The time has come to tell the tale.
Some years back, on an otherwise normal day, I decided to fill my water bottle from our drinking fountain. The fountain is located at the far end of our reference/computer hall—a narrow passage where our reference books are shelved, near our three public-access computers, which are in turn in close proximity to not only the fountain but also our most-unfortunately-placed public restroom beneath the stairs. So I walked from our front room, through the children's room and was about to enter the reference hall when an unsettling and familiar odor hit my nose.
Oh, dear Lord, no!
I rounded the corner of the hall and nearly ran headlong into Ron the Ripper. Ron looked guilty and amused at the same time, but Ron always looks guilty and amused so this was nothing too suspicious. What was suspicious was that Ron and his Unobstructed Doors aide were coming from the direction of our restroom beneath the stairs. And following along behind them was the thick, yet invisible cloud of ass-stench I'd detected seconds before.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no, please, no.
Hesitantly, I passed them by and waded through the fumes toward the restroom. There could be no doubt that Ron had befouled our restroom, but the actual degree of befoulment was what had me worried.
Please, please, please, I prayed, please, let him at least have flushed!
Alas, the answer to my prayer was "No." What I found within the bowl of our toilet was yet more evidence on a mounting pile, one which would prove that two of our most notorious rogues were actually one and the same person. Ron the Ripper, you see, had a secret identity. Ron the Ripper was none other than... the Serial Shitter.
I first became aware of the Serial Shitter shortly after I took my job with the "liberry" in 2001. The Serial Shitter, I was told, was an anonymous soul who frequently had foul, unholy and always unflushed poo-festivals in our restroom and did so with such frequency and apparent glee that it had to have been done on purpose. About twice a month, usually while cleaning up at the end of the day, one of the staff would discover the Serial Shitter's "calling card" plastered all around the inside of our toilet. For you see, it was apparently the Serial Shitter's fondest joy to park his keister on our bowl and vent his bowels so explosively that the resulting spray barely even reached the water but instead splattered onto the interior wall of the bowl like turd-stucco. And because the Serial Shitter never EVER flushed, this turd-stucco would sit there, sometimes for hours, would dry and then would NOT come off without a big ass toilet-brush, a liberal amount of Clorox Cleanup, ten minutes of effort and complete privacy so as not to soil the sensitive ears of our patrons with the streams of cursing spewed forth by whoever had to clean it up. Son of a bitch, we hated the Serial Shitter!
And, oh, the stench! Sweet merciful Krishna on a bicycle, the stench could be terrible! The trouble was, it was also stealth stench, rarely reaching the circ-desk. If we didn't go back near the restroom for a while, we might not know of the turd stucco's existence. However, we soon learned that when our usual computer addicts began making for the door, something foul was afoot.
It took us a long time to start piecing together the clues as to the true identity of the Serial Shitter. We really really wanted to know who it was, so we could finally have someone one of us could grab by the shirt collar and scream "FLUSH, DAMN YOU, FLUSH!" while another of us soaked them in a glossy coat of Lysol.
After cleaning up the Serial Shitter's mess for the fourth time one month, I decided to put an end to the mystery and put on my detective cap. The Shitter's fecal hobby was definitely the result of an unhinged mind, so I began suspecting our more unhinged patrons. Unfortunately, that's a sizable portion of our patron population.
I considered that it might be Mr. B-Natural, a man who was, back then, pretty much dedicated to doing things he thought would annoy the library staff, such as sneaking in coffee, signing his name upside down on the computer sign in sheet and generally being the grumpiest old man in all the world. This didn't seem to be his style though, since he always made certain we knew when he was trying to annoy us.
Mr. Big Stupid was another suspect. He was often on the computers and looked to be the kind of man who could tear up a toilet, but I could never place him at the scene during any of the Shitter-Event-Horizons.
The Untalented Mr. Ripley, Mr. B-Natural's arch-enemy, was also on the computers quite a bit in those days, but as strange as he was I just couldn't picture his skinny butt having the capacity for the sheer volume of material we were seeing.
I even briefly suspected Chester the (potential) Molester, but while he did spend time near the computers it was only time spent between opportunities to cruise the children's room.
The more I thought about it, though, the more it seemed that the only person who was in house on the same days as and before the incidents occurred was Ron the Ripper. It fit his personality too, for Ron enjoyed doing everything with gusto, be it ripping pages from our magazines, to caveman grunting to, most likely, taking a shit. Our next move, I determined, was to keep watch on the toilet when we knew he was in house, make sure it was spotless and then do a quick recheck after he used it to prove he was the Shitter. If we could catch him in the act of leaving that shit behind, we could force his Unobstructed Doors aide to pay attention, do his job and actually make Ron flush the toilet.
Alas, the confrontation was never to come. The particular aide Ron was with the day they barely escaped quit his job, or quit Ron, soon after. Ron was notorious for burning out aides and this guy was just one in a long line. Subsequent aides didn't bring Ron to the "liberry" very often and we had no more incidents of serial shitting for many months. In fact, we saw Ron almost none at all for many months (further cementing the proof). The next time I saw him, he had lost a lot of weight and seemed on a much more even mental keel. I think his overseers must have found the magic combination of meds to mellow him out. The mischievous gleam that had been ever-present in his eye was replaced by something much more akin to what you see in Malcolm McDowell's eyes at the end of A Clockwork Orange.
Oh, we've had restroom incidents akin to the Serial Shitter since—some so horrifically impressive that we were led to question our original theories about his identity—but by and large the Serial Shitter is no more.
Showing posts with label Ron the Ripper. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ron the Ripper. Show all posts
Friday, July 27, 2007
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Weird Wednesday
Yesterday was Weird Wednesday.
Not every Wednesday is a Weird Wednesday, but when we have more than our usual share of mentally unbalanced or otherwise questionable patrons who weird us out, they are. It's not always on a Wednesday either. Sometimes we have Terrible Tuesdays, In Need of Therapy Thursdays and Freaky Fridays. Oh, and of course, Manic Mondays.
Yesterday didn't even have all THAT much weirdness, but still more than qualifies because of the appearance of two people, one of which was Ron the Ripper.
We've not seen Ron in several months now and the past few times he's been in he has been startlingly well-behaved and failed to rip anything, let alone a magazine. The only really notable thing about Ron's appearance today is that accompanying him was a woman who had to have been his mother (Ma Ripper) because she looked exactly like Ron except 20 years older; which is to say, a stout fellow around 5'7" with salt & pepper hair, well-shaven (for once) and not quite as manic a gleam in the eye as he once had.
The two of them went upstairs where I imagined they would both snatch up a couple of our good magazines before sitting together at one of our tables where they would both proceed to page-flip the magazines to death. I wondered if maybe Ma Ripper would emit caveman growls like her son when confronted about their destruction.
Alas, nothing so colorful happened. From what I'm told by my fellow staff members who observed them, Ron and Ma Ripper sat upstairs in the chairs by our magazine rack where Ma Ripper flipped very slowly and carefully through a magazine while Ron sat obediently in his own chair with no magazine whatsoever and seemed happy for the opportunity.
That guy has really mellowed out.
The other Weird Wednesday qualifier came just half an hour into my shift, when we were visited by yet another in our long string of computer illiterate technophobes.
Two Mondays ago (Manic Monday!) a gentleman phoned the library toward the end of one of the many bursts of Monday chaos to ask if we had internet access.
"Yes, we do," I told him.
He then politely explained that he was not at all familiar with how to use the internet and asked if we would show him how to use it should he come by. He said he needed some tax information from the IRS website. I explained that that particular day, again, a Monday, we would be unable to assist him in that regard being as how we was really just me and I was stranded at the circ-desk dealing with the Monday and wouldn't be able to slip away, even to take myself a whiz. However, if he wouldn't mind coming in on nearly any other weekday, we'd be happy to help him out.
This may seem strange behavior for me, as I've done my share of complaining bitterly in the past about computer illiterates and the techniques they employ toward their ultimate goal of driving me insane. (See: Ms. I.N. Phyte and Mr. Little Stupid.) However, this man was at least not delusional about having any computer skills and was willing to admit it, politely, and ask for my help. He hadn't just buzzed on by that Monday afternoon to insist upon it nor did he pretend he knew what he was doing and just plop down and stare at the screen for 20 minutes until someone noticed he was a moron. No, this gentleman had phoned, in advance, to inquire if we would be willing to help him! Now that's refreshing!!!
I told the man to come on down Tuesday through Friday, preferably in the afternoon when we have the most available staff. And, at this, he thanked me for my time and help.
Yesterday was his chosen day. Once again, he phoned ahead and spoke with Mrs. A, asking her if we could help put him on the internet should he come down. I know this because as soon as he'd asked it, Mrs. A looked to me--the guy who would be doing the actual helping--and asked if I was willing. "Sure thing," I said.
Fifteen minutes later, the man arrived. He had evidently been working out or jogging or was preparing to go workout or jog, for he was wearing nylon exercise pants beneath a pair of shorts. I've seen this look before and I've never understood it. What are people who do this trying to say? Is it: "Hey, check out these cool shorts I'd really like to be wearing except that it's too EFFing cold to just wear shorts, so I put `em on over my fancy nylon workout britches! "? Sorry. I just don't understand the look.
Anyway, we signed Mr. Shorts in at the clip board and I took him on back where I thought I would have to hand hold him through the process. Once in the computer hall, the man explained that he owned a computer but it wasn't hooked up to the internet at all. You might think this would make him a candidate for at least SOME computer skills, but, alas, no. Evidently Mr. Shorts's computer was not only not hooked up to the internet but it wasn't hooked up to a mouse either, cause he had quite a bit of trouble using ours. I explained the whole left click & drag the scroll bar thing in order to let him scroll down our home page to the IRS links I've helpfully placed there. It took him a few tries and I still don't think he was left-clicking properly. Eventually, he decided instead of dragging the scroll bar, he'd just click in the space beneath it so it would jump down to meet the mouse. He still wasn't left clicking properly, though, so it didn't work the first time either. Finally we got to the bottom of the page and he successfully clicked (double) on the IRS link.
