So I explained the whole deal with why we need the driver's license number to the Old White Woman. The OWW, of course, then reiterated having been told never to give hers to anyone at all. And rather than resorting to obstinate insistence as her weapon of choice, she instead played a different card and began blinking up at me pitifully, as though hoping I might reconsider doing my job out of sympathy.
While I understood her concern for identity protection, as far as I could see the choice was very very simple: she could either give us her number and get a card, or she could decline to give her number and we would then decline to issue her a card. I'm so completely sick of people—Old White Women especially—who insist we treat them differently than everyone else because they have a wild hair up their ass about something. Some of my fellow employees give in to such behavior, which has ALWAYS come back to bite them. I, however, would not be doing so.
I explained again to the OWW that we really did need the driver's license number before we could issue her a card. The OWW looked worried, then concerned. She then opened her wallet to its card section and started to write something in the license blank, presumably her number from her license within the wallet. Then she stopped, seemed to think better of it, scratched out what she'd started to write and withdrew the pen.
"I don't have my license with me, today," she said. Said it to my very face, she did. "Could I just call you with it from home?"
I was staggered at how dumb she thought I was. And while, on rare occasions in the past, we've allowed people to phone us with their license when they didn't have it on them, (and who the hell are all these people driving around without their %#$&ing licenses?) this lady would not be receiving that treatment. If she was allowed to leave the building without supplying it, we'd never hear of it again.
"No, ma'am," I told her.
"So I can't check anything out, then?" she said pitifully.
I began then to explain the rules of cause and effect to her, in only the politest of terms, when I was interrupted by the other Old White Woman, who stepped up to her friend's defense.
"Well, TOWN-C doesn't require a driver's license."
"Yes, ma'am, they do," I said.
Her eyes flashed, perhaps that I had dared deny the truthfulness of her claim.
"No, they don't," she said.
"Yes, ma'am. They do," I said, again remaining polite. "They're part of the same library consortium that we are and are required to take exactly the same information that we do."
The OWW thought on this and then admitted that maybe it was replacement cards they didn't require it for, as she'd recently had her card replaced there. And since she had her replaced card on her person at that very moment (Way to go, OWW!) she would simply allow her friend to check out materials on it. That was fine by me.
The above transaction took around five minutes and was actually still in progress when other patrons began to pile up behind the crew. Mrs. B took some of them at the auxiliary circ computer, but more kept coming. Some of them were giving me the stink eye, probably for not just giving in to the Old White Women's demands and speeding things along. They were even less thrilled when Tool T-Shirt finally got his application filled out and passed it over for his own card, not to mention ICP and the third kid, who were also standing there with books.
As I was processing Tool T-Shirt's card, there was a shout from the back of the line.
"Is this the line for the desk?!" a third Old White Woman said very loudly. She was standing next to a fourth, not-quite-so-Old White Woman, perhaps an apprentice. Ah, the third wave had hit and at last the storm of OWWs had reached perfection.
"Yes, ma'am," I said. I gestured to the four deep line of people directly in front of her. "I'm afraid we're a bit busy, so it may be a moment before we can help you. We have to go one person at a time." The OWW didn't huff, but looked like she really wanted to.
Soon, I had Tool T-Shirt's card finished and his book checked out. I was amazed the OWW hadn't given me crap for the fact that we didn't require a driver's license from him, but being as how he didn't have one maybe she did the math herself. I took care of the checkouts for the rest of her crew and they started to depart. And in her defense, before she left the desk the first Old White Woman thanked me for my courtesy.
The third Old White Woman was actually more of the typical loud, demanding and fairly unpleasant variety, but she held it in check for the most part. She too wanted a library card. And while she did have a license on her and was willing to supply it, she was also a recent transplant to the area and still had an out of state license with her former address. As we require proof of local address, I thought she was out of luck. She then supplied a small white name card, printed with her local contact information. Wow, she was truly an Old School OWW. I decided to let that serve and she soon left with a library card and, no doubt, some satisfaction at having won the day.
We learned later that the boys who came in with the first two OWWs were not their grandchildren at all but were actually residents of one of the local homes for troubled youth. Which means the local homes for troubled youth have now taken to employing Old White Women as minders for the troubled youth rather than the hulking linebacker types they've traditionally employed.
And that, my friends, is an astounding example of true genius at work.
Showing posts with label Troubled Youth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Troubled Youth. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
The Perfect Storm of Extremely High-Maintainance, Needy, Old White Women (PART 1)
This is a tale from a few weeks back—a tale in which my co-worker Mrs. B and I were assaulted by a perfect storm of extremely high-maintenance, needy, Old White Women.
