"You missed all the fun on Friday," Ms. M told me upon my arrival for work Monday. "We had a fight."
"A fight?!" I said, practically salivating that fisticuffs were engaged in and wondering what on earth could have caused a "liberry" throw down. Maybe someone finally hit Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine in the mouth? Maybe Parka came back and got into a fight with Mr. Creepy Guy over which one of them was rightfully the skeeveist? Maybe there was some sort of Mr. Stanky and Bear Piss Man Vs. the Sweatiest Woman in all the Land and Mr. Stankier tag-team stank off?
"What happened? What happened?" I asked.
Ms. M shrugged. "I don't know," she said.
"You... you don't know?"
"Nope."
Perhaps after seeing my confused expression, Ms. M then explained that on Friday, while everyone else was out at lunch and she was running things solo, there had been two adult women in the library who apparently got into some sort of intense disagreement with one another and decided to take it outside. Evidently it was the least disruptive intense disagreement in the history of such things, because despite the fact that they and Ms. M were all essentially in the same room, Ms. M's first and only clue that anything was amiss came when a police officer entered the building twenty minutes later to inquire what Ms. M might have witnessed of the fight.
"There was a fight?" she reportedly asked.
"Yeah. In the parking lot. You didn't see it?" the no doubt surprised officer reportedly then said. After Ms. M admitted her cluelessness, he went on to say that, according to the ladies themselves, they'd started out arguing in the library and then resolved to take their argument outside and transition it into one of a more physical nature. Ms. M told the officer that she never heard any raised voices, nor saw any other indication that anyone was unhappy with anyone else inside the library or out. It was all news to her. The officer took her statement and went away.
Later in the day, the husband of one of the ladies phoned the library and spoke to Ms. M to apologize on behalf of his wife for causing such a ruckus. Ms. M assured him it was fine and that she hadn't actually noticed any of it, had no idea what it was about and didn't need to know.
This, of course, just pissed the rest of us right off, cause if there's going to be fighting in the "liberry" we damn well want to A) see it for ourselves, or B) get all the juicy details about it otherwise. Ms. M had clearly fallen down in her duties as a member of the "Liberry" Clubhouse Junior Detectives and/or "Liberry" Junior Gossip-Observers League.
Mrs. A has now vowed to use her connections in the police department to learn the details, but so far everyone is keeping mum.
Showing posts with label Mr. Creepy Guy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mr. Creepy Guy. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Friday, October 05, 2007
Actual Creepy Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #96
My hope that we'd not see Mr. Creepy Guy for another 20 years lasted only a week. Holy shit, is that guy creepy! And this time, I got to see some of it first hand.
There were already bad omens of his return a day or two back when I heard Mrs. B discussing Mr. Creepy Guy with Mrs. A. Okay, first off—and I cannot stress this enough—if there's one basic rule I've learned when it comes to creepy assed patrons and keeping them away, it's: DON'T SAY THEIR NAME, IT ONLY GIVES THEM POWER!!! Time after time, and example after example, I've seen unsavory and unwanted patrons magically appear at the sound of their own name. This particular discussion of Mr. Creepy Guy arose because of issues over his permanent address on his patron record. It seems he doesn't have one and, much as Mrs. A predicted, truly is living in his car. Still, he had a valid card issued by a neighboring branch, so we apparently let him check out a book anyway.
Today he appeared in a puff of brylcream fumes to return his book. As he passed it to me to check in, he was all genial smiles and actually seemed, at first, to be a fairly normal and not necessarily creepy soul. I'd assumed his thinning mane of slicked hair was dyed due to its raven-black sheen. However, if you're living out of your car, can you really afford Just for Men? Maybe I'm wrong on that point.
Mr. Creepy Guy asked if there was a pay phone in the building. There is not. Generally, we let patrons use our desk phone if it's just a short call, but I didn't want him using our phone, so I suggested a pay phone down the street. Mr. Creepy Guy then asked if he might use our desk phone if he paid for his call. I had to then admit that, yes, this was possible, as long as it was a local call. While I was saying this, though, the phone rang, Mrs. B answered it then passed the receiver to Mrs. A, who happened behind the desk at that moment. I told Mrs. B that Mr. Creepy Guy needed to use the phone. And while I didn't spell it out, I was pretty sure the indication that Mr. Creepy Guy should have to wait his turn and use the desk phone only after Mrs. A was finished with it went without saying. Apparently, though, it did not and I should have spelled it out. I was, however, busy trying to find an excuse to get away from the desk myself and grabbed some books to go shelve.