Mr. Shorts explained he was looking for a publication that would help him with charitable deductions. I showed him where the forms & publications page was and how to search for things with the IRS search engine. I suggested some search terms and was prepared to stand there and further assist, but dude indicated that I'd helped enough and he thought he could handle it from there, so I told him to let me know if I could help further and returned to the circ desk.
For the most part, he was right. It took him ten minutes or so, but he did mange to find the publication he was searching for. However, he was mystified about how to get to the publication from the search page. He didn't realize that the linked publication title could be clicked to take him there. My fault for assuming he knew how.
Now, it might seem that I'm making fun of the man at this point, but I'm really not. I understand that there are people who don't know anything about the internet, even people as young as this guy (who was in his 40's, I'd say). I also understand that there are people who think it's fine and dandy to wear shorts on top of their pants regardless of how retarded it might look. Whatever. I'm still not making fun of him; just observing. The part where I actually make fun of him is coming up.
After he finished copying down the information he needed from the online publication, Mr. Shorts came back up front and once again thanked me for my time and for helping him out. Again, mighty nice of him. He then began browsing through some of our new non-fiction. This is when warning bells began to go off in my head and I became preoccupied in typing up spine-labels for some incoming new books in order to keep as far away from the circulation desk as possible. Mrs. A and C were both in proximity to the desk, so I was hoping they would be the ones who had to deal with what I knew was coming next.
After a few minutes, Mr. Shorts began to look as though he was ready to check out. That's when I took my avoidance of the circ-desk a step further by hauling ass out of the room with an armload of non-fiction to take to the book cart upstairs.
See I knew there was no way in hell this guy actually had a library card with us, except maybe on the old defunct system and not the new freshness. And as techno-phobic as he'd seemed before, I also knew there was no way he was going to want to jump through the hoops we require to get a library card without some kind of paranoid tantrum. Upon returning from upstairs, I discovered that I was very very right on this count.
Mrs. A was at the desk, peering down as Mr. Shorts filled out his application for a library card. He had only made it as far as the drivers' license number.
"That's a drivers license number. That's personal information," he was saying. "That's just as dangerous as giving out your Social Security number! There's no way you can guarantee me that that this system is secure!"
Mrs. A didn't even attempt to guarantee him that our system is secure. After all, it's not our job to have a secure system; that's the job of the tech-boys back at the head office. They say it is, we have to take their word on it. What Mrs. A did do was politely explain to dude the reasons why we insist upon having a drivers license number in the first place. I knew it was futile to do so. It always is.
Dude didn't hear a bit of it. He was too busy waiting to say what he said next, which was, "All a thief needs is your social security number and your drivers license number and he can steal your identity. I don't even put that information in my own computer."
That's right.
He said he didn't put that information in his own computer.
Y'know, the one that's not even hooked up to the internet in the first place.
Mrs. A continued to skillfully ignore his rants. She'd given her explanation to him and he hadn't torn up his application. In fact, he'd gone ahead and written down his license number for her, which she confirmed from his license, so he wasn't so bent out of shape that he didn't want the card anyway.
My master plan of not being the guy on the desk when Mr. Shorts did what I knew Mr. Shorts was gonna do worked like a charm. Mrs. A is far better suited to not going off on people than I am in such situations. Her philosophy of answering the questions she can and politely ignoring the rants in between seems to work for her pretty well.
Not every Wednesday is a Weird Wednesday, but when we have more than our usual share of mentally unbalanced or otherwise questionable patrons who weird us out, they are. It's not always on a Wednesday either. Sometimes we have Terrible Tuesdays, In Need of Therapy Thursdays and Freaky Fridays. Oh, and of course, Manic Mondays.
Yesterday didn't even have all THAT much weirdness, but still more than qualifies because of the appearance of two people, one of which was Ron the Ripper.
We've not seen Ron in several months now and the past few times he's been in he has been startlingly well-behaved and failed to rip anything, let alone a magazine. The only really notable thing about Ron's appearance today is that accompanying him was a woman who had to have been his mother (Ma Ripper) because she looked exactly like Ron except 20 years older; which is to say, a stout fellow around 5'7" with salt & pepper hair, well-shaven (for once) and not quite as manic a gleam in the eye as he once had.
The two of them went upstairs where I imagined they would both snatch up a couple of our good magazines before sitting together at one of our tables where they would both proceed to page-flip the magazines to death. I wondered if maybe Ma Ripper would emit caveman growls like her son when confronted about their destruction.
Alas, nothing so colorful happened. From what I'm told by my fellow staff members who observed them, Ron and Ma Ripper sat upstairs in the chairs by our magazine rack where Ma Ripper flipped very slowly and carefully through a magazine while Ron sat obediently in his own chair with no magazine whatsoever and seemed happy for the opportunity.
That guy has really mellowed out.
The other Weird Wednesday qualifier came just half an hour into my shift, when we were visited by yet another in our long string of computer illiterate technophobes.
Two Mondays ago (Manic Monday!) a gentleman phoned the library toward the end of one of the many bursts of Monday chaos to ask if we had internet access.
"Yes, we do," I told him.
He then politely explained that he was not at all familiar with how to use the internet and asked if we would show him how to use it should he come by. He said he needed some tax information from the IRS website. I explained that that particular day, again, a Monday, we would be unable to assist him in that regard being as how we was really just me and I was stranded at the circ-desk dealing with the Monday and wouldn't be able to slip away, even to take myself a whiz. However, if he wouldn't mind coming in on nearly any other weekday, we'd be happy to help him out.
This may seem strange behavior for me, as I've done my share of complaining bitterly in the past about computer illiterates and the techniques they employ toward their ultimate goal of driving me insane. (See: Ms. I.N. Phyte and Mr. Little Stupid.) However, this man was at least not delusional about having any computer skills and was willing to admit it, politely, and ask for my help. He hadn't just buzzed on by that Monday afternoon to insist upon it nor did he pretend he knew what he was doing and just plop down and stare at the screen for 20 minutes until someone noticed he was a moron. No, this gentleman had phoned, in advance, to inquire if we would be willing to help him! Now that's refreshing!!!
I told the man to come on down Tuesday through Friday, preferably in the afternoon when we have the most available staff. And, at this, he thanked me for my time and help.
Yesterday was his chosen day. Once again, he phoned ahead and spoke with Mrs. A, asking her if we could help put him on the internet should he come down. I know this because as soon as he'd asked it, Mrs. A looked to me--the guy who would be doing the actual helping--and asked if I was willing. "Sure thing," I said.
Fifteen minutes later, the man arrived. He had evidently been working out or jogging or was preparing to go workout or jog, for he was wearing nylon exercise pants beneath a pair of shorts. I've seen this look before and I've never understood it. What are people who do this trying to say? Is it: "Hey, check out these cool shorts I'd really like to be wearing except that it's too EFFing cold to just wear shorts, so I put `em on over my fancy nylon workout britches! "? Sorry. I just don't understand the look.
Anyway, we signed Mr. Shorts in at the clip board and I took him on back where I thought I would have to hand hold him through the process. Once in the computer hall, the man explained that he owned a computer but it wasn't hooked up to the internet at all. You might think this would make him a candidate for at least SOME computer skills, but, alas, no. Evidently Mr. Shorts's computer was not only not hooked up to the internet but it wasn't hooked up to a mouse either, cause he had quite a bit of trouble using ours. I explained the whole left click & drag the scroll bar thing in order to let him scroll down our home page to the IRS links I've helpfully placed there. It took him a few tries and I still don't think he was left-clicking properly. Eventually, he decided instead of dragging the scroll bar, he'd just click in the space beneath it so it would jump down to meet the mouse. He still wasn't left clicking properly, though, so it didn't work the first time either. Finally we got to the bottom of the page and he successfully clicked (double) on the IRS link.
Mr. Shorts explained he was looking for a publication that would help him with charitable deductions. I showed him where the forms & publications page was and how to search for things with the IRS search engine. I suggested some search terms and was prepared to stand there and further assist, but dude indicated that I'd helped enough and he thought he could handle it from there, so I told him to let me know if I could help further and returned to the circ desk.
For the most part, he was right. It took him ten minutes or so, but he did mange to find the publication he was searching for. However, he was mystified about how to get to the publication from the search page. He didn't realize that the linked publication title could be clicked to take him there. My fault for assuming he knew how.
Now, it might seem that I'm making fun of the man at this point, but I'm really not. I understand that there are people who don't know anything about the internet, even people as young as this guy (who was in his 40's, I'd say). I also understand that there are people who think it's fine and dandy to wear shorts on top of their pants regardless of how retarded it might look. Whatever. I'm still not making fun of him; just observing. The part where I actually make fun of him is coming up.
After he finished copying down the information he needed from the online publication, Mr. Shorts came back up front and once again thanked me for my time and for helping him out. Again, mighty nice of him. He then began browsing through some of our new non-fiction. This is when warning bells began to go off in my head and I became preoccupied in typing up spine-labels for some incoming new books in order to keep as far away from the circulation desk as possible. Mrs. A and C were both in proximity to the desk, so I was hoping they would be the ones who had to deal with what I knew was coming next.
After a few minutes, Mr. Shorts began to look as though he was ready to check out. That's when I took my avoidance of the circ-desk a step further by hauling ass out of the room with an armload of non-fiction to take to the book cart upstairs.
See I knew there was no way in hell this guy actually had a library card with us, except maybe on the old defunct system and not the new freshness. And as techno-phobic as he'd seemed before, I also knew there was no way he was going to want to jump through the hoops we require to get a library card without some kind of paranoid tantrum. Upon returning from upstairs, I discovered that I was very very right on this count.
Mrs. A was at the desk, peering down as Mr. Shorts filled out his application for a library card. He had only made it as far as the drivers' license number.
"That's a drivers license number. That's personal information," he was saying. "That's just as dangerous as giving out your Social Security number! There's no way you can guarantee me that that this system is secure!"