The afternoon had been going well enough until that point. We'd wrestled with the heating system, weathered a brief downpour of innanet patrons and survived the sinful temptations of a king-sized Snickers bar left in our possession by Mr. Rob, the librarian at the community college. Then, the doors opened and the first assault of Old White Women marched in.
There were two OWWs in this first wave, accompanied by a small battalion of high school-aged boys, who I initially took to be grandchildren. The OWW's didn't make trouble right away. Instead, they fell back, allowing their footsoldiers to approach the circ desk.
One of the boys, a stout lad who was dressed as though he aspired to be "Metal" but was not quite pulling it off, asked me if we had the book ICP: Behind the Paint.
"Insane Clown Posse?" I asked, shocked that the ICP were even still alive, let alone making albums or warranting books written about them. Even more shocking was that I knew what the acronym stood for without having to ask.
"Yeah," the kid said.
"No, we don't have that," I said, without even moving a finger toward the OPAC. I knew there was no way in hell Mrs. A had ever ordered that book. I then glanced at one of the kid's two fellow foot soldiers, a boy of no more than 16 who was somehow clad in a t-shirt advertising Tool's album Undertow. I began to wonder if maybe this whole group had slipped through a hole in the space/time continuum from, say, 1997.
They lurked away and the Old White Women followed them.
We thought the attack was over, but that had only been the first wave.
After fifteen minutes or so, one of the two Old White Woman returned with books on tape. Now, I'm not sure what she actually said when she approached because it was noisy around the desk, but the phrases "I don't have my card" and "look me up" were clearly heard among the other words I couldn't make out. I explained politely that we did require an actual library card to check out items. She seemed a little confused at this, though, so I began to inwardly question what she had actually said before. It might have been something like "I don't have my card so you're going to have to look me up" or could have been more of a, "I'm not sure if I'm still in your system, I don’t have my card, could you look me up and see if I need to get a new one?”
“Um… Do you have a card with us?” I asked.
“I… I did have a card. I don’t know,” the woman said.
“Well, I can look you up to see if you’re in the system, but I can’t check anything out to you without a card. Or a replacement card,” I added. I looked her up. Oddly, she didn’t have a card at all, meaning if she did at one time she was now one of the remaining holdovers from the old pre-2004 system. I "liberry"-ninja-flipped her an application and a pen. Meanwhile the boys returned to the desk each with selections. Tool T-Shirt really really wanted some book he'd found and was trying to demonstrate his excitement about it to the OWW. He'd read the first page and everything and loved it! The first OWW told him he could get his own card after she'd received hers.
I started in making her card, that is until I reached the blank line where a driver's license number should go. She might be an Old White Woman, but she didn't look old enough to have never had one nor to have had hers taken away yet. I asked her about it.
"Oh, do you really need that?" she asked. "My credit-protection service warned me never to give it out."
I'd been waiting for this moment. I'd seen it coming. And here was where I would make my stand.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
The afternoon had been going well enough until that point. We'd wrestled with the heating system, weathered a brief downpour of innanet patrons and survived the sinful temptations of a king-sized Snickers bar left in our possession by Mr. Rob, the librarian at the community college. Then, the doors opened and the first assault of Old White Women marched in.
There were two OWWs in this first wave, accompanied by a small battalion of high school-aged boys, who I initially took to be grandchildren. The OWW's didn't make trouble right away. Instead, they fell back, allowing their footsoldiers to approach the circ desk.
One of the boys, a stout lad who was dressed as though he aspired to be "Metal" but was not quite pulling it off, asked me if we had the book ICP: Behind the Paint.
"Insane Clown Posse?" I asked, shocked that the ICP were even still alive, let alone making albums or warranting books written about them. Even more shocking was that I knew what the acronym stood for without having to ask.
"Yeah," the kid said.
"No, we don't have that," I said, without even moving a finger toward the OPAC. I knew there was no way in hell Mrs. A had ever ordered that book. I then glanced at one of the kid's two fellow foot soldiers, a boy of no more than 16 who was somehow clad in a t-shirt advertising Tool's album Undertow. I began to wonder if maybe this whole group had slipped through a hole in the space/time continuum from, say, 1997.
They lurked away and the Old White Women followed them.
We thought the attack was over, but that had only been the first wave.