I returned from shelving, less than a minute later, to see that Mrs. A was off the phone but Mr. Creepy Guy was nowhere to be seen. At first I assumed he'd left or gone to the can. Then I heard his voice, looked around the corner and saw him in the staff workroom, seated at Mrs. B's desk, yacking away on her extention.
ME— (In low voice to Mrs. A) Why is MR. CREEPY GUY in the staff workroom?
MRS. A— I don't know. (Turns to Mrs. B) Why is MR. CREEPY GUY in the staff workroom?
MRS. B— (Looks deservedly guilty) Well... you were on the phone... so I told him he could use... my phone.
(Long pause)
ME— That's not a good idea. (Pause) At all.
MRS. A— No. It's not a good idea at all. You'd better watch him like a hawk. He's a con-man and he'll steal us blind.
ME— (Looking at Mrs. B with hurt expression) My stuff's in there.
Immediately, I went into the workroom and made my presence known. It sounded as though Mr. Creepy Guy was trying to confirm that someone had received a change of address request from him, switching from General Delivery to a P.O. box. As I pretended to do something with my computer, I glanced down and noticed that the top page of my Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist note cube atop my desk contained the exact description of Mr. Creepy Guy's woody station wagon as well as his full real name. I'd been standing in that very spot almost exactly one week before, taking down the description while scoping out his car through the window. And I'd written his real name at the bottom of it just in case he shot me dead during my proposed attempt to sneak out and jot down his license plate number. Good thing Mrs. B had put him at her desk instead of mine. I removed the page and put it in my pocket.
Mr. Creepy Guy finished up his call and stood up. He thanked me for the use of the phone and said he'd pay us 50 cents, as that's what it would have cost him at a pay phone. Not making eye contact with him, I told him he didn't need to do that, but he insisted, so I told him he could pay Mrs. B.
MR. CREEPY GUY— What's your name?
(Pause)
ME— JUICE.
(Why couldn't I have just said, "Cecil"?)
MR. CREEPY GUY— Good to meet you, JUICE.
And there followed another pause, but I refused to turn away from my screen for fear of being offered a paw to shake.
Mr. Creepy Guy left the room, returned to the proper side of the circ desk and paid Mrs. B his 50 cents. What I next heard him say, however, I was scarcely able to believe, even while hearing it with my very own ears.
MR. CREEPY GUY— (To Mrs. B) What's wrong with you?
MRS. B— What do you mean?
MR. CREEPY GUY— Well, yesterday you looked beautiful...
(Wait for it... WAIT FOR IT...)
MR. CREEPY GUY— ...but today you look plum gorgeous.
(And the world shudders at the concentrated power of his skeeviness.)
MRS. B— I think you need to get your eyes checked.
Mr. Creepy Guy ended the above exchange by telling us all to have a nice day. He then went and fell asleep in a comfy chair by the window, where he snoozed for nearly a full hour. We don't have any policy against sleeping in the library, cause it so rarely comes up. However, if we'd had a policy against it, I don't think any of us would have enforced it then. I'd much rather have him asleep and quiet than awake and chatty.
There were already bad omens of his return a day or two back when I heard Mrs. B discussing Mr. Creepy Guy with Mrs. A. Okay, first off—and I cannot stress this enough—if there's one basic rule I've learned when it comes to creepy assed patrons and keeping them away, it's: DON'T SAY THEIR NAME, IT ONLY GIVES THEM POWER!!! Time after time, and example after example, I've seen unsavory and unwanted patrons magically appear at the sound of their own name. This particular discussion of Mr. Creepy Guy arose because of issues over his permanent address on his patron record. It seems he doesn't have one and, much as Mrs. A predicted, truly is living in his car. Still, he had a valid card issued by a neighboring branch, so we apparently let him check out a book anyway.
Today he appeared in a puff of brylcream fumes to return his book. As he passed it to me to check in, he was all genial smiles and actually seemed, at first, to be a fairly normal and not necessarily creepy soul. I'd assumed his thinning mane of slicked hair was dyed due to its raven-black sheen. However, if you're living out of your car, can you really afford Just for Men? Maybe I'm wrong on that point.