Mrs. A didn't even attempt to guarantee him that our system is secure. After all, it's not our job to have a secure system; that's the job of the tech-boys back at the head office. They say it is, we have to take their word on it. What Mrs. A did do was politely explain to dude the reasons why we insist upon having a drivers license number in the first place. I knew it was futile to do so. It always is.
Dude didn't hear a bit of it. He was too busy waiting to say what he said next, which was, "All a thief needs is your social security number and your drivers license number and he can steal your identity. I don't even put that information in my own computer."
That's right.
He said he didn't put that information in his own computer.
Y'know, the one that's not even hooked up to the internet in the first place.
Mrs. A continued to skillfully ignore his rants. She'd given her explanation to him and he hadn't torn up his application. In fact, he'd gone ahead and written down his license number for her, which she confirmed from his license, so he wasn't so bent out of shape that he didn't want the card anyway.
My master plan of not being the guy on the desk when Mr. Shorts did what I knew Mr. Shorts was gonna do worked like a charm. Mrs. A is far better suited to not going off on people than I am in such situations. Her philosophy of answering the questions she can and politely ignoring the rants in between seems to work for her pretty well.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Year One in the Can
Today is the first anniversary of the beginning of this blog.
Looking back at my very first entry, I note that I said I'd give it a month and see how it goes. Well, it went. And how! Doesn't even seem like it's been a whole year since I wrote those words.
Turns out those early fears about not having enough material to sustain a blog were quite unfounded. I probably could have done at least half a year's worth of posts on the Rogues Gallery alone. (Actually, I'm guessing I already have.) However, the day-to-day crazy that goes on around here has been a blessed fount of inspiration that doesn't seem to be going dry yet. Which is a good thing, cause I was a bit concerned there for a while.
Library blogs (blogs in general, I'm sure) seem to have a limited shelf-life. Granted, the genre isn't very old as such things go, but three of the big ones from my perspective--Liberry Blooze, Male Librarian Centerfold and Aaron is Not Amused--closed up shop, went into archive mode or otherwise changed their mission statement within the past year. Made me wonder if there was some sort of inherent half-life to the prospect of library blogging. Sure, I know I won't be doing this forever and may one day get sick of it and shake the exit stick myself, but I somehow don't think it will be because I've exhausted my material. After all, crazy is forever. More likely, when that day comes and I do unlock the after hours drop box for the final time, I'll have moved on to something else entirely and will likely begin chronicling it.
Writing this blog has been a very rewarding experience both personally and creatively. I've said it before and I'll say it again, my only regret with it is that I didn't start it sooner. I should have started it from day one on the job, or better still, in August of 2001, the month before I got the job, shortly after we moved to the Tri-Metro area. Hell, nearly every job I've had in the past ten years has been blog-worthy as far as sheer drama goes. (I really really should have been blogging when I worked in Charlotte, NC, at a music store called Repo Records. I even considered it and was going to call it the Repo-Man Diaries. That would have been an amazing blog, cause the customers that store attracted were easily as astounding or more than the ones here. Plus, there was that whole bit of drama after the store was held up at gunpoint twice in one month, prompting me to seek employment elsewhere as my life is worth more to me than $6 per hour.)
The best surprise of all, though--something I had not even considered when I started this thing--is that I’m not alone. There are loads of other folks plowing the “liberry” field and doing it quite well. As an addict of serial storytelling, I subscribe to many of them. And it’s great to see the experiences of people who frankly have it a lot worse off than me as far as stress and hassles go. I've corresponded with quite a number of such colleagues whose work I admire. (Okay, so some of them turned out to be men posing as women, but whatever. Still good stuff.) My wife has even grudgingly begun to see this blog as not quite the huge waste of time she once thought it was. She still doesn’t read it, but she likes the bits I read to her on occasion.
I guess my only other regret is that according to the stats I've written over 200,000 words since November 18 of 2003. That's a lot of output and I'm proud of most of it. However, if I’d put the kind of time and effort into my fiction as I do in my non-fiction, I’d be quite a bit more prollific. As it stands, my lengthiest work of fiction is just over 200,000 words, is yet unfinished and has taken me 12 years to achieve. Almost makes me want to cry. Or get off my ass.
I have to say, I still like my job. The way things seem to be working out, it looks like I’ll be around this place for a while yet. So I guess I’ll give this whole blogging thing another year and see how it goes. And maybe by next year, I'll have finally gotten around to revealing the secret identity of Ron the Ripper.
Looking back at my very first entry, I note that I said I'd give it a month and see how it goes. Well, it went. And how! Doesn't even seem like it's been a whole year since I wrote those words.
Turns out those early fears about not having enough material to sustain a blog were quite unfounded. I probably could have done at least half a year's worth of posts on the Rogues Gallery alone. (Actually, I'm guessing I already have.) However, the day-to-day crazy that goes on around here has been a blessed fount of inspiration that doesn't seem to be going dry yet. Which is a good thing, cause I was a bit concerned there for a while.
Library blogs (blogs in general, I'm sure) seem to have a limited shelf-life. Granted, the genre isn't very old as such things go, but three of the big ones from my perspective--Liberry Blooze, Male Librarian Centerfold and Aaron is Not Amused--closed up shop, went into archive mode or otherwise changed their mission statement within the past year. Made me wonder if there was some sort of inherent half-life to the prospect of library blogging. Sure, I know I won't be doing this forever and may one day get sick of it and shake the exit stick myself, but I somehow don't think it will be because I've exhausted my material. After all, crazy is forever. More likely, when that day comes and I do unlock the after hours drop box for the final time, I'll have moved on to something else entirely and will likely begin chronicling it.
Writing this blog has been a very rewarding experience both personally and creatively. I've said it before and I'll say it again, my only regret with it is that I didn't start it sooner. I should have started it from day one on the job, or better still, in August of 2001, the month before I got the job, shortly after we moved to the Tri-Metro area. Hell, nearly every job I've had in the past ten years has been blog-worthy as far as sheer drama goes. (I really really should have been blogging when I worked in Charlotte, NC, at a music store called Repo Records. I even considered it and was going to call it the Repo-Man Diaries. That would have been an amazing blog, cause the customers that store attracted were easily as astounding or more than the ones here. Plus, there was that whole bit of drama after the store was held up at gunpoint twice in one month, prompting me to seek employment elsewhere as my life is worth more to me than $6 per hour.)
The best surprise of all, though--something I had not even considered when I started this thing--is that I’m not alone. There are loads of other folks plowing the “liberry” field and doing it quite well. As an addict of serial storytelling, I subscribe to many of them. And it’s great to see the experiences of people who frankly have it a lot worse off than me as far as stress and hassles go. I've corresponded with quite a number of such colleagues whose work I admire. (Okay, so some of them turned out to be men posing as women, but whatever. Still good stuff.) My wife has even grudgingly begun to see this blog as not quite the huge waste of time she once thought it was. She still doesn’t read it, but she likes the bits I read to her on occasion.
I guess my only other regret is that according to the stats I've written over 200,000 words since November 18 of 2003. That's a lot of output and I'm proud of most of it. However, if I’d put the kind of time and effort into my fiction as I do in my non-fiction, I’d be quite a bit more prollific. As it stands, my lengthiest work of fiction is just over 200,000 words, is yet unfinished and has taken me 12 years to achieve. Almost makes me want to cry. Or get off my ass.
I have to say, I still like my job. The way things seem to be working out, it looks like I’ll be around this place for a while yet. So I guess I’ll give this whole blogging thing another year and see how it goes. And maybe by next year, I'll have finally gotten around to revealing the secret identity of Ron the Ripper.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
BUSTED!
When I went to work yesterday, having my secret identity as a
"liberry" blogger unearthed was the furthest thing from my mind. It was
about to happen all the same, though.
Nearly nine months ago when I first started writing this blog I knew in all likelihood I was eventually gonna get caught. Sure, I tried to be careful about who and what I wrote about. Well, a little careful. I did rename most of the people and places that showed up—sometimes thinly—to limit the clues within the blog itself that could lead back to me. However, I've been plenty sloppy in a lot of ways too. Sometimes this has been intentional. Sometimes not.
It's one thing, however, to not care if readers in other states and indeed other countries know my secret identity. It's a whole other ball of dung for someone here in the Tri-Metro area to find out and that's where the sloppy comes in.
I didn't realize just how sloppy I was in other less obvious ways until a few months ago when I started checking my stats and saw the kind of search engine searches that sometimes lead people in my direction. (And by the way, what the hell kind of person does a subject search for "Chris Farley's Dead Ass," anyway?) The stats showed me that even having such words as "West," "Library"and "Virginia" in proximity to one another on the same page could lead people right to my door if they were merely doing a search for something using those words. There are plenty of other words that, while innocuous enough on the surface, could lead someone local to the blog. So I went back and changed some references, eliminated others and tried to tart the place up a bit to further decrease the chances of someone accidentally stumbling in.
Still, there's only so much you can do to disguise yourself if you're writing a blog about working at a "liberry" in WV to keep those terms from coming up. Eventually, the state and the word library are gonna get together and someone is going to find them in a search. With that in mind, I figured it was likely that someone from library HQ would eventually find me. They may already have. If so, they don't seem to be inclined to rat me out to my boss, Mrs. A.
Frankly, though, I wasn't too concerned about being ratted out that way. I think most of my co-workers would really dig the blog and would quickly become some of my more avid readers were they to learn of it. I've even considered letting them in on it if only to get more accurate reporting out of them on the crazy stuff that happens while I'm not at work. I decided, though, that doing so would cause a chilling effect on what I could say. Granted, I've always made it a point not to talk too much trash about my co-workers, (except, of course, for those who abandon their jobs and make me have to pack up all their interlibrary loans on a day I would otherwise not have been at work—thank you oh so very much, Miss E). Still, I'd much prefer the freedom in which I have the choice to behave myself.