After fifteen minutes or so, one of the two Old White Woman returned with books on tape. Now, I'm not sure what she actually said when she approached because it was noisy around the desk, but the phrases "I don't have my card" and "look me up" were clearly heard among the other words I couldn't make out. I explained politely that we did require an actual library card to check out items. She seemed a little confused at this, though, so I began to inwardly question what she had actually said before. It might have been something like "I don't have my card so you're going to have to look me up" or could have been more of a, "I'm not sure if I'm still in your system, I don’t have my card, could you look me up and see if I need to get a new one?”
“Um… Do you have a card with us?” I asked.
“I… I did have a card. I don’t know,” the woman said.
“Well, I can look you up to see if you’re in the system, but I can’t check anything out to you without a card. Or a replacement card,” I added. I looked her up. Oddly, she didn’t have a card at all, meaning if she did at one time she was now one of the remaining holdovers from the old pre-2004 system. I "liberry"-ninja-flipped her an application and a pen. Meanwhile the boys returned to the desk each with selections. Tool T-Shirt really really wanted some book he'd found and was trying to demonstrate his excitement about it to the OWW. He'd read the first page and everything and loved it! The first OWW told him he could get his own card after she'd received hers.
I started in making her card, that is until I reached the blank line where a driver's license number should go. She might be an Old White Woman, but she didn't look old enough to have never had one nor to have had hers taken away yet. I asked her about it.
"Oh, do you really need that?" she asked. "My credit-protection service warned me never to give it out."
I'd been waiting for this moment. I'd seen it coming. And here was where I would make my stand.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Try the 364s, kid.
A group of girls from one of the local homes for troubled youth arrived, in care of two female guardians. One of the guardians explained that the girls all needed cards so we proceeded to pass out applications and watched as they each tried to figure out what the address of their troubled youth home actually was.
I've noticed a few consistencies that take place during visits from the boys and girls of the homes for troubled youth—y'know, beyond the whole factor of their frequent loss of our materials. One of the ones I've noted before, didn't come up during this particular visit. Another, though, is that in any group of troubled youth applying for new library cards, at least half of them will already have cards in our system. This is to be expected, as many of them are from counties elsewhere in our consortium. But they never EVER actually have their cards with them, which prompts our usual speech to their guardians about how they can't check out anything unless they first purchase a replacement card. The guardians—whose job, I realize, is difficult and which I do not envy—do not want to hear this because they just finished promising these kids a trip to the library to get lots of free stuff. They then try to negotiate with us to waive our $1 fee for replacement cards, or, as was the case with this most recent visit, say, "Can't you just look them up and let them check stuff out anyway?"
"Not without a library card."
"You just said they had cards."
"Yes, they were issued cards. But they actually have to have them here in order to check out books," I said.
"But we're from TROUBLED YOUTH HOME. We don't have money for cards. Can't you just look them up in the computer?"
"No."
"Can't they just check out books anyway?"
"Not without a card."
"But we're from TROUBLED YOUTH HOME. We don't..."
(Repeat as many times as needed)
The other major consistency of their visits seems to be a little more gender-based. With the boys from the homes for troubled youth, we rarely have any problems. They check out books about wrestling, or Nascar, science-fiction novels or Harry Potter. Okay, sometimes the boys have been caught smoking in the boysroom, but that seems to be the extent of any worrisome behavior from them. The girls are a more disturbing bunch by far, but I can't quite tell if it's behavior of the genuinely disturbed or if it's behavior calculated to appear genuinely disturbed. Each time a group of them visits at least one of the girls will ask for either the Anarchist's Cookbook (as I've noted before) or will ask ask for books about serial killers. Every. Single. Time.
Even more worrisome, during this most recent visit, the girl who wanted the book about serial killers wouldn't ask for it herself but instead had their guardian ask for it on her behalf. And then the guardian had to check it out on the guardian's own card because the girl in question didn't have hers, nor a dollar to pay for a replacement.
That's, like, a danger sign, isn't it? When your charge is trying to bone up on killing people and they're a resident in a home for troubled youth, that's like the very sort of thing their guardians are supposed to be vigilant about, right? They're supposed to discourage that kinda behavior, correct? I only ask because after five years in this place my sense of normalcy has become a bit warped.