Mr. Creepy Guy asked if there was a pay phone in the building. There is not. Generally, we let patrons use our desk phone if it's just a short call, but I didn't want him using our phone, so I suggested a pay phone down the street. Mr. Creepy Guy then asked if he might use our desk phone if he paid for his call. I had to then admit that, yes, this was possible, as long as it was a local call. While I was saying this, though, the phone rang, Mrs. B answered it then passed the receiver to Mrs. A, who happened behind the desk at that moment. I told Mrs. B that Mr. Creepy Guy needed to use the phone. And while I didn't spell it out, I was pretty sure the indication that Mr. Creepy Guy should have to wait his turn and use the desk phone only after Mrs. A was finished with it went without saying. Apparently, though, it did not and I should have spelled it out. I was, however, busy trying to find an excuse to get away from the desk myself and grabbed some books to go shelve.
I returned from shelving, less than a minute later, to see that Mrs. A was off the phone but Mr. Creepy Guy was nowhere to be seen. At first I assumed he'd left or gone to the can. Then I heard his voice, looked around the corner and saw him in the staff workroom, seated at Mrs. B's desk, yacking away on her extention.
ME— (In low voice to Mrs. A) Why is MR. CREEPY GUY in the staff workroom?
MRS. A— I don't know. (Turns to Mrs. B) Why is MR. CREEPY GUY in the staff workroom?
MRS. B— (Looks deservedly guilty) Well... you were on the phone... so I told him he could use... my phone.
(Long pause)
ME— That's not a good idea. (Pause) At all.
MRS. A— No. It's not a good idea at all. You'd better watch him like a hawk. He's a con-man and he'll steal us blind.
ME— (Looking at Mrs. B with hurt expression) My stuff's in there.
Immediately, I went into the workroom and made my presence known. It sounded as though Mr. Creepy Guy was trying to confirm that someone had received a change of address request from him, switching from General Delivery to a P.O. box. As I pretended to do something with my computer, I glanced down and noticed that the top page of my Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist note cube atop my desk contained the exact description of Mr. Creepy Guy's woody station wagon as well as his full real name. I'd been standing in that very spot almost exactly one week before, taking down the description while scoping out his car through the window. And I'd written his real name at the bottom of it just in case he shot me dead during my proposed attempt to sneak out and jot down his license plate number. Good thing Mrs. B had put him at her desk instead of mine. I removed the page and put it in my pocket.
Mr. Creepy Guy finished up his call and stood up. He thanked me for the use of the phone and said he'd pay us 50 cents, as that's what it would have cost him at a pay phone. Not making eye contact with him, I told him he didn't need to do that, but he insisted, so I told him he could pay Mrs. B.
MR. CREEPY GUY— What's your name?
(Pause)
ME— JUICE.
(Why couldn't I have just said, "Cecil"?)
MR. CREEPY GUY— Good to meet you, JUICE.
And there followed another pause, but I refused to turn away from my screen for fear of being offered a paw to shake.
Mr. Creepy Guy left the room, returned to the proper side of the circ desk and paid Mrs. B his 50 cents. What I next heard him say, however, I was scarcely able to believe, even while hearing it with my very own ears.
MR. CREEPY GUY— (To Mrs. B) What's wrong with you?
MRS. B— What do you mean?
MR. CREEPY GUY— Well, yesterday you looked beautiful...
(Wait for it... WAIT FOR IT...)
MR. CREEPY GUY— ...but today you look plum gorgeous.
(And the world shudders at the concentrated power of his skeeviness.)
MRS. B— I think you need to get your eyes checked.
Mr. Creepy Guy ended the above exchange by telling us all to have a nice day. He then went and fell asleep in a comfy chair by the window, where he snoozed for nearly a full hour. We don't have any policy against sleeping in the library, cause it so rarely comes up. However, if we'd had a policy against it, I don't think any of us would have enforced it then. I'd much rather have him asleep and quiet than awake and chatty.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Mr. Creepy Guy
While walking across the parking lot on my way in to work, I noticed a man seated at the drivers seat of a woody station wagon, smoking a cigarette through its open door. The guy had backed his car into the parking space so that the rear of the woody was practically touching the embankment beyond the space itself. The guy was wearing some sort of uniform top, the kind with the name embroidered on the breast. I didn't see what company it was for. I figured he was probably just not a "liberry" kind of guy and was waiting for someone else, perhaps a wife, to finish browsing.
An hour later, while talking to Mrs. B, Mrs. J came up and pointed out the window.