I figure they'll eventually learn of it, either by admission or by someone ratting me out. My hope is that if they're angry at me, it will be because I didn't tell them about it sooner.
No, my imagined worse case scenario was much different. In it, I would go in to work one day, walk back to the computer hall and find somebody there reading my blog. They would turn and look up at me with realization in their eyes and then either wink knowingly or give me the finger. Worse yet, what if they came up to the circ desk and yelled at me about it? Even worse still.... what if it was PARKA? That chest hair entry alone would net me at least a bloody nose. Hell, the rest of my rogues gallery practically rivals Spider-Man's already! Sure, I might do okay one on one with most of them, but what if they ganged up? Carol Satan would tear me to shreds with her talons! Wal-Mart Jesus would clock me with his cudgel! Ron the Ripper would try to rip me, or at the very least fart on me! And Cap'n Crossdresser would hit me with his purse!
No sir... I don't like it.
Like I said, though, when I went to work yesterday, I wasn't thinking about any of the above scenarios. And when I left to go on break, I still wasn't thinking of them. So when it happened, it took me by surprise.
As per my usual Wednesday afternoon routine, I ambled down to the local "mall" comic book kiosk, to see what the new shipment had brought. Garin the comic book guy was there at the desk as usual. For some reason, he seemed especially happy to see me. He just kept saying my name over and over, taking an unwholesome amount of glee at some unrevealed nugget of information. I was oblivious.
"You will NEVER guess what I saw... on... the... internet," he said with a devilish grin. Still, I was clueless. I was somehow picturing that he'd found stills from the new Sin City film adaptation, or the full script for Spider-Man 3, or clips from Catwoman: The Version that Didn't Blow Goats.
Garin continued, slowly letting out his verbal fishing line in preparation for yanking it back suddenly. "I found a website that mentions me and my shop."
That's when it hit me and I instantly knew I was busted.
I always expected such a busting to come with the requisite chills and stomach vertigo that usually accompany major revelations. I didn't get so much of that, though. I must have at least looked properly shocked for a few moments, because Garin just continued grinning triumphantly. Pretty quickly, though, I settled into my new role as the grinning little low-carb dieting kid caught with his hand in the Nutter Butters but who knows he's far too cute and adorable to be punished.
What had happened, as Garin explained it, is that one of his customers decided to look his shop up by name and see if it had a website. They typed the name into a search engine and came up with some ebay entries as well as a little blog entry called The Fix Is In. They took a gander at it and alerted Garin that someone was writing about him on the internet.
"So I see this Tales from the `Liberry' site that mentions my shop," Garin said. "I knew immediately who had to have written it! Just the language you used was SO EXACTLY YOU."
Not only did Garin read his own initial appearance in the blog, but read most of the other entries as well and liked them. (Hey, I told ya I was cute and adorable!) Even my slightly less-than-favorable early review of his store, ("I can't say this one ranks with the best of them. But then again, it's only a kiosk store—what can you really do with a kiosk store?"), written a mere one month after he opened for business was met with smiles and appreciation for my honesty. (And just for the record, I also predicted that his store had a lot of potential and in the ten months since then he's proven just what you CAN do with a kiosk store. It's become quite the quality comic retail outlet. *WAVES TO GARIN* In fact, Garin's search engine search also turned up an award he'd won from Marvel Comics themselves, but which no one at Marvel thought to tell him about.)
Garin's one complaint to me in the whole matter: "So why didn't you tell me about this sooner?"
I explained that I was trying to keep things on the Q.T. as far as local publicity went. As much as I didn't care that he knew about it, I'd much prefer most other locals NOT knowing about it. Particularly the mentally-unbalanced locals who occasionally turn up as subject matter.
Then, as if somebody rang the crazy bell, who should show up at the kiosk right on cue... Doc Oc-Fetishist Woman!
This time she wasn't looking for the New Doc Ock or the Old Doc Ock or any Doc Ock. Instead, she had come to see if Garin had any other toys for her husband. Sure enough, a great huge Fantastic 4 Four Pack set of figures has been released, including figures of all four members of the FF plus Franklin Richards, Doctor Doom and even Robbie the EFFing Robot. This, apparently, is what DOF Woman's husband had ordered and she was overjoyed at its arrival.
Naturally, there had to be a wrinkle, though. In addition to the Fantastic Four Pack, a brand new Thing figure had also been released, which was a different sculpt than the version of Thing already in the pack. Garin just wanted to call her attention to it in case her husband was interested, as he knew the guy liked the FF characters. This completely threw Doc Ock Fetishist Woman into a tizzy, though. Garin had to explain to her several times that her husband hadn't ordered the extra Thing so she didn't need to buy it, but if her husband was interested it was there. I had to walk out of sight of her to keep from cracking up laughing as DOF Woman struggled with these concepts for a couple of minutes, dancing perilously close to but never actually crossing the line into understanding. Finally Garin took the extra Thing away from her and told her he would hold on to it and save it for her husband should he want it.
"You'll save it for him then?"
"Yes."
"You'll save it for him then?"
"YES."
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I cannot make up shit that crazy!
So guess what, Garin... If I do get drummed out of the library for this blog, I'm moving into your comic shop and starting a new blog there. Seems like it's just another station for the local Crazy Train.
Nearly nine months ago when I first started writing this blog I knew in all likelihood I was eventually gonna get caught. Sure, I tried to be careful about who and what I wrote about. Well, a little careful. I did rename most of the people and places that showed up—sometimes thinly—to limit the clues within the blog itself that could lead back to me. However, I've been plenty sloppy in a lot of ways too. Sometimes this has been intentional. Sometimes not.
It's one thing, however, to not care if readers in other states and indeed other countries know my secret identity. It's a whole other ball of dung for someone here in the Tri-Metro area to find out and that's where the sloppy comes in.
I didn't realize just how sloppy I was in other less obvious ways until a few months ago when I started checking my stats and saw the kind of search engine searches that sometimes lead people in my direction. (And by the way, what the hell kind of person does a subject search for "Chris Farley's Dead Ass," anyway?) The stats showed me that even having such words as "West," "Library"and "Virginia" in proximity to one another on the same page could lead people right to my door if they were merely doing a search for something using those words. There are plenty of other words that, while innocuous enough on the surface, could lead someone local to the blog. So I went back and changed some references, eliminated others and tried to tart the place up a bit to further decrease the chances of someone accidentally stumbling in.
Still, there's only so much you can do to disguise yourself if you're writing a blog about working at a "liberry" in WV to keep those terms from coming up. Eventually, the state and the word library are gonna get together and someone is going to find them in a search. With that in mind, I figured it was likely that someone from library HQ would eventually find me. They may already have. If so, they don't seem to be inclined to rat me out to my boss, Mrs. A.
Frankly, though, I wasn't too concerned about being ratted out that way. I think most of my co-workers would really dig the blog and would quickly become some of my more avid readers were they to learn of it. I've even considered letting them in on it if only to get more accurate reporting out of them on the crazy stuff that happens while I'm not at work. I decided, though, that doing so would cause a chilling effect on what I could say. Granted, I've always made it a point not to talk too much trash about my co-workers, (except, of course, for those who abandon their jobs and make me have to pack up all their interlibrary loans on a day I would otherwise not have been at work—thank you oh so very much, Miss E). Still, I'd much prefer the freedom in which I have the choice to behave myself.
I figure they'll eventually learn of it, either by admission or by someone ratting me out. My hope is that if they're angry at me, it will be because I didn't tell them about it sooner.
No, my imagined worse case scenario was much different. In it, I would go in to work one day, walk back to the computer hall and find somebody there reading my blog. They would turn and look up at me with realization in their eyes and then either wink knowingly or give me the finger. Worse yet, what if they came up to the circ desk and yelled at me about it? Even worse still.... what if it was PARKA? That chest hair entry alone would net me at least a bloody nose. Hell, the rest of my rogues gallery practically rivals Spider-Man's already! Sure, I might do okay one on one with most of them, but what if they ganged up? Carol Satan would tear me to shreds with her talons! Wal-Mart Jesus would clock me with his cudgel! Ron the Ripper would try to rip me, or at the very least fart on me! And Cap'n Crossdresser would hit me with his purse!
No sir... I don't like it.
Like I said, though, when I went to work yesterday, I wasn't thinking about any of the above scenarios. And when I left to go on break, I still wasn't thinking of them. So when it happened, it took me by surprise.
As per my usual Wednesday afternoon routine, I ambled down to the local "mall" comic book kiosk, to see what the new shipment had brought. Garin the comic book guy was there at the desk as usual. For some reason, he seemed especially happy to see me. He just kept saying my name over and over, taking an unwholesome amount of glee at some unrevealed nugget of information. I was oblivious.
"You will NEVER guess what I saw... on... the... internet," he said with a devilish grin. Still, I was clueless. I was somehow picturing that he'd found stills from the new Sin City film adaptation, or the full script for Spider-Man 3, or clips from Catwoman: The Version that Didn't Blow Goats.
Garin continued, slowly letting out his verbal fishing line in preparation for yanking it back suddenly. "I found a website that mentions me and my shop."
That's when it hit me and I instantly knew I was busted.
I always expected such a busting to come with the requisite chills and stomach vertigo that usually accompany major revelations. I didn't get so much of that, though. I must have at least looked properly shocked for a few moments, because Garin just continued grinning triumphantly. Pretty quickly, though, I settled into my new role as the grinning little low-carb dieting kid caught with his hand in the Nutter Butters but who knows he's far too cute and adorable to be punished.
What had happened, as Garin explained it, is that one of his customers decided to look his shop up by name and see if it had a website. They typed the name into a search engine and came up with some ebay entries as well as a little blog entry called The Fix Is In. They took a gander at it and alerted Garin that someone was writing about him on the internet.
"So I see this Tales from the `Liberry' site that mentions my shop," Garin said. "I knew immediately who had to have written it! Just the language you used was SO EXACTLY YOU."