I've noticed a few consistencies that take place during visits from the boys and girls of the homes for troubled youth—y'know, beyond the whole factor of their frequent loss of our materials. One of the ones I've noted before, didn't come up during this particular visit. Another, though, is that in any group of troubled youth applying for new library cards, at least half of them will already have cards in our system. This is to be expected, as many of them are from counties elsewhere in our consortium. But they never EVER actually have their cards with them, which prompts our usual speech to their guardians about how they can't check out anything unless they first purchase a replacement card. The guardians—whose job, I realize, is difficult and which I do not envy—do not want to hear this because they just finished promising these kids a trip to the library to get lots of free stuff. They then try to negotiate with us to waive our $1 fee for replacement cards, or, as was the case with this most recent visit, say, "Can't you just look them up and let them check stuff out anyway?"
"Not without a library card."
"You just said they had cards."
"Yes, they were issued cards. But they actually have to have them here in order to check out books," I said.
"But we're from TROUBLED YOUTH HOME. We don't have money for cards. Can't you just look them up in the computer?"
"No."
"Can't they just check out books anyway?"
"Not without a card."
"But we're from TROUBLED YOUTH HOME. We don't..."
(Repeat as many times as needed)
The other major consistency of their visits seems to be a little more gender-based. With the boys from the homes for troubled youth, we rarely have any problems. They check out books about wrestling, or Nascar, science-fiction novels or Harry Potter. Okay, sometimes the boys have been caught smoking in the boysroom, but that seems to be the extent of any worrisome behavior from them. The girls are a more disturbing bunch by far, but I can't quite tell if it's behavior of the genuinely disturbed or if it's behavior calculated to appear genuinely disturbed. Each time a group of them visits at least one of the girls will ask for either the Anarchist's Cookbook (as I've noted before) or will ask ask for books about serial killers. Every. Single. Time.
Even more worrisome, during this most recent visit, the girl who wanted the book about serial killers wouldn't ask for it herself but instead had their guardian ask for it on her behalf. And then the guardian had to check it out on the guardian's own card because the girl in question didn't have hers, nor a dollar to pay for a replacement.
That's, like, a danger sign, isn't it? When your charge is trying to bone up on killing people and they're a resident in a home for troubled youth, that's like the very sort of thing their guardians are supposed to be vigilant about, right? They're supposed to discourage that kinda behavior, correct? I only ask because after five years in this place my sense of normalcy has become a bit warped.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Where's Jan Brady when you need her?
There are a couple of homes for wayward youth in the area. They send
groups of their kids out on field trips into the real world and occasionally
these lead them to the library.
These visits have been a bit of a tricky situation for us in the past, as we have to walk a fine line with them. We want to encourage their rehabilitation as much as we can by allowing them to check out books and videos. However, doing so is a risky gamble since our stuff often fails to come back by its due date, or indeed at all. These kids are usually only at the home for x number of weeks and many of them don't seem to mind taking our materials with them when they go. Or, they "lose" them, at which point they begin claiming that they "brought them back already" and we still never see them again.
The administrators of the homes in question have historically been unsympathetic to our plight. One of the homes even received a banning due to their poor attitudes about the borrowing/stealing behavior of their residents. They were only allowed to return once Mrs. A established with them that they, the administration of the homes, were in fact responsible for returning all our materials to us. It's still probably a 60/40 success ratio, skewed toward those who do return our material, but at least when the kids don't bring stuff back the home now pays for the lost items.
So yesterday, in walked a group of around seven 15-17 year-old boys from one of the homes. Nearly every one of them had a book or two and came up and plunked it down on the circulation desk, under the watchful gaze of their daytrip supervisor, an enormous muscle-bound man who looked like he could take the whole lot of `em using only his steely no-nonsense expression. They quickly spread throughout the "liberry" to search for new stuff to borrow. I was just thankful they all already had cards--well, except for one of them, who managed to lose his card since they were in last and didn't appreciate the $1 we were going to charge him for a replacement card.
About this time, Mrs. C decided to take her lunch break, leaving me and Mrs. J to run the ship by ourselves. I didn't really like this, but I also couldn't really say why since we almost never have trouble from the group home kids while they're actually IN the library. It's only after they leave with our stuff that the trouble usually occurs.
They behaved, as far as I could tell, though. The group stayed for around fifteen minutes and a few of them found things to check out. When it was time to go, their pro-wrestler-looking supervisor herded them up and back to the van they obediently went.
A few minutes later, I went back to the computer hallway to log off the vacant computers. I'd done one of them and was nearly finished with the second when I realized that the familiar smell my nose was detecting was not actually familiar to the library.
*SNIFF*SNIFF*SNIFF*
Yep. It was definitely coming from in-house and seemed to be stronger near the stairs. I ascended and the smell became even stronger. I went into the non-fiction room. The only people there were a lone patron and Mrs. J. I didn't think the smell was coming from them. Besides, it seemed to diminish in the non-fiction room.
