As you have probably guessed, Mr. Crab did not donate his stuffed animal heads to our new "liberry." I'm afraid I don't know the story behind his decision not to, but I suspect he didn't like our proposal to sell them for cash. I do know that at some point he did donate some amount of money to the new "liberry" project (most likely $200, but possibly more) for he was among the people invited to attend a donors only wine & cheese reception in the new "liberry" building, a few days before the place officially opened. (And on that subject, I must say, the public support for the new project was quite astounding. While there was a lot of grant money secured and state funds allocated toward the construction, a great deal of our funds came through donations from the public at large. In fact, a full two thirds of the fundage was in hand before ground was broken and the rest quickly began coming in afterward.)
Though the "liberry" now has its own set of wine glasses (stored in the staff breakroom--NOT the kitchen) we didn't own them at the time of the donors reception and had to borrow some from a couple of area restaurants. The cheese and wine were likewise donated by area restaurants and area vineyards, respectively. The cheese was high quality; the wine, not so much, but there was certainly a lot of it so only a few people complained.
Naturally, the "liberry" staff had to work the reception, along with members of the Friends of the "Liberry" group and members of the Board. The board poured the wine and hob-nobbed with the rich & powerful while the rest of us canvassed the room, picking up the empty plates and half-drunk wine glasses people kept leaving on every exposed surface, before someone had a chance to come along, knock them over and spill them on the brand new carpeted areas. In between cleanup missions, we had time to nosh on some of the goodies ourselves. During one such cheese break in the workroom, I heard the unmistakable sound of a wine glass shattering somewhere. Fortunately, it had smashed on the tiled floor near the foyer and not on the carpet. Unfortunately, as I quickly saw, it had been Mr. Crab who'd dropped it.
I'd like to think that most human beings, after having dropped a wine glass in public, would actually attempt to do something about it. I'm not saying they should go find a broom and dustpan themselves, necessarily, but at the very least they should tell somebody about it and perhaps try to pick up the broken glass before someone else steps on it. I'd also like to think that most human beings, after someone comes out to clean up the broken wine glass THEY had just dropped (and not told anyone about) would at least have the decency to assist in the smallest way possible by, say, getting out of the damned way. Not Mr. Crab. No, Mr. Crab refused to acknowledge the glass he had just dropped despite the fact that it was very clear he had been the one to drop it being as how there was glass and wine all around his feet and on his shoes. Instead, he went right on talking to the man he had been talking to as though nothing at all had happened. And when I came out with the broom and dustpan to clean up his mess for him, he remained planted in said mess as though the glass and wine weren't there at all, continuing to talk and hindering my efforts to sweep around his feet. This was very, very annoying to me, but not surprising coming from a known colossal asshole such as Mr. Crab. Ultimately it would have been okay as I would still have been able to sweep up most of the glass despite him. What Mr. Crab did next, however, made doing my job without having to first render him unconscious very very problematic.
You see, the reason Mr. Crab was refusing to acknowledge his broken glass was that he was embarrassed about having broken it in the first place. (My guess is that his self-image as the Great White Hunter would not allow for such clumsy accidents as dropping a glass in public.) Being embarrassed about it, he didn't want me calling any more attention to his accident by trying to clean it up. I feel fairly certain on this point, because shortly after I bent down and began attempting to sweep up the glass, Mr. Crab began kicking the pieces away from him. His kicks were quick, rather violent and aimed at sending the glass beneath the cover of a nearby leafy potted plant situated around one of the floor vents. He gave no regard to the fact that I was there at his feet, nor that his kicks were connecting with my hands and very nearly knocking the broom and dust pan from my grasp. Nope. He just kept right on kicking away.
"Mr. Crab," I said, but got no response. "Mr. Crab, please stop that!" I said, but again got no response. I knew he knew I was there because we'd made eye contact as I walked up, so I must assume his refusal to acknowledge me at that moment was just as intentional as his continued kicks.
It was at that moment that my brain flashed red and it occurred to me that Mr. Crab would no longer be able to kick the glass nor ignore me were I to impale him upon the end of my broom. And as absurd as actually doing that might seem, I knew with dire certainty that if I didn't get away from Mr. Crab RIGHT THEN, our little situation would escalate into a physical confrontation and might very well lead to headlines, such as: Elderly Library Donor Given Beat Down at Fund-Raiser by Crazed Staff Member. Retracts $200 Donation. Says Ass "Very Sore."
I grabbed my broom and dustpan and retreated through the crowd and took refuge behind the circ desk where I snatched up a glass of wine and downed it quick before pouring another. Mrs. A saw my face and asked what had happened. I told her.
"What an asshole," she said.
"Yeah."
Mr. Piano, one of our newer board members, saw us talking in hushed, angry tones and also asked what was up. I told him too.
"What an asshole," he said.
"Yeah," Mrs. A and I said in unison.
I remained behind the desk for several minutes, drinking more crappy wine and eating more soothing cheese. And every few minutes, other staff members, having heard the short version from Mrs. A, filtered over to hear the detailed version from me. Even former board member, Mrs. Emm, came by to confirm the details. I told her the story and my embarrassment theory. She shook her head knowingly, patted me on the shoulder in sympathy and walked away. And it was at that moment that I realized I had just achieved the ultimate revenge against Mr. Crab. Mrs. Emm is one of the biggest gossips I know and is probably tapped into the rumor and innuendo stream of the well-to-do crowd of our area more than anyone outside of Mrs. A herself.
Oh, so you don't want anyone to know you dropped a wine glass, Mr. Crab? Well, good luck with that, cause now Mrs. Emm has the play by play and there's no way in hell she's keeping it to herself. It might not have been all that big a deal in the first place, but your actions to cover it up have now assured that it's a small deal being spread to the winds.
After this realization, I had another glass of wine and felt much better about the evening.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
Showing posts with label Mr. Crab. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mr. Crab. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Mr. Crab, the Third Grumpiest Great White Hunter in All the World (Moving Days J)
JANUARY 7, 2006
I rarely know anything that goes on in our monthly meeting of the “liberry’s” board of directors and that’s fine with me. What does trickle down to me often pisses me off and I would just get myself in trouble by opening my yap were I there to hear it first hand. This is particularly true when it comes to matters of our proposed new “liberry” building. (And I’ve kept my yap mostly shut about it online for two years now for fear of drawing the wrong attention to myself.) Friday’s meeting of the board was different, though. I might still have been in trouble, had I been there, but it would have been for laughing my fool ass off. My boss, Mrs. A, told the staff about it afterwards and assured us that it was a tale that will be retold for months to come.
Some time before the meeting, Mrs. A received a phone call from our eldest and longest-standing board-member, Mrs. Day. To date, Mrs. Day has not been at all wild about our campaign to build a new library. In fact, she voted against it for quite some time before Mr. Kreskin, our former board president, was able to convince her that it looked bad for one lone board member to keep voting against everything, so she jumped on board to save face.
On Friday morning, Mrs. Day phoned to inform Mrs. A that she had a major and exciting announcement to reveal at the board meeting. She wouldn’t give any indication what it regarded, but said it was something huge. Naturally, Mrs. A’s mind wandered to the possibilities. And while waiting for Mrs. Day to turn up for the meeting, Mrs. A and the other four board members—Mr. Eggs, Mrs. Emm, Mrs. Aitch and Dr. Watson—plus our press officer, Mrs. PR, mused aloud as to what the big news might be. Consensus of hope was that Mrs. Day had found someone to donate the remaining funds we need for the new building (around a cool million), but they found it more likely that she was merely going to take credit for securing a rather large donation a neighbor of hers had recently made that everyone already knew about.
Mrs. Day eventually rolled in for the meeting and after much smiling and excitement on her part, she finally revealed her big news. It seems that Mrs. Day has been in contact with everyone’s favorite cranky patron, annual $200 check-donator, frequent $200-donation revocation threatener, and third grumpiest old man in all the world, Mr. Crab, regarding what he might like to donate to the library’s building campaign. (All together now, “$200!”) Mr. Crab claimed that due to obscure IRS laws, he could not donate any actual money to the project because he had “already donated over a million dollars.” (I assumed when I heard this third-hand quote that Mr. Crab meant he’d already donated a million dollars to the library over the years, in which case he would have to be 5000 years old since he only ever gives us $200 at a pop. Now that I’ve thought about it, though, he probably meant he’d given a million dollars to various charitable contributions over the years—no doubt in $200 increments.) Instead of giving us any money, Mr. Crab said he wished to donate something far more valuable: an extensive antique German train set he’d collected and two, count em two, stuffed animals. And when I say "stuffed animals" I’m not talkin’ about Teddy bears or MonChiChis, I mean actual dead animals from Mr. Crab’s collection of animals he has shot, killed and had stuffed, taxidermy-style. According to Mrs. Day, Mr. Crab specifically wishes to donate two stuffed dead animal heads to be hung above the two fireplaces in the proposed new building.
From the way Mrs. A described it to me later, Mrs. Day couldn’t have been more thrilled about this donation. She beamed at the members of the board as she told them, barely able to contain her joy. This, to me, is merely proof that Mrs. Day's mind automatically defaults to the 1930s and 40s, when men such as Ernest Hemingway went around cheerfully blowing the hides off whatever creatures struck their fancy, for fun, then hung their corpses up for all to see and there were no activist groups to raise a stink about it. (By the way, while I think hunting for sport is abhorrent, I’m all for blowing the hides off of creatures you intend to eat, provided they are in season and/or the ranger isn’t looking. "Yeah, take my pic-a-nic basket again, you f*ckers!”)