Not only did Garin read his own initial appearance in the blog, but read most of the other entries as well and liked them. (Hey, I told ya I was cute and adorable!) Even my slightly less-than-favorable early review of his store, ("I can't say this one ranks with the best of them. But then again, it's only a kiosk store—what can you really do with a kiosk store?"), written a mere one month after he opened for business was met with smiles and appreciation for my honesty. (And just for the record, I also predicted that his store had a lot of potential and in the ten months since then he's proven just what you CAN do with a kiosk store. It's become quite the quality comic retail outlet. *WAVES TO GARIN* In fact, Garin's search engine search also turned up an award he'd won from Marvel Comics themselves, but which no one at Marvel thought to tell him about.)
Garin's one complaint to me in the whole matter: "So why didn't you tell me about this sooner?"
I explained that I was trying to keep things on the Q.T. as far as local publicity went. As much as I didn't care that he knew about it, I'd much prefer most other locals NOT knowing about it. Particularly the mentally-unbalanced locals who occasionally turn up as subject matter.
Then, as if somebody rang the crazy bell, who should show up at the kiosk right on cue... Doc Oc-Fetishist Woman!
This time she wasn't looking for the New Doc Ock or the Old Doc Ock or any Doc Ock. Instead, she had come to see if Garin had any other toys for her husband. Sure enough, a great huge Fantastic 4 Four Pack set of figures has been released, including figures of all four members of the FF plus Franklin Richards, Doctor Doom and even Robbie the EFFing Robot. This, apparently, is what DOF Woman's husband had ordered and she was overjoyed at its arrival.
Naturally, there had to be a wrinkle, though. In addition to the Fantastic Four Pack, a brand new Thing figure had also been released, which was a different sculpt than the version of Thing already in the pack. Garin just wanted to call her attention to it in case her husband was interested, as he knew the guy liked the FF characters. This completely threw Doc Ock Fetishist Woman into a tizzy, though. Garin had to explain to her several times that her husband hadn't ordered the extra Thing so she didn't need to buy it, but if her husband was interested it was there. I had to walk out of sight of her to keep from cracking up laughing as DOF Woman struggled with these concepts for a couple of minutes, dancing perilously close to but never actually crossing the line into understanding. Finally Garin took the extra Thing away from her and told her he would hold on to it and save it for her husband should he want it.
"You'll save it for him then?"
"Yes."
"You'll save it for him then?"
"YES."
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I cannot make up shit that crazy!
So guess what, Garin... If I do get drummed out of the library for this blog, I'm moving into your comic shop and starting a new blog there. Seems like it's just another station for the local Crazy Train.
Thursday, July 01, 2004
Summer Reading Day Two
Once again, I was drafted to come in early to help man the desk for Summer Reading, Week One, Day Two.
I started off by getting there just before 9. Through the window, I spied the rest of the staff gathered in the main room so I began pounding on the front door screaming, "LEMME IN! I GOTTA USE THE INNA-NET!" Unfortunately, I forgot there were several Summer Reading moms sitting in their cars, until I turned and caught some disapproving looks from them.
We have two Summer Reading sessions per week. Today was the under 6 crowd's turn. It actually went much smoother than Monday, though we're not entirely sure why. It might be because the little kids weren't as interested in checking books out as the older ones, so we only saw a handful of them at the desk. Mostly they stayed upstairs, where it sounded as though they were trying to jump through the floor. Course, as old as this place is, nearly any foot traffic up there sounds like that.
We were all prepared for the usual mass chaos, though. We even stationed Mrs. H at her own little desk in the computer hall where she had the sign-up sheet and computer timers. Our plan was to shuffle the usual internet crowd that way so we could concentrate on making cards and helping patrons. Naturally, since we were prepared for them, hardly anyone needed a computer this morning. Still, we're planning to put that system into further practice soon. A guy has recently come in to talk to Mrs. A about working off some hours of community service he'd received. We're planning on sticking him in the computer area. Maybe I can get him to start giving Parka dirty looks, just to save me time.
What little turmoil we did have today was due to a sudden rush on the bathroom by seemingly everyone in the building. Even I was trying to get in there, though only to retrieve our ladder for the local artists to put up their work in our above-the-shelves mini art gallery, which rotates monthly. I tried four times to get the ladder, but every time I would go back, I'd knock and hear a different voice say, "Just a minute..." So the artists had quite a wait.
We also had to dismiss Ron the Ripper, today. No, I didn't become enraged at for his ripping up our magazines and go "Chester" on his ass. Instead, when Ron came in with his aid, Mrs. A stopped them and explained that there were no tables upstairs for him to sit at to rip up said magazines due to Summer Reading having taken over the space. He didn't even give us a single caveman growl of disappointment. He just turned and left without a fight. I guess he was feeling "too cool" for that, in his stylin' new bucket hat, which was made from a very loud patterned fabric that looked like it would be more at home as a pair of Bermuda shorts than a hat.
Damn, that reminds me... I still haven't revealed his secret identity.
I started off by getting there just before 9. Through the window, I spied the rest of the staff gathered in the main room so I began pounding on the front door screaming, "LEMME IN! I GOTTA USE THE INNA-NET!" Unfortunately, I forgot there were several Summer Reading moms sitting in their cars, until I turned and caught some disapproving looks from them.
We have two Summer Reading sessions per week. Today was the under 6 crowd's turn. It actually went much smoother than Monday, though we're not entirely sure why. It might be because the little kids weren't as interested in checking books out as the older ones, so we only saw a handful of them at the desk. Mostly they stayed upstairs, where it sounded as though they were trying to jump through the floor. Course, as old as this place is, nearly any foot traffic up there sounds like that.
We were all prepared for the usual mass chaos, though. We even stationed Mrs. H at her own little desk in the computer hall where she had the sign-up sheet and computer timers. Our plan was to shuffle the usual internet crowd that way so we could concentrate on making cards and helping patrons. Naturally, since we were prepared for them, hardly anyone needed a computer this morning. Still, we're planning to put that system into further practice soon. A guy has recently come in to talk to Mrs. A about working off some hours of community service he'd received. We're planning on sticking him in the computer area. Maybe I can get him to start giving Parka dirty looks, just to save me time.
What little turmoil we did have today was due to a sudden rush on the bathroom by seemingly everyone in the building. Even I was trying to get in there, though only to retrieve our ladder for the local artists to put up their work in our above-the-shelves mini art gallery, which rotates monthly. I tried four times to get the ladder, but every time I would go back, I'd knock and hear a different voice say, "Just a minute..." So the artists had quite a wait.
We also had to dismiss Ron the Ripper, today. No, I didn't become enraged at for his ripping up our magazines and go "Chester" on his ass. Instead, when Ron came in with his aid, Mrs. A stopped them and explained that there were no tables upstairs for him to sit at to rip up said magazines due to Summer Reading having taken over the space. He didn't even give us a single caveman growl of disappointment. He just turned and left without a fight. I guess he was feeling "too cool" for that, in his stylin' new bucket hat, which was made from a very loud patterned fabric that looked like it would be more at home as a pair of Bermuda shorts than a hat.
Damn, that reminds me... I still haven't revealed his secret identity.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Stanky Patrons
Last week I asked Mrs. C if it would be okay to put up a sign on the back of the restroom door that read: "If you make stinky in this restroom, please be so kind as to use the provided can of Airwick. Thanks."
It's a project that needs serious consideration. After all, the vast majority of patrons who have a poo in our tiny, unventilated, non-sound-proofed, one-toilet, no stall public restroom never even consider using the provided air-freshener afterwards. In fact, I don't think it would be going too far to say that a patron actually using the air-freshener would be an unprecedented event. I figure if we put the sign on the back of the door only people actively making a "stinky" will see it, might actually read it and might actually become inclined to use the air-freshener to cut the stench they leave behind.
Don't get me wrong... as my wife will readily attest, I'm no stranger to being the root cause of stanky bathrooms myself. However, when I know I'm about to befoul a confined space, in proximity to a public area, which, as soon as the door is opened, will unleash my by-product upon an unsuspecting world, I use some damn air-freshener, or light a match or pull the fire-alarm or something.
Not our patrons. No sir. They just let fly and walk away. We should probably count ourselves lucky that they even flush. It's like they're proud of what they've made and want everyone to get a whiff. This, in turn, causes me to want to chase them around the library with a can of Lysol and a lighter. Or sometimes a hose.
Beyond just the restroom olfactory adventures we have, we have patrons who are just naturally eye-wateringly stinky. One lady in particular either doesn't bathe very often or just eschews the use of "de-funk" in general, because she can light up a room with B.O. And once, around 2 years ago now, we were paid a visit by the Stinkiest Man Ever. He's not on the Rogues List because he only visited the one time, but his stench has been seared into the memory centers of my brain. He was like Pigpen from Peanuts as an adult. In addition to being revoltingly-stinky, he was also the owner of the worlds filthiest, too-tight red T-shirt, which was doing a less than admirable job of covering his lumpy hide. Mr. Stanky wanted to borrow an atlas from us. We don't loan out atlases, but I very nearly gave our copy to him and wrote the book loss off as a hazard of doing business. Instead, I sent him upstairs with it, where he promptly drove off every patron up there except Ron the Ripper, who probably enjoyed it. After Mr. Stanky left, I had to hold my breath and run for the bathroom to retrieve our kitchen-strength can of Airwick, which I emptied in an attempt to fight back the evil presence he'd left behind.
In related Stanky Patron news... my friend Glen works in a library located in a southern state known for its spicy food and government corruption. (Heheheh, try to narrow that one down from the clues provided.) If anyone should be writing a "liberry" blog, it's Glen, as he's just a damn genius, funny as hell in general and his observational skills are saber sharp. Shortly after I began working at my library, he wrote me to compare notes on problem patrons.
