. Often, it remains there until closing time, when we finally do haul it upstairs and lob it atop the pile of its brethren. Also, due to rapid circ-desk duty employee turnover, the person manning the desk doesn't always know whether or not the mail has arrived, so if anyone comes in seeking the Journal, (i.e. Mr. B-Natural or Mr. Crab), we tell them to first check the shelving cart and if it's not there then it's either in the periodicals section upstairs or it hasn't arrived yet. It's a pretty simple formula, but these two horse's asses don't care to remember it and ask us every time.
During Mr. Crab's visit, Mrs. B happened to know that the mail had not arrived. She explained this to him and noted that the mail might not arrive for hours yet. Mr. Crab was, naturally, quite grumpy about this. Mrs. B told me that she had expected he would next probably complain about the lateness of the mail, but instead he complained about something else.
"Do you know what your library director said to me the other day?" Mr. Crab said, leaning closer.
"What?" Mrs. B asked.
"I asked her if the Wa11 Street J0urnal had arrived and she told me to look on this cart and if it wasn't there it might be upstairs." And he said this in a tone that suggested any right-thinking person should be appalled. Then he finally uttered the words we've been waiting to hear for years: "She won't be getting a donation next year."
Why Mrs. A's suggestion set Mr. Crab off when the rest of the staff have told him the exact same thing on multiple occasions, I'm none too sure. Mrs. A is not a fan of Mr. Crab, so perhaps his finely attuned senses detected her dislike. Whatever the case, Mrs. B didn't know how to respond to him. When she told me about it, though, my brain nearly hemorrhaged from the amount of possibilities that flew through it.
"You should have told him, `Oh, thank God it's finally over! At last, we can stop living in fear of you!' "
Mrs. B laughed.
"No, wait! You should have dropped to your knees, burst into tears and wailed, `Ohhhh no! Oh, dear God, no! Pleeease don't take away your donation! Please, please, pleeeeaaaaase! How can we possibly go on without all two hundred of your dollars?! Ohhh, our poor poor budget! We'll have to fire the staff!' "
" `And then who will let you check things out on their cards when you forget yours?' " Mrs. B added.
"`Oh, lordy lordy, what will we do? What WIIIIILLL we dooooooo?!!!' "
For years, our mail used to arrive faithfully each morning at around 9:30. In the past few months, however, our mailman's route has been fiddled with by the postmaster on a number of occasions, causing it to arrive later and later in the day. (We know this because our mailman doesn't like it either and ratted out his boss to us.) First we started getting our mail around 1p. Then, it arrived closer to 2, then 3. Now it can come anywhere between 3 and 5 o'clock and arrives earlier only when the mailman has several large and heavy packages for us and doesn't want to have to lug them around all day.
Still, when the mail does finally arrive, we're rarely in any hurry to put the Journal in its place on the newspaper rack. The only people I've ever known to actually read it are Mr. B-Natural (first grumpiest old man in all the world), Mr. Smiley (second grumpiest old man in all the world, but who hasn't graced us with his presence for over a year now), Mr. Crab (the aforementioned third) and a long unseen patron who used to refer to the Wa11 Street J0urnal as "the Capitalist Tool," which, in turn, was how I came to refer to him. Often, the Journal just stays on the lower shelf of our downstairs shelving cart awaiting some good soul to haul it upstairs. Often, it remains there until closing time, when we finally do haul it upstairs and lob it atop the pile of its brethren. Also, due to rapid circ-desk duty employee turnover, the person manning the desk doesn't always know whether or not the mail has arrived, so if anyone comes in seeking the Journal, (i.e. Mr. B-Natural or Mr. Crab), we tell them to first check the shelving cart and if it's not there then it's either in the periodicals section upstairs or it hasn't arrived yet. It's a pretty simple formula, but these two horse's asses don't care to remember it and ask us every time.
During Mr. Crab's visit, Mrs. B happened to know that the mail had not arrived. She explained this to him and noted that the mail might not arrive for hours yet. Mr. Crab was, naturally, quite grumpy about this. Mrs. B told me that she had expected he would next probably complain about the lateness of the mail, but instead he complained about something else.
"Do you know what your library director said to me the other day?" Mr. Crab said, leaning closer.
"What?" Mrs. B asked.
"I asked her if the Wa11 Street J0urnal had arrived and she told me to look on this cart and if it wasn't there it might be upstairs." And he said this in a tone that suggested any right-thinking person should be appalled. Then he finally uttered the words we've been waiting to hear for years: "She won't be getting a donation next year."
Why Mrs. A's suggestion set Mr. Crab off when the rest of the staff have told him the exact same thing on multiple occasions, I'm none too sure. Mrs. A is not a fan of Mr. Crab, so perhaps his finely attuned senses detected her dislike. Whatever the case, Mrs. B didn't know how to respond to him. When she told me about it, though, my brain nearly hemorrhaged from the amount of possibilities that flew through it.
"You should have told him, `Oh, thank God it's finally over! At last, we can stop living in fear of you!' "
Mrs. B laughed.
"No, wait! You should have dropped to your knees, burst into tears and wailed, `Ohhhh no! Oh, dear God, no! Pleeease don't take away your donation! Please, please, pleeeeaaaaase! How can we possibly go on without all two hundred of your dollars?! Ohhh, our poor poor budget! We'll have to fire the staff!' "
" `And then who will let you check things out on their cards when you forget yours?' " Mrs. B added.
"`Oh, lordy lordy, what will we do? What WIIIIILLL we dooooooo?!!!' "
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)