The board’s reaction to the news was far more modern. I’m told Mrs. Emm and Mrs. PR began laughing openly at the absurdity of it; Mr. Eggs and Dr. Watson sat dumbfounded—Dr. Watson, particularly so, as this was his very first meeting as a board member; Mrs. A just shook her head in full knowledge of the kind of shit storm that would rain down on us from the local hippie-activist community should these heads actually make their way anywhere near our new building; and Mrs. Aitch was furious, but mostly at Mr. Crab’s assertion that there was some kind of million-dollar lifetime donation cut-off.
Between bursts of laughter, Mrs. Emm managed to ask what kind of heads Mr. Crab wished to give us. Mrs. Day wasn’t certain, but said that Mr. Crab has an elephant head above his own desk so maybe that would be one of them.
(It should be noted that Mr. Crab reportedly also has an elephant-leg golf-bag. You heard me... Elephant. Leg. Golf. Bag. When Mrs. A told me about it, I said, “That’s just awful. I mean, I can see an elephant-foot umbrella stand, and all, but a golf-bag is just excessive.” Mrs. A then said she really wished I had been at the meeting, because that was exactly the kind of running commentary that the board members began making around that time. Go board.)
For her part, Mrs. Day seemed oblivious to the ridicule the rest of the board was heaping on her major announcement. She must have thought their tearful laughter was out of joy at such a golden opportunity to turn our new library into some sort of big-game hunting lodge. She even further suggested that one of the heads might, in fact, be that of a polar bear, which Mr. Crab reportedly also owns.
Eventually, Mrs. Emm was able to compose herself long enough to suggest that we agree to accept the gifts, but only with no restrictions as to their use, so we would be free to sell the items to raise money for the project. Mr. Crab will most likely hate this, grump about it at length, retract his offer of donation and then threaten to withhold his $200 again.
“Well if he doesn’t stop acting so crappy to our staff, it’s going to be his head up above the fireplace cause they’re going to kill him,” Mrs. A reportedly told the board.
Soon the room calmed down a bit and the board began discussing such possibilities as a road trip to Mr. Crab's home in order to view the items proposed for donation. Immediately, various board members began vocally noting that they were likely to be out of town on that day, whatever day that should be, but Mrs. A insisted that such a trip could be delayed until all of them were able to attend.
After Mrs. A finished her tale for me, I advised her that we really did not want to be AT ALL beholden to Mr. Crab or we'd never hear the end of it until the day he died, and even then he'd probably have it set into his will that his heirs must continue to lord it over us until the end of time or be cut off from his reputed massive fortune.
Then I realized that it might be worth accepting Mr. Crab's animal heads, if only to piss off Mr. and Mrs. Smiley, who are among our more vocal militant animal rights types in the area and who have, in the past several months, continued desperately trying to torpedo this new building project using any stray hope they think might float no matter how ludicrous. Seeing an elephant head above our new fireplace might be just the thing to finally remove the remaining Grinchy vestiges of sanity they still possess.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
I rarely know anything that goes on in our monthly meeting of the “liberry’s” board of directors and that’s fine with me. What does trickle down to me often pisses me off and I would just get myself in trouble by opening my yap were I there to hear it first hand. This is particularly true when it comes to matters of our proposed new “liberry” building. (And I’ve kept my yap mostly shut about it online for two years now for fear of drawing the wrong attention to myself.) Friday’s meeting of the board was different, though. I might still have been in trouble, had I been there, but it would have been for laughing my fool ass off. My boss, Mrs. A, told the staff about it afterwards and assured us that it was a tale that will be retold for months to come.
Some time before the meeting, Mrs. A received a phone call from our eldest and longest-standing board-member, Mrs. Day. To date, Mrs. Day has not been at all wild about our campaign to build a new library. In fact, she voted against it for quite some time before Mr. Kreskin, our former board president, was able to convince her that it looked bad for one lone board member to keep voting against everything, so she jumped on board to save face.
On Friday morning, Mrs. Day phoned to inform Mrs. A that she had a major and exciting announcement to reveal at the board meeting. She wouldn’t give any indication what it regarded, but said it was something huge. Naturally, Mrs. A’s mind wandered to the possibilities. And while waiting for Mrs. Day to turn up for the meeting, Mrs. A and the other four board members—Mr. Eggs, Mrs. Emm, Mrs. Aitch and Dr. Watson—plus our press officer, Mrs. PR, mused aloud as to what the big news might be. Consensus of hope was that Mrs. Day had found someone to donate the remaining funds we need for the new building (around a cool million), but they found it more likely that she was merely going to take credit for securing a rather large donation a neighbor of hers had recently made that everyone already knew about.
Mrs. Day eventually rolled in for the meeting and after much smiling and excitement on her part, she finally revealed her big news. It seems that Mrs. Day has been in contact with everyone’s favorite cranky patron, annual $200 check-donator, frequent $200-donation revocation threatener, and third grumpiest old man in all the world, Mr. Crab, regarding what he might like to donate to the library’s building campaign. (All together now, “$200!”) Mr. Crab claimed that due to obscure IRS laws, he could not donate any actual money to the project because he had “already donated over a million dollars.” (I assumed when I heard this third-hand quote that Mr. Crab meant he’d already donated a million dollars to the library over the years, in which case he would have to be 5000 years old since he only ever gives us $200 at a pop. Now that I’ve thought about it, though, he probably meant he’d given a million dollars to various charitable contributions over the years—no doubt in $200 increments.) Instead of giving us any money, Mr. Crab said he wished to donate something far more valuable: an extensive antique German train set he’d collected and two, count em two, stuffed animals. And when I say "stuffed animals" I’m not talkin’ about Teddy bears or MonChiChis, I mean actual dead animals from Mr. Crab’s collection of animals he has shot, killed and had stuffed, taxidermy-style. According to Mrs. Day, Mr. Crab specifically wishes to donate two stuffed dead animal heads to be hung above the two fireplaces in the proposed new building.
From the way Mrs. A described it to me later, Mrs. Day couldn’t have been more thrilled about this donation. She beamed at the members of the board as she told them, barely able to contain her joy. This, to me, is merely proof that Mrs. Day's mind automatically defaults to the 1930s and 40s, when men such as Ernest Hemingway went around cheerfully blowing the hides off whatever creatures struck their fancy, for fun, then hung their corpses up for all to see and there were no activist groups to raise a stink about it. (By the way, while I think hunting for sport is abhorrent, I’m all for blowing the hides off of creatures you intend to eat, provided they are in season and/or the ranger isn’t looking. "Yeah, take my pic-a-nic basket again, you f*ckers!”)
The board’s reaction to the news was far more modern. I’m told Mrs. Emm and Mrs. PR began laughing openly at the absurdity of it; Mr. Eggs and Dr. Watson sat dumbfounded—Dr. Watson, particularly so, as this was his very first meeting as a board member; Mrs. A just shook her head in full knowledge of the kind of shit storm that would rain down on us from the local hippie-activist community should these heads actually make their way anywhere near our new building; and Mrs. Aitch was furious, but mostly at Mr. Crab’s assertion that there was some kind of million-dollar lifetime donation cut-off.
Between bursts of laughter, Mrs. Emm managed to ask what kind of heads Mr. Crab wished to give us. Mrs. Day wasn’t certain, but said that Mr. Crab has an elephant head above his own desk so maybe that would be one of them.
(It should be noted that Mr. Crab reportedly also has an elephant-leg golf-bag. You heard me... Elephant. Leg. Golf. Bag. When Mrs. A told me about it, I said, “That’s just awful. I mean, I can see an elephant-foot umbrella stand, and all, but a golf-bag is just excessive.” Mrs. A then said she really wished I had been at the meeting, because that was exactly the kind of running commentary that the board members began making around that time. Go board.)
For her part, Mrs. Day seemed oblivious to the ridicule the rest of the board was heaping on her major announcement. She must have thought their tearful laughter was out of joy at such a golden opportunity to turn our new library into some sort of big-game hunting lodge. She even further suggested that one of the heads might, in fact, be that of a polar bear, which Mr. Crab reportedly also owns.
Eventually, Mrs. Emm was able to compose herself long enough to suggest that we agree to accept the gifts, but only with no restrictions as to their use, so we would be free to sell the items to raise money for the project. Mr. Crab will most likely hate this, grump about it at length, retract his offer of donation and then threaten to withhold his $200 again.
“Well if he doesn’t stop acting so crappy to our staff, it’s going to be his head up above the fireplace cause they’re going to kill him,” Mrs. A reportedly told the board.
Soon the room calmed down a bit and the board began discussing such possibilities as a road trip to Mr. Crab's home in order to view the items proposed for donation. Immediately, various board members began vocally noting that they were likely to be out of town on that day, whatever day that should be, but Mrs. A insisted that such a trip could be delayed until all of them were able to attend.
After Mrs. A finished her tale for me, I advised her that we really did not want to be AT ALL beholden to Mr. Crab or we'd never hear the end of it until the day he died, and even then he'd probably have it set into his will that his heirs must continue to lord it over us until the end of time or be cut off from his reputed massive fortune.