Glen wrote: "My patrons smell like dusty turds. I'm serious. From day one, I noticed this peculiar odor about my branch and quickly traced it back to the patrons. It took some time to satisfactorily classify the scent for myself but in my second week while listening to some woman go on about how she `paid that fine fo' weeks ago,' I thought: `Lady, you smell just like a dusty turd. That's it, by golly!' Imagine a long lost link sitting on top of a bean pie in the bottom of a tool box and there you go. It's amazing. It must have something to do with diet. Or a propensity to roll around in aged feces. I don't know."
Incidentally, Mrs. C gave me permission to put up my sign.
It's a project that needs serious consideration. After all, the vast majority of patrons who have a poo in our tiny, unventilated, non-sound-proofed, one-toilet, no stall public restroom never even consider using the provided air-freshener afterwards. In fact, I don't think it would be going too far to say that a patron actually using the air-freshener would be an unprecedented event. I figure if we put the sign on the back of the door only people actively making a "stinky" will see it, might actually read it and might actually become inclined to use the air-freshener to cut the stench they leave behind.
Don't get me wrong... as my wife will readily attest, I'm no stranger to being the root cause of stanky bathrooms myself. However, when I know I'm about to befoul a confined space, in proximity to a public area, which, as soon as the door is opened, will unleash my by-product upon an unsuspecting world, I use some damn air-freshener, or light a match or pull the fire-alarm or something.
Not our patrons. No sir. They just let fly and walk away. We should probably count ourselves lucky that they even flush. It's like they're proud of what they've made and want everyone to get a whiff. This, in turn, causes me to want to chase them around the library with a can of Lysol and a lighter. Or sometimes a hose.
Beyond just the restroom olfactory adventures we have, we have patrons who are just naturally eye-wateringly stinky. One lady in particular either doesn't bathe very often or just eschews the use of "de-funk" in general, because she can light up a room with B.O. And once, around 2 years ago now, we were paid a visit by the Stinkiest Man Ever. He's not on the Rogues List because he only visited the one time, but his stench has been seared into the memory centers of my brain. He was like Pigpen from Peanuts as an adult. In addition to being revoltingly-stinky, he was also the owner of the worlds filthiest, too-tight red T-shirt, which was doing a less than admirable job of covering his lumpy hide. Mr. Stanky wanted to borrow an atlas from us. We don't loan out atlases, but I very nearly gave our copy to him and wrote the book loss off as a hazard of doing business. Instead, I sent him upstairs with it, where he promptly drove off every patron up there except Ron the Ripper, who probably enjoyed it. After Mr. Stanky left, I had to hold my breath and run for the bathroom to retrieve our kitchen-strength can of Airwick, which I emptied in an attempt to fight back the evil presence he'd left behind.
In related Stanky Patron news... my friend Glen works in a library located in a southern state known for its spicy food and government corruption. (Heheheh, try to narrow that one down from the clues provided.) If anyone should be writing a "liberry" blog, it's Glen, as he's just a damn genius, funny as hell in general and his observational skills are saber sharp. Shortly after I began working at my library, he wrote me to compare notes on problem patrons.
Glen wrote: "My patrons smell like dusty turds. I'm serious. From day one, I noticed this peculiar odor about my branch and quickly traced it back to the patrons. It took some time to satisfactorily classify the scent for myself but in my second week while listening to some woman go on about how she `paid that fine fo' weeks ago,' I thought: `Lady, you smell just like a dusty turd. That's it, by golly!' Imagine a long lost link sitting on top of a bean pie in the bottom of a tool box and there you go. It's amazing. It must have something to do with diet. Or a propensity to roll around in aged feces. I don't know."
Incidentally, Mrs. C gave me permission to put up my sign.
Saturday, January 17, 2004
Freaky Friday
Friday was nutty. Not so much because of our patrons, though Ron the
Ripper did put in a mostly quiet appearance, but just the usual Fridee
nuttiness.
Friday, you see, is amnesty day at the library. That means that if patrons have late books (and some patrons have VERY late books) they can bring them in on Friday and not have to pay a fine. Our fines are obscenely reasonable to begin with. It's like $.05 per day with a $4 limit ceiling for any given book. We're not even all that interested in enforcing fines to begin with. Mostly, we'd like to have our books back, so we give folks every opportunity to get them back to us for free just so they won't sit on them for fear of huge fines.
On most days, if people bring late books back in, we don't charge them fines anyway unless the patron themselves calls attention to the lateness of their books.
At the moment, we're in the process of switching from the demon-spawn library cataloging program VTLS to something allegedly much better, so we haven't been charging fines at all on any day due to some glitch in the switchover. (Or maybe we're just being lazy. I'm not really sure which.) Mostly, we just enjoy the guilty expressions of our patrons who bring late books in ready and willing to pay their penance only to be denied.
Still with all the free days/weeks/months we've been unofficially offering, our patrons still think of Friday as amnesty day, so that's when the majority of our books come back and, yesterday, back they came. The shelving cart was overflowing with books when I walked in the door and Mrs. C was busy processing the enormous shipment of new books that I would have to emboss, spine-label, cover with mylar bookwrap and tape up, so I set about clearing the cart as fast as I could. While I'm doing this, patrons kept filing in the door with MORE books for me to put away, so my day's work was cut out. By the time I finished putting away what was already waiting for me, I was so frustrated at our lack of shelf space that I was cursing Robert Jordan and his stupid ZZ Top lookin' ass for writing such big fat books. I began pulling all the double copies of his gargantu-tomes off the shelf and piling them up just so I'd have room for other authors.
The frustration stayed with me for much of the afternoon. When I was finally able to get to the new books, it seemed like every time I began trying to deal with them the phone would ring. I've spoken before of the great love and devotion, read dire hatred, between me and the telephone before, but it was especially inflamed on Friday. I could NOT get anything done without it interrupting and it got to the point where I was no longer merely growling at the phone, which amuses my co-workers, but had moved on to hurling scissors, which does not amuse my co-workers. And while on the phone with one patron, call-waiting would kick in and there would be another one with just as complicated an issue to have to deal with as the first. At least no one called to ask what time we closed, because I don't know if I could have held back my wrath if they had. Thankfully, Mrs. C grabbed the mobile phone and began answering it for me, leaving me to wrap my books in peace.
We may have solved a mystery on Friday as well. Mrs. A had been going through our magazine files earlier in the day and came downstairs to announce that we were missing quite a few of the more current issues of Teen People, National Geographic and Parents. They hadn't been checked out, but were simply missing from the file boxes. I floated the theory that they had never made it to the file boxes and had probably walked out in the greasy, unwholesome clutches of Chester the (potential) Molester. I've long suspected he might be pilfering our magazines. I think I even once caught him doing it after having gone upstairs and organizing the magazine rack only to finding a blank space where our current issue of Parents was a few minutes after Chester did his usual "walk through."
It makes sense. Teen People and Parents have loads of pictures of youthful looking girls (some criminally youthful, when it comes to Chester's predilections). And every guy knows from an early age that National Geographic has its fair share of bare breasts. Sure, they're usually droopy bare native breasts, but when you're 12 and internet porn hasn't been invented yet, you aren't so picky. I figure Chester's not picky either, particularly since he's demonstrated an inability to access internet porn on our computers in the first place. (And that was before we put on the filters.)
We know Chester has done walkthroughs recently, so that might explain our lack of certain titles.
Course, as my wife pointed out, some of those magazines may have simply been ripped out of existence by Ron the Ripper, who himself is quite partial to National Geographic. (After all, it has the most pages to rip outside of Oprah magazine.)
So it looks like we'll have double duty when being vigilant during Chester's visits, watching him to make sure he's not molesting children and/or stealing magazines.
Friday, you see, is amnesty day at the library. That means that if patrons have late books (and some patrons have VERY late books) they can bring them in on Friday and not have to pay a fine. Our fines are obscenely reasonable to begin with. It's like $.05 per day with a $4 limit ceiling for any given book. We're not even all that interested in enforcing fines to begin with. Mostly, we'd like to have our books back, so we give folks every opportunity to get them back to us for free just so they won't sit on them for fear of huge fines.
On most days, if people bring late books back in, we don't charge them fines anyway unless the patron themselves calls attention to the lateness of their books.
At the moment, we're in the process of switching from the demon-spawn library cataloging program VTLS to something allegedly much better, so we haven't been charging fines at all on any day due to some glitch in the switchover. (Or maybe we're just being lazy. I'm not really sure which.) Mostly, we just enjoy the guilty expressions of our patrons who bring late books in ready and willing to pay their penance only to be denied.
Still with all the free days/weeks/months we've been unofficially offering, our patrons still think of Friday as amnesty day, so that's when the majority of our books come back and, yesterday, back they came. The shelving cart was overflowing with books when I walked in the door and Mrs. C was busy processing the enormous shipment of new books that I would have to emboss, spine-label, cover with mylar bookwrap and tape up, so I set about clearing the cart as fast as I could. While I'm doing this, patrons kept filing in the door with MORE books for me to put away, so my day's work was cut out. By the time I finished putting away what was already waiting for me, I was so frustrated at our lack of shelf space that I was cursing Robert Jordan and his stupid ZZ Top lookin' ass for writing such big fat books. I began pulling all the double copies of his gargantu-tomes off the shelf and piling them up just so I'd have room for other authors.
The frustration stayed with me for much of the afternoon. When I was finally able to get to the new books, it seemed like every time I began trying to deal with them the phone would ring. I've spoken before of the great love and devotion, read dire hatred, between me and the telephone before, but it was especially inflamed on Friday. I could NOT get anything done without it interrupting and it got to the point where I was no longer merely growling at the phone, which amuses my co-workers, but had moved on to hurling scissors, which does not amuse my co-workers. And while on the phone with one patron, call-waiting would kick in and there would be another one with just as complicated an issue to have to deal with as the first. At least no one called to ask what time we closed, because I don't know if I could have held back my wrath if they had. Thankfully, Mrs. C grabbed the mobile phone and began answering it for me, leaving me to wrap my books in peace.