"You see that man in that old beat up car out there?"
I looked out and was surprised to see that the rusted woody station wagon was still there, its driver still smoking behind the wheel. Mrs. J then said that she'd had an encounter with the man in the library that morning. He'd been sitting at one of our tables when Mrs. J happened to walk by him. The man stopped her and asked what her name was, so she told him. He told her that he remembered her. Then he grinned real big and added, "I just love how you talk. I just love to hear it."
In his defense, Mrs. J does have a distinctive, countryfied way of speech about her, but this didn't stop her from being creeped out by him. She quickly went back to her shelving. Later on, though, she noticed him staring at her and when he caught her eye he started grinning again in a manner she found most unsettling.
I found this to be pretty creepy too and my paranoid nature began to take up the threads of the story in my mind. The hood of the guy's car was pointed almost directly at the front doors of the "liberry," where he'd have the vantage point for watching people come and go. What if he was out there waiting for Mrs. J to leave for the day so he could follow her home? Sure, he would have had no idea she got off work at 2, but the fact that he was still there at all might mean he was willing to wait however long it took.
"Hey, if you need someone to walk you to your car, I'll do it," I told her. Mrs. J said she just might. Then I realized how awful I would feel if after I'd walked her to her car, Mr. Creepy Guy just started his engine and followed right behind her. How could I keep him from doing that? Fake a seizure and jump on his hood?
Mrs. B was thinking along the same lines, and told Mrs. J, "I could go out and start my car first, drive in front of his then pretend like I forgot something and just park it there while I searched, letting you get away."
"Yeah, that would work!" I said.
We then stood there, staring out the window at Mr. Creepy Guy, wondering what he was up to. I thought about going out there and writing down his license number. It would be hard to do this subtly, as he was parked with his license facing away. I'd have to climb the hill behind him in order to see the back end of his car at all and he's surely see me doing that. I didn't really care if he saw me, though, because it would at least send the message to him that we were keeping an eye on him.
Before attempting this, I thought it might be best to alert the boss. I went to Mrs. A's office and told her there was a creepy dude out in the parking lot.
"Yeah, that's MR. CREEPY GUY," she said, using his real name.
"You know him?"
"He's a con man and a creep and you should never take your eyes off him." The tale she then spun was of a patron who is essentially an old rogue from back in the early `80s, when Mrs. A was just a "liberry" ass. herself. At the time, Mr. Creepy Guy used to come in and try and sweet talk the female staff, thinking himself as charming as a James Garner type, or—dare he think it—a Burt Reynolds type, but failing miserably at it. In addition to being a prototypical-Red Alert, dude was also a full participant in any get-rich-quick or pyramid scheme of the day and would attempt to rope others in as well. And—extra-creepy bit here—at one point Mr. Creepy Guy was an official suspect in a local murder but managed to avoid being charged due to lack of evidence.
I told Mrs. A that he had been eyeing Mrs. J earlier and that we were trying to find a way to sneak her out to her car without him following her home.
"Oh, he's not waiting for MRS. J," she said. Mrs. A explained that Mr. Creepy Guy tends to prefer girls far younger than Mrs. J's sexagenarian status. He is also well known for sitting in his car in front of area establishments, smoking for hours at a time. She wasn't worried. Still, if Mr. Creepy Guy needed defeating, Mrs. A was glad to help out. She and Mrs. B devised a plan wherein the two of them would go outside together and walk out to Mrs. J's car. Meanwhile, Mrs. J herself would sneak downstairs and out the back door. Mrs. B would start Mrs. J's car and drive around back out of sight of Mr. Creepy Guy, where Mrs. J would then take the wheel and head home unseen.
It was brilliant and it worked like a charm.
Mrs. B snuck back in and when Mrs. A returned she reported that Mr. Creepy Guy had been eating lunch in his car.
"He probably lives in his car," she said.
Half an hour later, Mr. Creepy Guy entered the library. He was indeed wearing a uniform shirt with "Mr. Creepy Guy" embroidered on the front, only using the letters of his real name. He had the slicked back, thinning, dyed semi-pompadour of a Sha Na Na auditions reject. As I watched, he did a walk through from one end of the building to the other. I can't say for sure, of course, but I got the impression he was looking for Mrs. J. Not finding her, he used our restroom, left the building and drove away.
I sure hope it's another 20 years before we see any more of this asshole.
An hour later, while talking to Mrs. B, Mrs. J came up and pointed out the window.