Then I realized that it might be worth accepting Mr. Crab's animal heads, if only to piss off Mr. and Mrs. Smiley, who are among our more vocal militant animal rights types in the area and who have, in the past several months, continued desperately trying to torpedo this new building project using any stray hope they think might float no matter how ludicrous. Seeing an elephant head above our new fireplace might be just the thing to finally remove the remaining Grinchy vestiges of sanity they still possess.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
Friday, August 22, 2008
Either I'm Itching to Tell Another Tale or I've got a Really Bad Case of the Crabs (Moving Days I)
Back in December, I alluded to an incident in which 3rd Grumpiest Old Man in All the World, Mr. Crab, and I nearly came to blows at a wine & cheese reception. I've been itching to tell that story for over a year now but couldn't do so without first explaining the whole bit about us moving into a new library, which I didn't want to have to explain at the time of the occurrence for reasons which I will eventually explain.
However, in order to properly set up the tale of the hurt locker I nearly stuffed Mr. Crab into--which, by the by, would have likely involved cramming a broom handle up his ass, so the one he has up there already would have some company--I will first have to tell a different tale, one which I have also been itching to tell for even longer than the wine & cheese hurt locker one. Fortunately, I had the foresight to write this setup tale back in January of 2006, but for similar reasons as those of the previous omission, never officially published to the blog.
See ya next week.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
However, in order to properly set up the tale of the hurt locker I nearly stuffed Mr. Crab into--which, by the by, would have likely involved cramming a broom handle up his ass, so the one he has up there already would have some company--I will first have to tell a different tale, one which I have also been itching to tell for even longer than the wine & cheese hurt locker one. Fortunately, I had the foresight to write this setup tale back in January of 2006, but for similar reasons as those of the previous omission, never officially published to the blog.
See ya next week.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
Monday, February 25, 2008
Christmas Party
We held the "liberry's" staff Christmas party today.
Yeah, I know, it's a little later than usual, but it's really difficult to find time in everyone's schedule to have one in December, so we decided to put it off a bit. Then a bit more. Then a bit more. And, finally, it was decided that since all of us had to gather for our semi-monthly staff meeting, we'd just have it then. So we all brought in breakfast items and feasted mightily. (I'm an enormous fan of Mrs. C's monkey bread and am now an even more enormous fan as a result of eating damn near half the pan.) Then we had our staff meeting, bitched about problem patrons for a while, then opened presents.
Much like last year's Christmas party, this year each of us picked a theme and then everyone had to go buy a present that fell within that theme, spending no more than $5 for each person. My theme last year was cookies, which I thought would be a no-brainer kind of gift. Everyone knows I love Nutter Butters and Oreos, so I figured I'd get a big bag of those, which I could climb into, zip up around my head and not emerge until I'd developed diabetes. Nope. Since it was Christmas, last year my fellow employees decided it would be better to buy me so-called "fancy" cookies, the kind that look like they would be comfortable sharing space on a tea tray. Which is great, if you're British and eat a lot of that sort of thing. However, I'm a simple guy with simple tastes and a peanut butter itch that often needs scratching, so it was kind of wasted on me.
This year I asked for coffee. And coffee I got. In all shapes and sizes, from a tasty looking bag of breakfast blend, to harder French roasty sort of things, to gift cards for local coffee shops, to candle coffee samplers, to instant coffee singles, to General Foods International Coffees. I'm quite pleased.
The other gifts I received were two stories about Mr. Crab, one fun and one disturbing.
In the first one, Mr. Crab came in and hassled Ms. D during her shift this past weekend. She caught him trying to head downstairs to our multi-purpose room, which is off-limits to the public except during scheduled events or during story-hour. (It's hard enough to keep up with the members of the public at large on our main floor, let alone those attempting to wander the un-staffed depths of the building. Ms. D has seen issues with this before.) Ms. D and Mr. Crab have also had a history of run-ins with each other, particularly during Ms. D's pre-"liberry" employment at a local chain-home improvement store. She knew what an asshole he can be and was prepared to deal with him accordingly. Ms. D confronted Mr. Crab as he attempted to descend and told him he wasn't allowed to do so. Mr. Crab snapped that he was only trying to go downstairs to read, which he did "all the time." (This was a lie, no doubt, as the only place we've ever seen him settle to read is at one of the tables on the main level.) Ms. D again explained that any past excursions were of no consequence, as he was not allowed downstairs now.
"This is a public library!" Mr. Crab reportedly then said.
"No?!" Ms. D replied in mock amazement.
And at this comeback, even Mr. Crab was unable to stifle a smile and thus lost the argument by having all his steam taken out. He was left half-heartedly complaining that we needed signs saying he couldn't go down there. I agree, frankly, but it's not like patrons EVER read signs.
This incident demonstrates what I've long known to be true, though, which is that what Mr. Crab really wants is a fight. He doesn't accidentally forget to bring his library card. He either has it and claims he doesn't or he leaves it at home on purpose just so he can get worked up about it, stir up shit and fight with someone hoping they'll relent and let him have his way without a card. He doesn't like me, though, because I refuse to argue with him. He can wail and threaten to take away money all he likes, but I'm not going to fight with him about it and unless he has his card he's leaving without books. Threats aside, it's very difficult to feel like you've won the day when you're the guy walking away empty-handed.
"I think he would die a happy man if only we'd let him check out without his card," I remarked upon espousing the above theory.
"Maybe we should let him, so he'll hurry along," Mrs. B said.
The second and more disturbing Mr. Crab story came from Mrs. A. She noted that a few years back, Mr. Crab was banned from setting foot in one of the county's post offices after he became upset with the staff there and threatened to return with his gun. They reportedly told him, "No, you won't be returning at all," and then, as officers of the United States Government, they escorted him from the building and slapped an injunction against him setting foot on the premises. Now, this is basically a rumor at this point and there are clearly all sorts of legal issues that would likely have arisen from such a threat, such as the real prospect of jail time that Mr. Crab has likely not done. Maybe courts were involved and actual restraining orders issued. Or maybe the incident was actually a bit smaller in reality and he was merely banned for some slightly lesser offense and the incident was blown out of proportion by the winds of rumor. I dunno. What I do know is that Mrs. A isn't generally taken with spreading gossip she doesn't know facts about and she does have pretty deep ties in city administration. It also doesn't seem outside the realm of possibility, knowing Mr. Crab. He can't threaten the post office with the revocation of his $200 annual donation, so what else could he do?
"You do realize that he's gonna snap one day and blow one of us away," I told Mrs. A. She nodded. And really, the idea isn't so far-fetched. I suspect he's always wanted to blow somebody away and, from what I understand, he's certainly taken out enough of God's lesser-creatures to have had his fill with them. One day, he might just decide that at his age he doesn't have anything left to lose.
Course, that'd be about the only way I'm letting him have books without his card.
Yeah, I know, it's a little later than usual, but it's really difficult to find time in everyone's schedule to have one in December, so we decided to put it off a bit. Then a bit more. Then a bit more. And, finally, it was decided that since all of us had to gather for our semi-monthly staff meeting, we'd just have it then. So we all brought in breakfast items and feasted mightily. (I'm an enormous fan of Mrs. C's monkey bread and am now an even more enormous fan as a result of eating damn near half the pan.) Then we had our staff meeting, bitched about problem patrons for a while, then opened presents.
Much like last year's Christmas party, this year each of us picked a theme and then everyone had to go buy a present that fell within that theme, spending no more than $5 for each person. My theme last year was cookies, which I thought would be a no-brainer kind of gift. Everyone knows I love Nutter Butters and Oreos, so I figured I'd get a big bag of those, which I could climb into, zip up around my head and not emerge until I'd developed diabetes. Nope. Since it was Christmas, last year my fellow employees decided it would be better to buy me so-called "fancy" cookies, the kind that look like they would be comfortable sharing space on a tea tray. Which is great, if you're British and eat a lot of that sort of thing. However, I'm a simple guy with simple tastes and a peanut butter itch that often needs scratching, so it was kind of wasted on me.
This year I asked for coffee. And coffee I got. In all shapes and sizes, from a tasty looking bag of breakfast blend, to harder French roasty sort of things, to gift cards for local coffee shops, to candle coffee samplers, to instant coffee singles, to General Foods International Coffees. I'm quite pleased.
The other gifts I received were two stories about Mr. Crab, one fun and one disturbing.
In the first one, Mr. Crab came in and hassled Ms. D during her shift this past weekend. She caught him trying to head downstairs to our multi-purpose room, which is off-limits to the public except during scheduled events or during story-hour. (It's hard enough to keep up with the members of the public at large on our main floor, let alone those attempting to wander the un-staffed depths of the building. Ms. D has seen issues with this before.) Ms. D and Mr. Crab have also had a history of run-ins with each other, particularly during Ms. D's pre-"liberry" employment at a local chain-home improvement store. She knew what an asshole he can be and was prepared to deal with him accordingly. Ms. D confronted Mr. Crab as he attempted to descend and told him he wasn't allowed to do so. Mr. Crab snapped that he was only trying to go downstairs to read, which he did "all the time." (This was a lie, no doubt, as the only place we've ever seen him settle to read is at one of the tables on the main level.) Ms. D again explained that any past excursions were of no consequence, as he was not allowed downstairs now.
"This is a public library!" Mr. Crab reportedly then said.
"No?!" Ms. D replied in mock amazement.
And at this comeback, even Mr. Crab was unable to stifle a smile and thus lost the argument by having all his steam taken out. He was left half-heartedly complaining that we needed signs saying he couldn't go down there. I agree, frankly, but it's not like patrons EVER read signs.