We may have solved a mystery on Friday as well. Mrs. A had been going through our magazine files earlier in the day and came downstairs to announce that we were missing quite a few of the more current issues of Teen People, National Geographic and Parents. They hadn't been checked out, but were simply missing from the file boxes. I floated the theory that they had never made it to the file boxes and had probably walked out in the greasy, unwholesome clutches of Chester the (potential) Molester. I've long suspected he might be pilfering our magazines. I think I even once caught him doing it after having gone upstairs and organizing the magazine rack only to finding a blank space where our current issue of Parents was a few minutes after Chester did his usual "walk through."
It makes sense. Teen People and Parents have loads of pictures of youthful looking girls (some criminally youthful, when it comes to Chester's predilections). And every guy knows from an early age that National Geographic has its fair share of bare breasts. Sure, they're usually droopy bare native breasts, but when you're 12 and internet porn hasn't been invented yet, you aren't so picky. I figure Chester's not picky either, particularly since he's demonstrated an inability to access internet porn on our computers in the first place. (And that was before we put on the filters.)
We know Chester has done walkthroughs recently, so that might explain our lack of certain titles.
Course, as my wife pointed out, some of those magazines may have simply been ripped out of existence by Ron the Ripper, who himself is quite partial to National Geographic. (After all, it has the most pages to rip outside of Oprah magazine.)
So it looks like we'll have double duty when being vigilant during Chester's visits, watching him to make sure he's not molesting children and/or stealing magazines.
Thursday, January 15, 2004
Weird Wednesday
Our Wednesdays have been getting weirder and
weirder. I've missed the past several, but the tales I've heard from
fellow "liberry" staff back it up.
Evidently the local mental health social services agency, Unobstructed Doors, has mandated that its aides take their mentally handicapped clients to the library and have put it on their schedules of things to do. We're happy to have them, but something about mentally handicapped patrons being force-marched into the library, whether they want to come or not, makes me uneasy.
We have a group of mentally handicapped patrons whose aides bring them in like clockwork every Wednesday around 2 p.m. The group varies in size from week to week, but there have been weeks where nearly all four tables upstairs have been full. Now again, I'm not complaining. Most of these patrons seem to enjoy coming to the library and that's good. However, there's one of them who on more than one occasion has thrown a screaming fit upstairs. And when I say "screaming fit" I'm talking a blood curdling screaming fit. You'd think the girl was being murdered, and I've rushed up the stairs (nearly breaking my ass despite our new sign) to make sure she wasn't. She's not. She just gets fed up with being there or is in some other way offended and just opens up at full squall to protest. This happened yesterday and the whole crew had to leave shortly thereafter.
Meanwhile, there's always Ron the Ripper...
When Ron turns up at the library, he usually turns up alone at first. This is because his primary aid, Donald, is a firm believer in giving Ron as much space and freedom as possible. Donald usually takes Ron to the Unobstructed Doors office downtown, tells him to go to the library and sets him free. Ron walks up the hill to us and Donald follows a few minutes later at his leisure. Now, freedom and space is all well and good, but between the time Ron hits the door and Donald shows up, Ron can rip up quite a few magazines. And Donald, despite our many pleas, doesn't care to check and make sure Ron isn't ripping our good magazines.
While I was out of town there were a couple of Ron incidents.
Mrs. A, our head liberrian, said that Ron came in one morning and went right upstairs to his favorite ripping table as usual. I don't know if someone had beat him to the table or not, but Ron got upset about something and began doing his usual loud caveman bark. It sounds like "Unnnngh! Unnnnnnnngh!! UNNGNGGHHHHHG!!!" only much louder. Mrs. A rushed upstairs and put her finger to her lips to shush Ron. Ron, however, is incapable of being shushed. He firmly knows that caveman barking is unacceptable behavior and he longs for someone to shush him just so he'll have an excuse to turn the volume up to 11. This he did. Mrs. A said it was deafening. About that time, Donald meandered on in, heard the tumult upstairs and came rushing up to see what was going on. He was able to calm Ron down. (In fact, we're pretty sure he's one of the only aides Ron will listen to. From what we've been told, Donald has quit his aid job on several occasions only to be begged to come back because he's the only one who can deal with Ron.)
The second incident takes some setting up...
Sometimes the library staff comes in early to take care of administrative concerns or to clean. While in early, it's quite common to hear the sound of someone trying to open the front door. This happens several times a morning as, it seems, no one in town is capable of reading the posted hours prominently positioned on the door itself and they always try the door anyway before scratching their heads in confusion and driving off. One day, though, Mrs. B, my fellow liberry ass., was in early and was sweeping the walk outside when she saw a seemingly mentally healthy patron walk up to the front door and try to get in. After he failed to open the locked door, Mrs. B saw him notice and read the posted hours. Then he stepped back onto the sidewalk and walked around to the back door which she had left unlocked. He opened it and went in. Mrs. B followed and said, "Excuse me, sir, but we're not open yet." He said, "Oh, I know. I just wanted to come in anyway."
Ron did much the same last week but at least he has the whole mentally handicapped thing as an excuse. This time it was Mrs. C who was in early. Again, she said she heard someone try the front door, then a few moments later she heard the back door open followed by the sound of footsteps walking upstairs, no doubt pausing by the magazine rack to snatch up a few fresh and as yet unripped magazines, and then on into the upstairs room and over to the favorite ripping table. A few minutes later, Donald rolled up and knocked on the door to ask if Ron was in.
"Well, someone came in the back and went upstairs," Mrs. C said. It then took Donald 20 minutes to coax Ron into leaving, with much caveman barking as the soundtrack.
That was all over the past two weeks.
Being Weird Wednesday, yesterday, though, Ron had to come in. This time Donald was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the aid who was with him was brand new and very very green as to the ways of Ron: The Ripper. As soon as they reached the top of the stairs, we could hear Ron start in with the caveman barks. They lasted for a few minutes until both Ron and his new aid came back downstairs and quickly departed. The new aid looked quite embarrassed.
Mrs. A, who was upstairs at the time, later described what happened. As soon as Ron began barking, Green-Aid became horrified and began saying things like, "Ron! No, Ron. You don't scream in the library, Ron. Ron, be quiet. Ron, this is not how you're supposed to behave!" This, of course, just fueled Ron's fire, turning up the volume and forcing their flight.
Evidently the local mental health social services agency, Unobstructed Doors, has mandated that its aides take their mentally handicapped clients to the library and have put it on their schedules of things to do. We're happy to have them, but something about mentally handicapped patrons being force-marched into the library, whether they want to come or not, makes me uneasy.
We have a group of mentally handicapped patrons whose aides bring them in like clockwork every Wednesday around 2 p.m. The group varies in size from week to week, but there have been weeks where nearly all four tables upstairs have been full. Now again, I'm not complaining. Most of these patrons seem to enjoy coming to the library and that's good. However, there's one of them who on more than one occasion has thrown a screaming fit upstairs. And when I say "screaming fit" I'm talking a blood curdling screaming fit. You'd think the girl was being murdered, and I've rushed up the stairs (nearly breaking my ass despite our new sign) to make sure she wasn't. She's not. She just gets fed up with being there or is in some other way offended and just opens up at full squall to protest. This happened yesterday and the whole crew had to leave shortly thereafter.
Meanwhile, there's always Ron the Ripper...
When Ron turns up at the library, he usually turns up alone at first. This is because his primary aid, Donald, is a firm believer in giving Ron as much space and freedom as possible. Donald usually takes Ron to the Unobstructed Doors office downtown, tells him to go to the library and sets him free. Ron walks up the hill to us and Donald follows a few minutes later at his leisure. Now, freedom and space is all well and good, but between the time Ron hits the door and Donald shows up, Ron can rip up quite a few magazines. And Donald, despite our many pleas, doesn't care to check and make sure Ron isn't ripping our good magazines.
While I was out of town there were a couple of Ron incidents.
Mrs. A, our head liberrian, said that Ron came in one morning and went right upstairs to his favorite ripping table as usual. I don't know if someone had beat him to the table or not, but Ron got upset about something and began doing his usual loud caveman bark. It sounds like "Unnnngh! Unnnnnnnngh!! UNNGNGGHHHHHG!!!" only much louder. Mrs. A rushed upstairs and put her finger to her lips to shush Ron. Ron, however, is incapable of being shushed. He firmly knows that caveman barking is unacceptable behavior and he longs for someone to shush him just so he'll have an excuse to turn the volume up to 11. This he did. Mrs. A said it was deafening. About that time, Donald meandered on in, heard the tumult upstairs and came rushing up to see what was going on. He was able to calm Ron down. (In fact, we're pretty sure he's one of the only aides Ron will listen to. From what we've been told, Donald has quit his aid job on several occasions only to be begged to come back because he's the only one who can deal with Ron.)
The second incident takes some setting up...
Sometimes the library staff comes in early to take care of administrative concerns or to clean. While in early, it's quite common to hear the sound of someone trying to open the front door. This happens several times a morning as, it seems, no one in town is capable of reading the posted hours prominently positioned on the door itself and they always try the door anyway before scratching their heads in confusion and driving off. One day, though, Mrs. B, my fellow liberry ass., was in early and was sweeping the walk outside when she saw a seemingly mentally healthy patron walk up to the front door and try to get in. After he failed to open the locked door, Mrs. B saw him notice and read the posted hours. Then he stepped back onto the sidewalk and walked around to the back door which she had left unlocked. He opened it and went in. Mrs. B followed and said, "Excuse me, sir, but we're not open yet." He said, "Oh, I know. I just wanted to come in anyway."
Ron did much the same last week but at least he has the whole mentally handicapped thing as an excuse. This time it was Mrs. C who was in early. Again, she said she heard someone try the front door, then a few moments later she heard the back door open followed by the sound of footsteps walking upstairs, no doubt pausing by the magazine rack to snatch up a few fresh and as yet unripped magazines, and then on into the upstairs room and over to the favorite ripping table. A few minutes later, Donald rolled up and knocked on the door to ask if Ron was in.
"Well, someone came in the back and went upstairs," Mrs. C said. It then took Donald 20 minutes to coax Ron into leaving, with much caveman barking as the soundtrack.