"You see that man in that old beat up car out there?"
I looked out and was surprised to see that the rusted woody station wagon was still there, its driver still smoking behind the wheel. Mrs. J then said that she'd had an encounter with the man in the library that morning. He'd been sitting at one of our tables when Mrs. J happened to walk by him. The man stopped her and asked what her name was, so she told him. He told her that he remembered her. Then he grinned real big and added, "I just love how you talk. I just love to hear it."
In his defense, Mrs. J does have a distinctive, countryfied way of speech about her, but this didn't stop her from being creeped out by him. She quickly went back to her shelving. Later on, though, she noticed him staring at her and when he caught her eye he started grinning again in a manner she found most unsettling.
I found this to be pretty creepy too and my paranoid nature began to take up the threads of the story in my mind. The hood of the guy's car was pointed almost directly at the front doors of the "liberry," where he'd have the vantage point for watching people come and go. What if he was out there waiting for Mrs. J to leave for the day so he could follow her home? Sure, he would have had no idea she got off work at 2, but the fact that he was still there at all might mean he was willing to wait however long it took.
"Hey, if you need someone to walk you to your car, I'll do it," I told her. Mrs. J said she just might. Then I realized how awful I would feel if after I'd walked her to her car, Mr. Creepy Guy just started his engine and followed right behind her. How could I keep him from doing that? Fake a seizure and jump on his hood?
Mrs. B was thinking along the same lines, and told Mrs. J, "I could go out and start my car first, drive in front of his then pretend like I forgot something and just park it there while I searched, letting you get away."
"Yeah, that would work!" I said.
We then stood there, staring out the window at Mr. Creepy Guy, wondering what he was up to. I thought about going out there and writing down his license number. It would be hard to do this subtly, as he was parked with his license facing away. I'd have to climb the hill behind him in order to see the back end of his car at all and he's surely see me doing that. I didn't really care if he saw me, though, because it would at least send the message to him that we were keeping an eye on him.
Before attempting this, I thought it might be best to alert the boss. I went to Mrs. A's office and told her there was a creepy dude out in the parking lot.
"Yeah, that's MR. CREEPY GUY," she said, using his real name.
"You know him?"
"He's a con man and a creep and you should never take your eyes off him." The tale she then spun was of a patron who is essentially an old rogue from back in the early `80s, when Mrs. A was just a "liberry" ass. herself. At the time, Mr. Creepy Guy used to come in and try and sweet talk the female staff, thinking himself as charming as a James Garner type, or—dare he think it—a Burt Reynolds type, but failing miserably at it. In addition to being a prototypical-Red Alert, dude was also a full participant in any get-rich-quick or pyramid scheme of the day and would attempt to rope others in as well. And—extra-creepy bit here—at one point Mr. Creepy Guy was an official suspect in a local murder but managed to avoid being charged due to lack of evidence.
I told Mrs. A that he had been eyeing Mrs. J earlier and that we were trying to find a way to sneak her out to her car without him following her home.
"Oh, he's not waiting for MRS. J," she said. Mrs. A explained that Mr. Creepy Guy tends to prefer girls far younger than Mrs. J's sexagenarian status. He is also well known for sitting in his car in front of area establishments, smoking for hours at a time. She wasn't worried. Still, if Mr. Creepy Guy needed defeating, Mrs. A was glad to help out. She and Mrs. B devised a plan wherein the two of them would go outside together and walk out to Mrs. J's car. Meanwhile, Mrs. J herself would sneak downstairs and out the back door. Mrs. B would start Mrs. J's car and drive around back out of sight of Mr. Creepy Guy, where Mrs. J would then take the wheel and head home unseen.
It was brilliant and it worked like a charm.
Mrs. B snuck back in and when Mrs. A returned she reported that Mr. Creepy Guy had been eating lunch in his car.
"He probably lives in his car," she said.
Half an hour later, Mr. Creepy Guy entered the library. He was indeed wearing a uniform shirt with "Mr. Creepy Guy" embroidered on the front, only using the letters of his real name. He had the slicked back, thinning, dyed semi-pompadour of a Sha Na Na auditions reject. As I watched, he did a walk through from one end of the building to the other. I can't say for sure, of course, but I got the impression he was looking for Mrs. J. Not finding her, he used our restroom, left the building and drove away.
I sure hope it's another 20 years before we see any more of this asshole.
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