This incident demonstrates what I've long known to be true, though, which is that what Mr. Crab really wants is a fight. He doesn't accidentally forget to bring his library card. He either has it and claims he doesn't or he leaves it at home on purpose just so he can get worked up about it, stir up shit and fight with someone hoping they'll relent and let him have his way without a card. He doesn't like me, though, because I refuse to argue with him. He can wail and threaten to take away money all he likes, but I'm not going to fight with him about it and unless he has his card he's leaving without books. Threats aside, it's very difficult to feel like you've won the day when you're the guy walking away empty-handed.
"I think he would die a happy man if only we'd let him check out without his card," I remarked upon espousing the above theory.
"Maybe we should let him, so he'll hurry along," Mrs. B said.
The second and more disturbing Mr. Crab story came from Mrs. A. She noted that a few years back, Mr. Crab was banned from setting foot in one of the county's post offices after he became upset with the staff there and threatened to return with his gun. They reportedly told him, "No, you won't be returning at all," and then, as officers of the United States Government, they escorted him from the building and slapped an injunction against him setting foot on the premises. Now, this is basically a rumor at this point and there are clearly all sorts of legal issues that would likely have arisen from such a threat, such as the real prospect of jail time that Mr. Crab has likely not done. Maybe courts were involved and actual restraining orders issued. Or maybe the incident was actually a bit smaller in reality and he was merely banned for some slightly lesser offense and the incident was blown out of proportion by the winds of rumor. I dunno. What I do know is that Mrs. A isn't generally taken with spreading gossip she doesn't know facts about and she does have pretty deep ties in city administration. It also doesn't seem outside the realm of possibility, knowing Mr. Crab. He can't threaten the post office with the revocation of his $200 annual donation, so what else could he do?
"You do realize that he's gonna snap one day and blow one of us away," I told Mrs. A. She nodded. And really, the idea isn't so far-fetched. I suspect he's always wanted to blow somebody away and, from what I understand, he's certainly taken out enough of God's lesser-creatures to have had his fill with them. One day, he might just decide that at his age he doesn't have anything left to lose.
Course, that'd be about the only way I'm letting him have books without his card.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Yeah, that'll show us.
Third grumpiest old man in all the world Mr. Crab arrived yesterday with an armload of books to return. I was pleased to see they were checked out on his own card, rather than on Mrs. A's. He must have managed to not only find his card but actually bring it in with him at some point recently. Will wonders never cease?
"And I want to give this to the library," Mr. Crab said to Mrs. B, passing over a check. Mrs. B asked if it was for the operating fund. He said it was.
Later, Mrs. B showed me the check. Instead of his usual and much heralded $200 annual donation, the check was only for $110.00. This caused me to giggle.
"He must have deducted $10 for each time he forgot his card and we wouldn't let him check out," I told her.
And I have no doubt that this is exactly what he intended. Why else would someone donate an amount as unrounded as $110? Sure, I could see $150, or $200, or even $125 has a nice ring to it. But $110? The only way I think he could have made it a more obvious THIS ISN'T MY NORMAL $200 ANNUAL DONATION gesture would be if he'd made the check out for $109. The fact that it was an even number, though, could be interpreted to mean Mr. Crab had deducted amounts from it in even increments.
Even though our card policy is clearly costing us money, I couldn't be happier about it. To me, any amount of loss would be worth it if only to see Mr. Crab not get his way.
"And I want to give this to the library," Mr. Crab said to Mrs. B, passing over a check. Mrs. B asked if it was for the operating fund. He said it was.
Later, Mrs. B showed me the check. Instead of his usual and much heralded $200 annual donation, the check was only for $110.00. This caused me to giggle.
"He must have deducted $10 for each time he forgot his card and we wouldn't let him check out," I told her.
And I have no doubt that this is exactly what he intended. Why else would someone donate an amount as unrounded as $110? Sure, I could see $150, or $200, or even $125 has a nice ring to it. But $110? The only way I think he could have made it a more obvious THIS ISN'T MY NORMAL $200 ANNUAL DONATION gesture would be if he'd made the check out for $109. The fact that it was an even number, though, could be interpreted to mean Mr. Crab had deducted amounts from it in even increments.
Even though our card policy is clearly costing us money, I couldn't be happier about it. To me, any amount of loss would be worth it if only to see Mr. Crab not get his way.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #108
SETTING: My "liberry" as Mr. Crab, third grumpiest old man in all the world and former $200 annual donor approaches the desk with a book.
MR. CRAB— Is the Wa11street Journa1 here? I was just over in the newspapers and didn't see it. Did it come in?
ME— Let me check. (I turn to Mrs. C and Mrs. A, who are just inside the staff workroom) Have you seen today's Wa11street Journa1?
MRS. C— It didn't come in.
ME— (To Mr. Crab, expecting him to be angry, as he usually is when the Journal does not arrive) Looks like it didn't come in today.
MR. CRAB— (Pauses for a moment, then smiles) I guess these things happen. (He slides his book to me then opens his wallet and begins digging through the various pockets in search of his library card. As per usual, it's not to be found.)
MR. CRAB— It’s in here somewhere…
(Mr. Crab continues to dig, while I very conspiciously start to read the local newspaper as I wait. Thirty seconds elapse and I've seen everything of interest in the paper, so I turn to the stack of area guides that have just been delivered. Mr. Crab continues to search. )
MR. CRAB— (After nearly a minute's worth of searching, he adopts his usual tone of pissy resignation.) I guess I’ll just have to do without.
(I give him no quarter and don't even glance up from my paper. My facial expression is pleasant, my posture aimed casually away from him, conveying, I hope, that I know how this is going to play out and am just along for the ride. I am not angry nor will I allow myself to appear angry, because that's exactly what he wants. And despite what he's just said, Mr. Crab continues searching through his wallet. After another thirty seconds or so, Mr. Crab closes his wallet, picks up his book and walks around to the very front of the desk so that he is facing in the direction in which I've turned myself and therefore cannot be ignored. He puts his book down on the desk again.)
MR. CRAB— No way to authenticate me?
(Here we go.)
ME— I’m sorry?
MR. CRAB—Is there no way to authenticate me without my card?
(How many times do we need to have this conversation?)
ME— No. We need the library card. (Pause) I can hold that for you here, if you like.
MR. CRAB— What?
ME— (I point to his book) I said, `I can hold that for you here. If you like. '
MR. CRAB— No. I can put it back on the shelf myself. (Starts to walk away, then turns back and mumbles something.)
ME— I'm sorry?
MR. CRAB— (Speaks up) I guess I’ll just deduct $10 off my contribution.
(This is hardly a surprising threat from him, but it does make me want to ask, "Wait... is this $10 off the $200 contribution you already told us you weren't going to give us ANY of, or have we rolled round to a new fiscal year for you and this is really $10 off of 2008's $200 contribution?")
(Instead I say...)
ME— Well, that’s your choice.
(Mr. Crab gives no reaction, but simply walks around the corner. I pick up a magazine from the shelving cart and go over to ther periodicals, where I shelve it. On my way back, I hear Mrs. A's voice from the staff workroom just as Mrs. C steps out of it.)
MRS. A— You can put it on mine.
(I shake my head at Mrs. C.)
MRS. C— (To Mrs. A) I don't think he wants to.
MRS. A— (Stepping out of the staff workroom) You can put his book on my card.
(I shake my head at her, too)
MRS. A— He’s just going to get mad if we don’t.
ME— Let him.
(Mr. Crab's book remained uncirculated)
MR. CRAB— Is the Wa11street Journa1 here? I was just over in the newspapers and didn't see it. Did it come in?
ME— Let me check. (I turn to Mrs. C and Mrs. A, who are just inside the staff workroom) Have you seen today's Wa11street Journa1?
MRS. C— It didn't come in.
ME— (To Mr. Crab, expecting him to be angry, as he usually is when the Journal does not arrive) Looks like it didn't come in today.
MR. CRAB— (Pauses for a moment, then smiles) I guess these things happen. (He slides his book to me then opens his wallet and begins digging through the various pockets in search of his library card. As per usual, it's not to be found.)
MR. CRAB— It’s in here somewhere…
(Mr. Crab continues to dig, while I very conspiciously start to read the local newspaper as I wait. Thirty seconds elapse and I've seen everything of interest in the paper, so I turn to the stack of area guides that have just been delivered. Mr. Crab continues to search. )
MR. CRAB— (After nearly a minute's worth of searching, he adopts his usual tone of pissy resignation.) I guess I’ll just have to do without.
(I give him no quarter and don't even glance up from my paper. My facial expression is pleasant, my posture aimed casually away from him, conveying, I hope, that I know how this is going to play out and am just along for the ride. I am not angry nor will I allow myself to appear angry, because that's exactly what he wants. And despite what he's just said, Mr. Crab continues searching through his wallet. After another thirty seconds or so, Mr. Crab closes his wallet, picks up his book and walks around to the very front of the desk so that he is facing in the direction in which I've turned myself and therefore cannot be ignored. He puts his book down on the desk again.)
MR. CRAB— No way to authenticate me?
(Here we go.)
ME— I’m sorry?
MR. CRAB—Is there no way to authenticate me without my card?
(How many times do we need to have this conversation?)
ME— No. We need the library card. (Pause) I can hold that for you here, if you like.
MR. CRAB— What?
ME— (I point to his book) I said, `I can hold that for you here. If you like. '
MR. CRAB— No. I can put it back on the shelf myself. (Starts to walk away, then turns back and mumbles something.)