I turned around and traced it back to the top of the stairs, then into Mrs. A's office, then into the private staff restroom, the door of which was left open, the light of which was left on. That's where the smell was at its most concentrated.
Someone had been in there and... (*ADOPTS BEST JAN BRADY VOICE*)... they were SMOking!
If the smell of smoke hadn't been enough of a clue, there were ashes on the toilet seat to back it up. My guess is at least two of them had been in there. (After all, what fun is it to be bad and rebellious and take a smoke break in the library all by yourself?)
Mrs. J had smelled it too, but couldn't figure out where it was coming from or who had been doing it. She also seemed to think it smelled like marijuana, but I assured her it was most likely Marlboro.
Mrs. C was unhappy about this when she finally returned. I asked her if she knew which home that group had come from and she did. She phoned them up and advised the administrator she talked to that the entire library was most definitely a non-smoking facility.
Course, now the kids will probably all get in trouble. I just hope our library materials don't bear the brunt of any revenge they seek upon us.
These visits have been a bit of a tricky situation for us in the past, as we have to walk a fine line with them. We want to encourage their rehabilitation as much as we can by allowing them to check out books and videos. However, doing so is a risky gamble since our stuff often fails to come back by its due date, or indeed at all. These kids are usually only at the home for x number of weeks and many of them don't seem to mind taking our materials with them when they go. Or, they "lose" them, at which point they begin claiming that they "brought them back already" and we still never see them again.
The administrators of the homes in question have historically been unsympathetic to our plight. One of the homes even received a banning due to their poor attitudes about the borrowing/stealing behavior of their residents. They were only allowed to return once Mrs. A established with them that they, the administration of the homes, were in fact responsible for returning all our materials to us. It's still probably a 60/40 success ratio, skewed toward those who do return our material, but at least when the kids don't bring stuff back the home now pays for the lost items.
So yesterday, in walked a group of around seven 15-17 year-old boys from one of the homes. Nearly every one of them had a book or two and came up and plunked it down on the circulation desk, under the watchful gaze of their daytrip supervisor, an enormous muscle-bound man who looked like he could take the whole lot of `em using only his steely no-nonsense expression. They quickly spread throughout the "liberry" to search for new stuff to borrow. I was just thankful they all already had cards--well, except for one of them, who managed to lose his card since they were in last and didn't appreciate the $1 we were going to charge him for a replacement card.
About this time, Mrs. C decided to take her lunch break, leaving me and Mrs. J to run the ship by ourselves. I didn't really like this, but I also couldn't really say why since we almost never have trouble from the group home kids while they're actually IN the library. It's only after they leave with our stuff that the trouble usually occurs.
They behaved, as far as I could tell, though. The group stayed for around fifteen minutes and a few of them found things to check out. When it was time to go, their pro-wrestler-looking supervisor herded them up and back to the van they obediently went.
A few minutes later, I went back to the computer hallway to log off the vacant computers. I'd done one of them and was nearly finished with the second when I realized that the familiar smell my nose was detecting was not actually familiar to the library.
*SNIFF*SNIFF*SNIFF*
Yep. It was definitely coming from in-house and seemed to be stronger near the stairs. I ascended and the smell became even stronger. I went into the non-fiction room. The only people there were a lone patron and Mrs. J. I didn't think the smell was coming from them. Besides, it seemed to diminish in the non-fiction room.
I turned around and traced it back to the top of the stairs, then into Mrs. A's office, then into the private staff restroom, the door of which was left open, the light of which was left on. That's where the smell was at its most concentrated.
Someone had been in there and... (*ADOPTS BEST JAN BRADY VOICE*)... they were SMOking!
If the smell of smoke hadn't been enough of a clue, there were ashes on the toilet seat to back it up. My guess is at least two of them had been in there. (After all, what fun is it to be bad and rebellious and take a smoke break in the library all by yourself?)
Mrs. J had smelled it too, but couldn't figure out where it was coming from or who had been doing it. She also seemed to think it smelled like marijuana, but I assured her it was most likely Marlboro.
Mrs. C was unhappy about this when she finally returned. I asked her if she knew which home that group had come from and she did. She phoned them up and advised the administrator she talked to that the entire library was most definitely a non-smoking facility.
Course, now the kids will probably all get in trouble. I just hope our library materials don't bear the brunt of any revenge they seek upon us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)