That was all over the past two weeks.
Being Weird Wednesday, yesterday, though, Ron had to come in. This time Donald was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the aid who was with him was brand new and very very green as to the ways of Ron: The Ripper. As soon as they reached the top of the stairs, we could hear Ron start in with the caveman barks. They lasted for a few minutes until both Ron and his new aid came back downstairs and quickly departed. The new aid looked quite embarrassed.
Mrs. A, who was upstairs at the time, later described what happened. As soon as Ron began barking, Green-Aid became horrified and began saying things like, "Ron! No, Ron. You don't scream in the library, Ron. Ron, be quiet. Ron, this is not how you're supposed to behave!" This, of course, just fueled Ron's fire, turning up the volume and forcing their flight.
Sunday, December 07, 2003
Benign Legion of Liberry Rogues
Friday was a really boring day at the "Liberry." During the course of the day, we were actually visited by nearly the entire membership of the current Liberry Rogues Gallery, including Ron the (Magazine) Ripper, Chester the (Potential) Molester and both Mr B-Natural (the Grumpiest Old Man in all the World) and Mr. Smiley (the Second Grumpiest Old Man in All The World). Unfortunately, there was narry an incident of misbehavior or even anything interesting out of any of them to report.
In fact, the closest thing to an incident we had was when Mr. B-Natural told me that his puppy, Bubba, had recently given him the gift of a slightly soggy, though still edible, Milkbone dog biscuit and insisted that he take it no matter how many times he threw it away. Mr. B-Natural carried it with him in his pocket, just to show to people. This might strike you as a strange thing to do, but I personally think it's very cute. Plus, it's actually a big step in Mr. B's evolution toward becoming Not Quite the Grumpiest Man in All The World. The dog has mellowed Mr. B-Natural quite a bit, and anything that can accomplish that is a good thing in my book.
Mr. Smiley is still the Second Grumpiest Man in All The World, but he seems to like me so he doesn't give me any crap. This is probably due to my never having had cause to give him any. As far as I can tell, Mr. Smiley has some anger-managment issues. Unfortunately for the purposes of this blog, most of his glory days of raising hell at having his Wallstreet Journal reading time disturbed by even the slightest sound seem to be over. And it's been nearly a year since he caused an elderly lady to fall half-way down the stairs due entirely to his own deep-seated rudeness. No, these days Mr. Smiley seems to be taking an active interest in not being so grumpy. He even tries to be nice, on occasion. It's such an alien behavior for him that he just can't get the hang of it and it always comes off as just wrong and creepy.
I covered Ron the Ripper earlier in this blog's archives, (though I still haven't revealed his secret identity).
And Chester the (potential) Molester? That sick bastard is a whole other post entirely...
In fact, the closest thing to an incident we had was when Mr. B-Natural told me that his puppy, Bubba, had recently given him the gift of a slightly soggy, though still edible, Milkbone dog biscuit and insisted that he take it no matter how many times he threw it away. Mr. B-Natural carried it with him in his pocket, just to show to people. This might strike you as a strange thing to do, but I personally think it's very cute. Plus, it's actually a big step in Mr. B's evolution toward becoming Not Quite the Grumpiest Man in All The World. The dog has mellowed Mr. B-Natural quite a bit, and anything that can accomplish that is a good thing in my book.
Mr. Smiley is still the Second Grumpiest Man in All The World, but he seems to like me so he doesn't give me any crap. This is probably due to my never having had cause to give him any. As far as I can tell, Mr. Smiley has some anger-managment issues. Unfortunately for the purposes of this blog, most of his glory days of raising hell at having his Wallstreet Journal reading time disturbed by even the slightest sound seem to be over. And it's been nearly a year since he caused an elderly lady to fall half-way down the stairs due entirely to his own deep-seated rudeness. No, these days Mr. Smiley seems to be taking an active interest in not being so grumpy. He even tries to be nice, on occasion. It's such an alien behavior for him that he just can't get the hang of it and it always comes off as just wrong and creepy.
I covered Ron the Ripper earlier in this blog's archives, (though I still haven't revealed his secret identity).
And Chester the (potential) Molester? That sick bastard is a whole other post entirely...
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Good Omens
Today it rained. Not just a little rain, mind you, but a heavy torrential downpour that lasted most of the day. Because it rained a whole bunch last week, the ground was still pretty saturated so the rain had nowhere to go, leading to serious flash flooding throughout southwest West Virginia. There are surrounding communities that are mostly under water. To paraphrase one of our patrons today, "Where there were fields, there are now ponds. Where there were ponds, there are now lakes. Where there were valleys, there are now rivers. And where there were rivers... well, you'd better just stay the hell away from the rivers." Fortunately, my wife and I live on top of a tall hill, so we're at least high if not dry.
What does all this talk about rain have to do with the "liberry," though? Well, rainy days tend to bring in some of the stranger and more colorful patrons we have. I guess it's mostly because there are very few dry outdoor activities when it's raining, so if people aren't at work and don't want to stay home they can either come to the library or go to Wal-Mart. Which is cheaper?
We have a fairly wide range of mentally handicapped patrons, who mostly come in with aides from the local Unobstructed Doors group. And when it's raining, the aides don't have that many options open for places to take their clients, so they come to the library. I'm not complaining in the slightest. I'd say 95 percent of them are great folks and a joy to work with. However, it's that remaining five percent that's a bit tricky.
Enter Ron the Ripper. Ron is in that five percent. In fact, he's most of it. Ron's a roundish, bearded fellow with a permanent mischievous grin and the wild eyes to accompany it. Ron's not precisely retarded, but he's certainly not independent. He's a lot like a really big three-year old, but without the vocabulary.
I first encountered Ron a couple of years ago when he began stomping around the library while belching at the top of his lungs and laughing about it. You'd think with my own belch history I might appreciate this, but I just don't.
In addition to the belching and having a penchant for subjecting everyone he sees to obnoxiously loud primal caveman growls, Ron's favorite pastime is tearing up our magazines. He does this by rapidly flipping through the pages, backwards and forwards, repeatedly, until there is no magazine left to flip through. He laughs and laughs and primal growls the whole time. It's an amazing sight to watch, if only for the vicarious joy of seeing someone have so much fun. As far as we've been able to determine, it's the only reason he comes to the library. It is his passion. It is his way of life.
We've tried to accommodate Ron by providing him with a large stack of donated magazines he can destroy at will, so he doesn't make for our brand new magazines. Doesn't matter. Ron knows which ones he's not supposed to touch and makes it a point to attack them first thing through the door. We've pleaded with his aides to keep an eye on him but I don't think they really put in much effort at doing this. If they try to take the new magazines from Ron, he starts primal caveman growling at them progressively louder until they back down or until one of us comes upstairs to see what's the matter—then he primal growls at us. Some even send him into the library alone while they stay outside to smoke. Ron always makes a beeline for the magazine rack and then we have to follow him around trying to get him to relinquish them, which always ends in more primal growling and, once, a very minor physical assault upon my person.
Some of the other employees, and indeed his aides, are a little scared of him. He's definitely a wild-card, but fairly harmless, unless you're a magazine.
He was in today, which seemed a good omen toward my blogging future. After all, with guys like Ron walking the earth there will never be any shortage of material.
And, of course, there's always the tale of Ron's Secret Identity. I'll have to get to that one of these days.
What does all this talk about rain have to do with the "liberry," though? Well, rainy days tend to bring in some of the stranger and more colorful patrons we have. I guess it's mostly because there are very few dry outdoor activities when it's raining, so if people aren't at work and don't want to stay home they can either come to the library or go to Wal-Mart. Which is cheaper?
We have a fairly wide range of mentally handicapped patrons, who mostly come in with aides from the local Unobstructed Doors group. And when it's raining, the aides don't have that many options open for places to take their clients, so they come to the library. I'm not complaining in the slightest. I'd say 95 percent of them are great folks and a joy to work with. However, it's that remaining five percent that's a bit tricky.
Enter Ron the Ripper. Ron is in that five percent. In fact, he's most of it. Ron's a roundish, bearded fellow with a permanent mischievous grin and the wild eyes to accompany it. Ron's not precisely retarded, but he's certainly not independent. He's a lot like a really big three-year old, but without the vocabulary.
I first encountered Ron a couple of years ago when he began stomping around the library while belching at the top of his lungs and laughing about it. You'd think with my own belch history I might appreciate this, but I just don't.
In addition to the belching and having a penchant for subjecting everyone he sees to obnoxiously loud primal caveman growls, Ron's favorite pastime is tearing up our magazines. He does this by rapidly flipping through the pages, backwards and forwards, repeatedly, until there is no magazine left to flip through. He laughs and laughs and primal growls the whole time. It's an amazing sight to watch, if only for the vicarious joy of seeing someone have so much fun. As far as we've been able to determine, it's the only reason he comes to the library. It is his passion. It is his way of life.
We've tried to accommodate Ron by providing him with a large stack of donated magazines he can destroy at will, so he doesn't make for our brand new magazines. Doesn't matter. Ron knows which ones he's not supposed to touch and makes it a point to attack them first thing through the door. We've pleaded with his aides to keep an eye on him but I don't think they really put in much effort at doing this. If they try to take the new magazines from Ron, he starts primal caveman growling at them progressively louder until they back down or until one of us comes upstairs to see what's the matter—then he primal growls at us. Some even send him into the library alone while they stay outside to smoke. Ron always makes a beeline for the magazine rack and then we have to follow him around trying to get him to relinquish them, which always ends in more primal growling and, once, a very minor physical assault upon my person.
Some of the other employees, and indeed his aides, are a little scared of him. He's definitely a wild-card, but fairly harmless, unless you're a magazine.
He was in today, which seemed a good omen toward my blogging future. After all, with guys like Ron walking the earth there will never be any shortage of material.
And, of course, there's always the tale of Ron's Secret Identity. I'll have to get to that one of these days.
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