ME— I'm sorry?
MR. CRAB— (Speaks up) I guess I’ll just deduct $10 off my contribution.
(This is hardly a surprising threat from him, but it does make me want to ask, "Wait... is this $10 off the $200 contribution you already told us you weren't going to give us ANY of, or have we rolled round to a new fiscal year for you and this is really $10 off of 2008's $200 contribution?")
(Instead I say...)
ME— Well, that’s your choice.
(Mr. Crab gives no reaction, but simply walks around the corner. I pick up a magazine from the shelving cart and go over to ther periodicals, where I shelve it. On my way back, I hear Mrs. A's voice from the staff workroom just as Mrs. C steps out of it.)
MRS. A— You can put it on mine.
(I shake my head at Mrs. C.)
MRS. C— (To Mrs. A) I don't think he wants to.
MRS. A— (Stepping out of the staff workroom) You can put his book on my card.
(I shake my head at her, too)
MRS. A— He’s just going to get mad if we don’t.
ME— Let him.
(Mr. Crab's book remained uncirculated)
Monday, January 07, 2008
"Liberry" Glossary: Old White Women
Old White Women
-collective noun
-collective noun
A loose affiliation of elderly Caucasian females who continually demonstrate themselves to be the fussiest, least easy-to-please human beings on the planet. Members of the Old White Women collective come well-armored with a thick and chitinous shell of entitlement that cannot be cracked by mere mortals. They are either used to people jumping at their merest whim or are forever longing for the days of yore when people jumped at their merest whim. They are completely unaccustomed to not getting their way and being told they cannot do that which they wish to do and become quite put out when such situations inevitably occur. Their most favored attack posture in these circumstances is a deftly-wielded, razor-sharp, obstinate insistence that they be allowed to do whatever it is they want to do anyway and despite all logic and policy that might say otherwise. Very often, it is all the weaponry they need, for it can be a powerful force indeed. The most frequent obstacle they face at the "liberry," therefore, is their inability to check out library materials without their library card or the requirement of a drivers license number to get said card. Old White Women are rarely seen to be happy about anything at all.
While there is no obvious organizational structure to their ranks, (much as in the case with a similar loose affiliation of the elderly, The Grampy Patrol) there is definitely something of an exclusive membership present. Membership in the order of Old White Women is not compulsory by any means, for the vast majority of the world's population of both old women and white women are not members. However, membership in the ranks of the Old White Women does seem to be dependent upon being both old and white. Wealth and privilege is also a traditional characteristic of the membership majority, particularly at levels which elevate the individual old white woman above the reality experienced by most other human beings. Abbreviations: OWW (Old White Women); OWL (Old White Lady/Ladies)
(Famous Old White Women: Mrs. Owl, Mrs. Delva Poopoohead of the New England Poopooheads, Mrs. Manic, Mrs. Carol Satan, Hillary Clinton, Queen Elizabeth II)
(Honoray Old White Women: Ann Coulter, Mr. Crab)
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #104
*RING*
ME— Tri-Metro County Library
MR. CRAB (FORMER ANNUAL $200 DONOR AND THIRD GRUMPIEST OLD MAN IN ALL THE WORLD)— This is MR. CRAB. Could you please renew my book (SAYS NAME OF BOOK)?
ME— Sure. Can I have your library card number?
(Pause)
MR. CRAB— (Only mildly annoyed) Ohhhh. Let me get my wallet and I'll give it to you
(Long pause)
MR. CRAB— Just a minute. I got too many pockets.
(Long pause)
MR. CRAB— Well, here it is... The last few numbers are... (GIVES ME THE LAST FEW NUMBERS OF HIS LIBRARY CARD NUMBER) Is that right?
ME— I'm not sure. I'd need the whole number.
(Pause)
MR. CRAB— So you want me to give you this millionaire of a number here?
ME— Yes, sir.
(Long pause)
MR. CRAB— (In a tone practically bristling with regret that he's already alerted us to the fact that he will be witholding his $200 annual donation this year due to some infraction on our part, preventing him from making that threat again at this juncture.) Okaaaaayyy...
(Mr. Crab reads me the entire number, but it sounds like it has too many digits. Nothing comes up. I try variations on it without as many zeroes as he gave me, but nothing is coming up.)
ME— Could you repeat that number? It's not coming up.
(I start him off with the first few numbers. He fills in the rest and I see that he'd inserted a nonexistent 3 in what he read to me originally. I renew his book.)
ME— There. I've got it renewed for you through the 17th.
MR. CRAB— (Not listening whatsoever) Well, that's the number I have here. Maybe I don't have the right card. I had two of them. And there's some other number written here, but I don't know what that is.
ME— No, I've already renewed it for you.
MR. CRAB— Maybe there's another card here, somewhere...
ME— (Louder) No, I've already renewed it for you.
MR. CRAB— You what?
ME— That's your card. I've got you right here on the screen and I've already renewed your book for you.
MR. CRAB— Oh, you did?
ME— Yes. Through the 17th.
MR. CRAB— (SAYS NAME OF BOOK IN SUSPICIOUS TONE, AS IF I MIGHT HAVE RENEWED AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT BOOK)
ME— Yes.
MR. CRAB— Oh. (Pause) Very good.
(One day I shall have to tell the story of the physical altercation Mr. Crab and I nearly got into at a wine and cheese reception we both attended.)
ME— Tri-Metro County Library
MR. CRAB (FORMER ANNUAL $200 DONOR AND THIRD GRUMPIEST OLD MAN IN ALL THE WORLD)— This is MR. CRAB. Could you please renew my book (SAYS NAME OF BOOK)?
ME— Sure. Can I have your library card number?
(Pause)
MR. CRAB— (Only mildly annoyed) Ohhhh. Let me get my wallet and I'll give it to you
(Long pause)
MR. CRAB— Just a minute. I got too many pockets.
(Long pause)
MR. CRAB— Well, here it is... The last few numbers are... (GIVES ME THE LAST FEW NUMBERS OF HIS LIBRARY CARD NUMBER) Is that right?
ME— I'm not sure. I'd need the whole number.
(Pause)
MR. CRAB— So you want me to give you this millionaire of a number here?
ME— Yes, sir.
(Long pause)
MR. CRAB— (In a tone practically bristling with regret that he's already alerted us to the fact that he will be witholding his $200 annual donation this year due to some infraction on our part, preventing him from making that threat again at this juncture.) Okaaaaayyy...
(Mr. Crab reads me the entire number, but it sounds like it has too many digits. Nothing comes up. I try variations on it without as many zeroes as he gave me, but nothing is coming up.)
ME— Could you repeat that number? It's not coming up.
(I start him off with the first few numbers. He fills in the rest and I see that he'd inserted a nonexistent 3 in what he read to me originally. I renew his book.)
ME— There. I've got it renewed for you through the 17th.
MR. CRAB— (Not listening whatsoever) Well, that's the number I have here. Maybe I don't have the right card. I had two of them. And there's some other number written here, but I don't know what that is.
ME— No, I've already renewed it for you.
MR. CRAB— Maybe there's another card here, somewhere...
ME— (Louder) No, I've already renewed it for you.
MR. CRAB— You what?
ME— That's your card. I've got you right here on the screen and I've already renewed your book for you.
MR. CRAB— Oh, you did?
ME— Yes. Through the 17th.
MR. CRAB— (SAYS NAME OF BOOK IN SUSPICIOUS TONE, AS IF I MIGHT HAVE RENEWED AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT BOOK)
ME— Yes.
MR. CRAB— Oh. (Pause) Very good.
(One day I shall have to tell the story of the physical altercation Mr. Crab and I nearly got into at a wine and cheese reception we both attended.)
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #102
*RING*
ME— Tri-Metro County Library.
MRS. CRAB (WIFE OF MR. CRAB, FORMER $200 ANNUAL DONOR AND THIRD GRUMPIEST OLD MAN IN ALL THE WORLD)— Yes, I'd like to see about renewing a book, please.
ME— Very well. Can I have your library card number?
MRS. CRAB— Oh. (Pause) Oh... (To husband elsewhere in the house) Do you have your library card number?
(Pause)
(Indecipherable grumbling)
(Pause)
MRS. CRAB— He's getting it, now. It's for the book (NAME OF BOOK) by (NAME OF AUTHOR) spelled (SPELLS NAME OF AUTHOR), if that helps.
(It does not. I wait in silence as I can do nothing with that information)
MRS. CRAB— Okay, I have it here. (Pause) Er... which number is it? There's this big long number and there's this other one he's written in.
ME— (Not sure what other number she could be referring to, as the only other number on the back of our library cards is our phone number.) Uh, I'm not sure. The library card number is the long one there below the bar code.
MRS. CRAB— Oh, okay.
(She reads me the number and I pull up Mr. Crab's record. Having no reason to have recognized Mrs. Crab's voice, I am delighted to see that the record belongs to Mr. Crab. I am warmed by this knowledge, as I know that Mr. Crab is now very annoyed at having to fish out and supply his number when he had hoped that having his wife phone in his renewal would relieve him of any hassles. I renew Mr. Crab's book, being careful not to accidentally hit RENEW WITH NO FINE, but instead RENEW WITH FINE, so he'll have a .15 cent charge to bitch about when he turns his book in. I hope I'm there to see it.)
ME— Tri-Metro County Library.
MRS. CRAB (WIFE OF MR. CRAB, FORMER $200 ANNUAL DONOR AND THIRD GRUMPIEST OLD MAN IN ALL THE WORLD)— Yes, I'd like to see about renewing a book, please.
ME— Very well. Can I have your library card number?
MRS. CRAB— Oh. (Pause) Oh... (To husband elsewhere in the house) Do you have your library card number?
(Pause)
(Indecipherable grumbling)
(Pause)
MRS. CRAB— He's getting it, now. It's for the book (NAME OF BOOK) by (NAME OF AUTHOR) spelled (SPELLS NAME OF AUTHOR), if that helps.
(It does not. I wait in silence as I can do nothing with that information)
MRS. CRAB— Okay, I have it here. (Pause) Er... which number is it? There's this big long number and there's this other one he's written in.
ME— (Not sure what other number she could be referring to, as the only other number on the back of our library cards is our phone number.) Uh, I'm not sure. The library card number is the long one there below the bar code.
MRS. CRAB— Oh, okay.
(She reads me the number and I pull up Mr. Crab's record. Having no reason to have recognized Mrs. Crab's voice, I am delighted to see that the record belongs to Mr. Crab. I am warmed by this knowledge, as I know that Mr. Crab is now very annoyed at having to fish out and supply his number when he had hoped that having his wife phone in his renewal would relieve him of any hassles. I renew Mr. Crab's book, being careful not to accidentally hit RENEW WITH NO FINE, but instead RENEW WITH FINE, so he'll have a .15 cent charge to bitch about when he turns his book in. I hope I'm there to see it.)
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
You open a mere hour and a half late and they never let you hear the end of it! Shiiiii
None of the staff was upset that I neglected to open the library on time, Monday. The patrons, however, haven't stopped talking about it.
When I arrived, yesterday, Mrs. C said that people had been coming in all morning long and mentioning how we were not open immediately at 1 on Monday. Mr. B-Natural came in a couple of times to bring it up again. And people who hadn't even attempted to come to the library during its unfortunate extended closed hours dropped by to mention it, having heard about it from the mouth of Lennie, who has apparently told every single person he's encountered since that we didn't open on time and that he "did good" in tracking down Mr. A to let him know. (No one has yet been able to figure out how Lennie knew where Mr. A works, nor where exactly in the building his office is located, but find it he did.)
With my luck, Mr. Crab was probably one of the folks who turned up at 1 and this little hour and a half incident will become transformed by Mr. Crab's legend-spinning abilities into The Week and a Half the library failed to open.
When I arrived, yesterday, Mrs. C said that people had been coming in all morning long and mentioning how we were not open immediately at 1 on Monday. Mr. B-Natural came in a couple of times to bring it up again. And people who hadn't even attempted to come to the library during its unfortunate extended closed hours dropped by to mention it, having heard about it from the mouth of Lennie, who has apparently told every single person he's encountered since that we didn't open on time and that he "did good" in tracking down Mr. A to let him know. (No one has yet been able to figure out how Lennie knew where Mr. A works, nor where exactly in the building his office is located, but find it he did.)
With my luck, Mr. Crab was probably one of the folks who turned up at 1 and this little hour and a half incident will become transformed by Mr. Crab's legend-spinning abilities into The Week and a Half the library failed to open.
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?!!!' "
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Bad case of the Crabs
Mr. Crab, third grumpiest old man in all the world, came in yesterday at the very end of my shift. As he scuttled over to the new nonfiction, a lady came up to check out then had difficulty finding her card. I was hoping she had left it at home so I could loudly explain to her the rules about patrons having to have their cards in order to check out and offering to make her a replacement card if she needed, just for his benefit. But then she found her card and my object lesson was no more.
Mr. Crab came up to the desk a minute later. I was hoping he was going to announce to me that he had lost his card again and then dare me to try and make him purchase another, but he didn't. Instead he wanted to know if we had the Wa11 Street J0urnal. Our early afternoon mail had already arrived, but I didn't recall seeing the Journal in the stack.
"Well, we get the Wa11 Street J0urnal, but I'm not sure if today's issue came."
"You do get it?" Mr. Crab asked in a tone of disbelief.
"Yes. We do. I'm just not sure if today's issue came in earlier."
"But you DO get it regularly?"
Have I stuttered?
"Yes. We get it regularly. Usually daily."
"Because two years ago you went six months without getting it at all."
I have no recollection of that but I knew better than to try and argue the point with Mr. Crab, who probably keeps a diary about it, dutifully recording each and every time he has visited us, whether or not we demanded his library card in order to check out books to him, the amount of shit measured by exact volume that he was able to give us over the matter, whether or not the Wa11 Street $%#&ing J0urnal was in its proper place on the newspaper rack and a small memo reminding him to be sure and threaten not to send in his annual $200 donation.
"I can't speak to that," I said. "All I'm saying is that while we do receive the Wa11 Street J0urnal regularly, we may or may not have received one today. If we did receive it, it is likely upstairs on the newspaper rack. If not, it's not."
"Six months! You went six months without getting it, two years ago," he said, his red legs clattering across the floor as he moved sideways toward the stairs.
Mrs. A returned just before I was to leave. I warned her who was in the building and that she should be prepared to receive shit about the Wa11 Street J0urnal's six month gap, two years ago.
"Oh, we did not!" she said, referring to the alleged 6 month absence. She explained that there had been a problem with our subscription and we didn't receive any J0urnals between November 04 and January of 2005.
"Did he ask about his card?" she said.
"Not yet."
Unfortunately, I had appointments elsewhere, otherwise I would gladly have stuck around off the clock to deal with the storm of feces that no doubt happened after I left.
Mr. Crab came up to the desk a minute later. I was hoping he was going to announce to me that he had lost his card again and then dare me to try and make him purchase another, but he didn't. Instead he wanted to know if we had the Wa11 Street J0urnal. Our early afternoon mail had already arrived, but I didn't recall seeing the Journal in the stack.
"Well, we get the Wa11 Street J0urnal, but I'm not sure if today's issue came."
"You do get it?" Mr. Crab asked in a tone of disbelief.
"Yes. We do. I'm just not sure if today's issue came in earlier."
"But you DO get it regularly?"
Have I stuttered?
"Yes. We get it regularly. Usually daily."
"Because two years ago you went six months without getting it at all."
I have no recollection of that but I knew better than to try and argue the point with Mr. Crab, who probably keeps a diary about it, dutifully recording each and every time he has visited us, whether or not we demanded his library card in order to check out books to him, the amount of shit measured by exact volume that he was able to give us over the matter, whether or not the Wa11 Street $%#&ing J0urnal was in its proper place on the newspaper rack and a small memo reminding him to be sure and threaten not to send in his annual $200 donation.
"I can't speak to that," I said. "All I'm saying is that while we do receive the Wa11 Street J0urnal regularly, we may or may not have received one today. If we did receive it, it is likely upstairs on the newspaper rack. If not, it's not."
"Six months! You went six months without getting it, two years ago," he said, his red legs clattering across the floor as he moved sideways toward the stairs.
Mrs. A returned just before I was to leave. I warned her who was in the building and that she should be prepared to receive shit about the Wa11 Street J0urnal's six month gap, two years ago.
"Oh, we did not!" she said, referring to the alleged 6 month absence. She explained that there had been a problem with our subscription and we didn't receive any J0urnals between November 04 and January of 2005.
"Did he ask about his card?" she said.
"Not yet."
Unfortunately, I had appointments elsewhere, otherwise I would gladly have stuck around off the clock to deal with the storm of feces that no doubt happened after I left.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Rumors & Returns
It's been kind of a slow week, though not exactly uneventful.
Crusty the Patron has returned. So has his crust and odor, though a bit less of both than we've seen in the past. He's been gone since October, but then again he'd disappeared for a couple of years before that, back when he was only known as Nearsighted Dave. My theory is that he has relatives, perhaps even a son, in the area, as we've seen him with a kid in the past. So far he hasn't given us near the trouble we've had from him before, though he's certainly not as clean as we'd appreciate.
"Crusty the Patron is leaving crust again," I told Mrs. A, scratching my own beard to demonstrate Crusty's dandruff harvesting habit.
"Is he on the computer now?" she asked.
"Well, some of him is."
The other major revelation of the week is a rumor picked up by Mrs. A, to the effect that Mr. Crab has "lost" his "liberry" card yet again. Mrs. A didn't elaborate where she heard the rumor, but I suspect he probably came in over the weekend and gave one of the greenhorns hell about it and they told her. She relayed the rumor to me knowing full well I will probably be the one manning the desk when he attempts to bully his way out of having to have it, knowing full well I, of all employees, won't back down for him. Frankly, I think he "lost" it on purpose just so he'd have the excuse to raise hell. Well, that and his never-ending quest to achieve his ultimate dream of being allowed into the legendary, yet still no less mythical, club of special patrons who don't have to have their cards to check out books. (We give `em free coffee too, which they may leisurely drink, without a lid, at the computers.) Mrs. A threatened to leave an extra dollar in the cash box, earmarked to pay for the man's replacement card, just so I wouldn't have to put him in the hurt locker.
"Oh, no," I said. "I believe our policy states you have to pay $5 for a second replacement card."
Still, I might just let her leave the dollar, just so I can gleefully inform Mr. Crab that he's now in dutch to us for a dollar, which he can pay back by increasing his much remarked upon annual $200 donation all the way to $201.
Crusty the Patron has returned. So has his crust and odor, though a bit less of both than we've seen in the past. He's been gone since October, but then again he'd disappeared for a couple of years before that, back when he was only known as Nearsighted Dave. My theory is that he has relatives, perhaps even a son, in the area, as we've seen him with a kid in the past. So far he hasn't given us near the trouble we've had from him before, though he's certainly not as clean as we'd appreciate.
"Crusty the Patron is leaving crust again," I told Mrs. A, scratching my own beard to demonstrate Crusty's dandruff harvesting habit.
"Is he on the computer now?" she asked.
"Well, some of him is."
The other major revelation of the week is a rumor picked up by Mrs. A, to the effect that Mr. Crab has "lost" his "liberry" card yet again. Mrs. A didn't elaborate where she heard the rumor, but I suspect he probably came in over the weekend and gave one of the greenhorns hell about it and they told her. She relayed the rumor to me knowing full well I will probably be the one manning the desk when he attempts to bully his way out of having to have it, knowing full well I, of all employees, won't back down for him. Frankly, I think he "lost" it on purpose just so he'd have the excuse to raise hell. Well, that and his never-ending quest to achieve his ultimate dream of being allowed into the legendary, yet still no less mythical, club of special patrons who don't have to have their cards to check out books. (We give `em free coffee too, which they may leisurely drink, without a lid, at the computers.) Mrs. A threatened to leave an extra dollar in the cash box, earmarked to pay for the man's replacement card, just so I wouldn't have to put him in the hurt locker.
"Oh, no," I said. "I believe our policy states you have to pay $5 for a second replacement card."
Still, I might just let her leave the dollar, just so I can gleefully inform Mr. Crab that he's now in dutch to us for a dollar, which he can pay back by increasing his much remarked upon annual $200 donation all the way to $201.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Encroaching on Second
Mr. Crab, third grumpiest old man in all the world, was in yesterday. He left the lights of his vehicle on despite its patented "Hey, Jerkweed, Your Lights Are On!" *bing*bing*bing*
automatic alarm. I didn't know any of that, though, until a succession
of patrons came in to tell me about it. Still, this is Mr. Crab we're
talking about, so I wasn't in any big hurry to let him know. Nearly an
hour later, another patron mentioned the lights and alarm, so I finally
decided to go tell Mr. Crab, just so people would leave me alone about
it.
On his way out the door to go check on his vehicle, Mr. Crab dropped a book onto the circ desk, saying, "I'll be back for that in a minute." True to his word, he returned a minute later. By then, I was was busy helping another patron, so I didn't notice immediately that Mr. Crab had come up to the desk, picked up his still uncheckedout book and was headed for the door until he was nearly there. It was exactly as if he thought I had somehow magically checked that book out to him without the benefit of his having first supplied his library card. (And this, I'm certain, is Mr. Crab's greatest fantasy.)
"Excuse me," I called. "Excuse me?!" I called again. Mr. Crab stopped, scuttled around and gave me a dirty look, as if to say, What?
"I didn't check that out to you, yet," I said.
"What?"
"I haven't checked that book out to you, yet."
Mr. Crab grumbled something under his breath and returned to the desk to wait his turn. When I finished with the previous patron (coincidentally, the same lady he nearly ran over during my last encounter with him) he stepped up to the desk, set the book down and, as in accordance with tradition, stood there as though the next move were somehow mine.
"I'll just need your library card," I said.
Mr. Crab didn't actually make any negative comment on my asking him for his card, (you know, like mentioning how he was going to deprive us of his annual $200 donation for making him fish it out), but his expression said volumes about how much he really really wanted to and how much I was crushing his fantasy of not having to have it to check things out, (being as how, of course, he's such a major donor).
As he was digging in his wallet, he gestured toward our circ-computer and said, "You know, when people have a library card here, there ought to be something you could just click there that would tell you they have a library card without them having to tear up their wallet."
I had the sudden and nearly overwhelming urge to say, "Oh, but, sir, we DO have something we can click to tell us whether or not you have a patron record with us. It's called A LIBRARY CARD!!!! Whether or not you `tear up' your wallet in retrieving it is entirely your business, but retrieve it you shall, you cantankerous, great, honking asspipe."
I don't know how I managed it, but my lips remained tightly tightly sealed in a rigor mortis-like smile.
Mr. Crab regarded me for a long moment before saying, "No comment?"
I shook my head silently, in the negative, smiling like a maniac. Mr. Crab nodded back and scuttled out the door.
On his way out the door to go check on his vehicle, Mr. Crab dropped a book onto the circ desk, saying, "I'll be back for that in a minute." True to his word, he returned a minute later. By then, I was was busy helping another patron, so I didn't notice immediately that Mr. Crab had come up to the desk, picked up his still uncheckedout book and was headed for the door until he was nearly there. It was exactly as if he thought I had somehow magically checked that book out to him without the benefit of his having first supplied his library card. (And this, I'm certain, is Mr. Crab's greatest fantasy.)
"Excuse me," I called. "Excuse me?!" I called again. Mr. Crab stopped, scuttled around and gave me a dirty look, as if to say, What?
"I didn't check that out to you, yet," I said.
"What?"
"I haven't checked that book out to you, yet."
Mr. Crab grumbled something under his breath and returned to the desk to wait his turn. When I finished with the previous patron (coincidentally, the same lady he nearly ran over during my last encounter with him) he stepped up to the desk, set the book down and, as in accordance with tradition, stood there as though the next move were somehow mine.
"I'll just need your library card," I said.
Mr. Crab didn't actually make any negative comment on my asking him for his card, (you know, like mentioning how he was going to deprive us of his annual $200 donation for making him fish it out), but his expression said volumes about how much he really really wanted to and how much I was crushing his fantasy of not having to have it to check things out, (being as how, of course, he's such a major donor).
As he was digging in his wallet, he gestured toward our circ-computer and said, "You know, when people have a library card here, there ought to be something you could just click there that would tell you they have a library card without them having to tear up their wallet."
I had the sudden and nearly overwhelming urge to say, "Oh, but, sir, we DO have something we can click to tell us whether or not you have a patron record with us. It's called A LIBRARY CARD!!!! Whether or not you `tear up' your wallet in retrieving it is entirely your business, but retrieve it you shall, you cantankerous, great, honking asspipe."
I don't know how I managed it, but my lips remained tightly tightly sealed in a rigor mortis-like smile.
Mr. Crab regarded me for a long moment before saying, "No comment?"
I shook my head silently, in the negative, smiling like a maniac. Mr. Crab nodded back and scuttled out the door.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Crab's Complaint
I was working the desk during story hour, today, when Mr. Crab,
third grumpiest old man in all the world, habitual forgetter of his
"liberry" card, and a man quite unafraid to mention that he's a $200
annual "liberry" donor, scuttled in.
I was glad he visited during story hour, because it meant Mrs. B and Mrs. C were otherwise engaged. So when Mr. Crab came to the desk with books to check out and then didn't have his "liberry" card, he would have to deal with me. Last time, and despite all good sense otherwise, Mrs. B let him get away with checking the books out on her card. This would not be happening on my watch. I imagined he'd wail and gnash and threaten to withhold his $200 annual donation from us, as usual, but it would do him no good. I would quote "liberry" consortium policy to him, shrug my shoulders in mock sympathy and then offer to hold his books at the desk until such a time as he could remember to bring his library card when setting out to come to the library.
While waiting for him to do this, there was a sudden rush on our computers, causing me to dash to and from the circ desk to sign people on and boot other people off. Soon enough, I saw Mr. Crab scuttling toward the desk to check out, but I was already in mid-dash and decided he could wait a whole 30 seconds until I returned. On my way out of the room, I spied Kanji the Kid coming in the front door.
When, at last, I returned to the circ desk both Kanji and Mr. Crab were waiting there. Kanji was standing nearest our computer sign in sheet, so I told him it would be a while before we had a computer, as they were all quite full.
"Actually, I don't need a computer. I need to renew some books I have out," Kanji said. He nodded toward the circulation desk computer, as though I should fire it right up.
"Do you have your library card?" I asked.
"No."
Ah ha, I thought. Just the situation Mr. Crab was waiting for. Would I treat anyone else differently than him? In this test, though, I would deny Kanji any such service, right in Mr. Crab's face, so he would know what he had coming to him before he tried to pull the same trick.
"That's why I called home and got my number," Kanji finished. He passed me a little yellow slip of paper with his card number written out.
"Ah. Very good, then," I said. I typed in his number, renewed his books and Kanji happily lumbered out of the building.
When I looked up at Mr. Crab, I expected to find him pre-surly for my convenience. But he just slid his books at me and then passed me his "liberry" card without a fight, or even his usual lengthy search of his overstuffed wallet, or his usual threats to withhold donations should he not find it and then be denied service. As I began checking his books out, our desk-side surl-o-meter began to ping.
"Rude!" Mr. Crab griped. "That young man was rude, shoving his way to the desk, like that, ahead of other people. Rude." He then gave me an expectant look, as though waiting for me to agree with him or otherwise give him a fight. I started to explain that Kanji didn't mean to be rude; he just has Aspergers. Then I decided that Mr. Crab wasn't owed any explanation, so I just shrugged. Mr. Crab took his books and made for the door, nearly plowing into a lady patron in his haste to exit.
"He's one to talk about rude," the patron said after Mr. Crab had left. "He nearly ran over me and didn't even say `excuse me.'"
I started to explain that Mr. Crab didn't mean to be rude; he's just an asshole. But I decided against it, so I just shrugged.
I was glad he visited during story hour, because it meant Mrs. B and Mrs. C were otherwise engaged. So when Mr. Crab came to the desk with books to check out and then didn't have his "liberry" card, he would have to deal with me. Last time, and despite all good sense otherwise, Mrs. B let him get away with checking the books out on her card. This would not be happening on my watch. I imagined he'd wail and gnash and threaten to withhold his $200 annual donation from us, as usual, but it would do him no good. I would quote "liberry" consortium policy to him, shrug my shoulders in mock sympathy and then offer to hold his books at the desk until such a time as he could remember to bring his library card when setting out to come to the library.
While waiting for him to do this, there was a sudden rush on our computers, causing me to dash to and from the circ desk to sign people on and boot other people off. Soon enough, I saw Mr. Crab scuttling toward the desk to check out, but I was already in mid-dash and decided he could wait a whole 30 seconds until I returned. On my way out of the room, I spied Kanji the Kid coming in the front door.
When, at last, I returned to the circ desk both Kanji and Mr. Crab were waiting there. Kanji was standing nearest our computer sign in sheet, so I told him it would be a while before we had a computer, as they were all quite full.
"Actually, I don't need a computer. I need to renew some books I have out," Kanji said. He nodded toward the circulation desk computer, as though I should fire it right up.
"Do you have your library card?" I asked.
"No."
Ah ha, I thought. Just the situation Mr. Crab was waiting for. Would I treat anyone else differently than him? In this test, though, I would deny Kanji any such service, right in Mr. Crab's face, so he would know what he had coming to him before he tried to pull the same trick.
"That's why I called home and got my number," Kanji finished. He passed me a little yellow slip of paper with his card number written out.
"Ah. Very good, then," I said. I typed in his number, renewed his books and Kanji happily lumbered out of the building.
When I looked up at Mr. Crab, I expected to find him pre-surly for my convenience. But he just slid his books at me and then passed me his "liberry" card without a fight, or even his usual lengthy search of his overstuffed wallet, or his usual threats to withhold donations should he not find it and then be denied service. As I began checking his books out, our desk-side surl-o-meter began to ping.
"Rude!" Mr. Crab griped. "That young man was rude, shoving his way to the desk, like that, ahead of other people. Rude." He then gave me an expectant look, as though waiting for me to agree with him or otherwise give him a fight. I started to explain that Kanji didn't mean to be rude; he just has Aspergers. Then I decided that Mr. Crab wasn't owed any explanation, so I just shrugged. Mr. Crab took his books and made for the door, nearly plowing into a lady patron in his haste to exit.
"He's one to talk about rude," the patron said after Mr. Crab had left. "He nearly ran over me and didn't even say `excuse me.'"
I started to explain that Mr. Crab didn't mean to be rude; he's just an asshole. But I decided against it, so I just shrugged.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
First Day Back
Today was my first day back in the "liberry" saddle following our two-week trip to Guatemala and El Salvador. It was largely
uneventful as far as the usual "liberry" madness goes, but eventful in
other respects. I popped in at 1p, laden with souvenirs for the library
staff. Mrs. C and Mrs. B were the only ones in the front room, and they
immediately asked how my trip went.
"Fantastic!" I said.
"I've got big news too," Mrs. C whispered.
"Yeah?"
She nodded furiously, then whispered, "I'm expecting."
This is huge news for Mrs. C. She and Mr. C have been trying to have a child for the past year and it's not been a fun time. Well, I'm sure it's been a fun time in some respects, but the results have not been what they've wanted. So congrats to Mr. and Mrs. C!
The staff, of course, had plenty of questions concerning my trip. Unfortunately, giving any kind of overview of a two-week mission trip in a short period of time is a very difficult thing to do. We had such an amazing time, saw and heard of such harrowing and heart-warming things and had so many mini-adventures in the process that you can't really Cliff's Notes it effectively. But I gave them a few highlights and lowlights. And once Mrs. A and Mrs. J came downstairs too, I gave everyone their souvenirs.
I bought five colorful pottery sun-faces at an Indian market in Antigua. They're essentially the same little ornamental sculpture, painted in different shades. Unfortunately, three of them were slightly chipped in a horribly true Continental Airlines-related incident at the Houston International Airport on the way home. (The chipping was actually getting off light in this case, as Ashley had part of a much larger pottery piece broken during the same incident.) Still, these were only chipped on the edges of a couple of the sun rays, so they’re still nice to display. I apologized for bringing them broken pottery, but gave them over anyway.
I also brought them each their own bag of fried plantain chips. These are plantains sliced lengthwise, salted and fried like potato chips. They’re just some of the most tasty fried chips you could ever want, though I doubt they are much better for you than potato chips. Sweet and salty all at once, they’re just tasty and good. Everyone broke open their bags and began sampling.
I asked what sort of incidents had occurred at the library in my absence? I fully expected them to relate something that I would fully regret having missed—like Chester and Parka having a shootout in the parking lot or something. Nope. The only notable incident they could recall was Mr. Stanky putting in an appearance yesterday and being particularly stinky even for him.
“You know,” I began, “I smelled a pretty wide array of B.O. when I was in Guatemala, but none of it came anywhere close to touching his.”
The only other possible incident was reported on our circ-desk note-pad. Our weekender, Miss K, noted that one of our long-time patrons, Mr. Crab, (who is also a long-time library donor and not afraid to let you know that should anything not go quite his way) had been in on Saturday and was completely pissed off that he couldn't use his old library card from the old nearly year-gone VTLS system. Mind you, Mr. Crab has a new library card on the new nearly year-old system, but he still carries his old card with him and is insulted that he can't use it. Miss K reported that Mr. Crab said he thought the way we had set up the new system was done in an unintelligent fashion and he insisted that we put his old barcode number from his old card in the new patron record so he could use it instead of his new card. I’m still not entirely sure what this man’s beef truly is, but even on his best days Mr. Crab could give Mr. B-Natural and Mr. Smiley a run for their Grumpiest and Second Grumpiest Old Man in all the World titles. Ms. K reported that she wasn’t sure what to do so she added the man’s old barcode to his patron record in addition to his new one just to shut him up. She indicated which barcode we should delete in case this was wrong. Mrs. A then had a note at the end of the account telling us to delete the old barcode.
I'm somehow sure this won't be the end of it.
"Fantastic!" I said.
"I've got big news too," Mrs. C whispered.
"Yeah?"
She nodded furiously, then whispered, "I'm expecting."
This is huge news for Mrs. C. She and Mr. C have been trying to have a child for the past year and it's not been a fun time. Well, I'm sure it's been a fun time in some respects, but the results have not been what they've wanted. So congrats to Mr. and Mrs. C!
The staff, of course, had plenty of questions concerning my trip. Unfortunately, giving any kind of overview of a two-week mission trip in a short period of time is a very difficult thing to do. We had such an amazing time, saw and heard of such harrowing and heart-warming things and had so many mini-adventures in the process that you can't really Cliff's Notes it effectively. But I gave them a few highlights and lowlights. And once Mrs. A and Mrs. J came downstairs too, I gave everyone their souvenirs.
I bought five colorful pottery sun-faces at an Indian market in Antigua. They're essentially the same little ornamental sculpture, painted in different shades. Unfortunately, three of them were slightly chipped in a horribly true Continental Airlines-related incident at the Houston International Airport on the way home. (The chipping was actually getting off light in this case, as Ashley had part of a much larger pottery piece broken during the same incident.) Still, these were only chipped on the edges of a couple of the sun rays, so they’re still nice to display. I apologized for bringing them broken pottery, but gave them over anyway.
I also brought them each their own bag of fried plantain chips. These are plantains sliced lengthwise, salted and fried like potato chips. They’re just some of the most tasty fried chips you could ever want, though I doubt they are much better for you than potato chips. Sweet and salty all at once, they’re just tasty and good. Everyone broke open their bags and began sampling.
I asked what sort of incidents had occurred at the library in my absence? I fully expected them to relate something that I would fully regret having missed—like Chester and Parka having a shootout in the parking lot or something. Nope. The only notable incident they could recall was Mr. Stanky putting in an appearance yesterday and being particularly stinky even for him.
“You know,” I began, “I smelled a pretty wide array of B.O. when I was in Guatemala, but none of it came anywhere close to touching his.”
The only other possible incident was reported on our circ-desk note-pad. Our weekender, Miss K, noted that one of our long-time patrons, Mr. Crab, (who is also a long-time library donor and not afraid to let you know that should anything not go quite his way) had been in on Saturday and was completely pissed off that he couldn't use his old library card from the old nearly year-gone VTLS system. Mind you, Mr. Crab has a new library card on the new nearly year-old system, but he still carries his old card with him and is insulted that he can't use it. Miss K reported that Mr. Crab said he thought the way we had set up the new system was done in an unintelligent fashion and he insisted that we put his old barcode number from his old card in the new patron record so he could use it instead of his new card. I’m still not entirely sure what this man’s beef truly is, but even on his best days Mr. Crab could give Mr. B-Natural and Mr. Smiley a run for their Grumpiest and Second Grumpiest Old Man in all the World titles. Ms. K reported that she wasn’t sure what to do so she added the man’s old barcode to his patron record in addition to his new one just to shut him up. She indicated which barcode we should delete in case this was wrong. Mrs. A then had a note at the end of the account telling us to delete the old barcode.
I'm somehow sure this won't be the end of it.
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