Jumpin' Gene (PART III)

At some point during Gene's detailing of his rock & roll heritage, my ears tuned out again. Probably when my fight or flight skills kicked in and I began plotting clever ways to escape.

If only I'd had the good sense to leave my cell phone in silent mode, I could have reached into my pocket and touch dialed the front desk, allowing me to escape to go answer it. Better yet, I should have had the foresight to program the number into one touch dialing! Then again, Ms. D was still at the desk and would likely have answered the phone before I could move.

While Gene wasn't looking, I glanced back at Ms. D over my shoulder, hoping to catch her eye and, using only my eyebrows, give her the international sign-language for &%$*ING COME SAVE ME!!! She was still engaged talking to a patron, though, and didn't look up.

Meanwhile, Gene was still climbing up through limb after limb of his family tree. Eventually, and I shit you not about this, he was able to show me what he thought was proof that he was not only related to Elv!s, as he'd already shown, but was also related to L0retta Lynn. Ah, so he was related to both rock and country music royalty.

Unfortunately for Gene, ten minutes had now sailed by with all the speed of the Pigot Glacier and my good will with him had run out. Why had I thought being nice would get me anywhere? I was much happier back when I was steely and rude and all Shields Up with him.

Even as he was talking to me, I began to edge away from him, positioning my body in such a way that it was practically facing back toward the circ desk, a less-than-subtle indication that this was the direction in which I was hoping to move. Gene kept on. In fact, even though only a little of what he was saying was actually making it past my boring-ass-lecture filters, I could tell that Gene had actually moved on from the subject of his own geneal0gy and had now started telling me the details of a completely different family he wasn't related to in any way! Not only that, but the details he was conveying were about the family history of another patron. I can only presume he was doing this to somehow show the superior nature of his own family history in comparison. This must be how geneal0gists in the wild establish which of them will be the dominant alpha geneal0gist of the pack.

"Hah hahhhh! My Elv!s trumps your Joey Bishop. The more comfortable computer chair is mine!!"

(Whoa! I was trying to pull the name of one of the lesser members of the Rat Pack for that reference and found that my choice of Joey Bishop just died yesterday. OooooWEEEEOOOO! NOTE FOR BIRTHDAY LADY: February 3, 1918.)

Through a series of hand gestures, pointing back toward the desk, I was eventually able to escape Gene's clutches and return to what I hoped was the safety of the circulation desk. It still didn't feel safe enough, though, so I hid in the staff workroom, leaving the desk to Ms. D. Unfortunately, she left for the day soon after and I was forced out of my darkened hidy hole. I should have started programming my phone right then, for Gene was not done with me. On two occasions over the course of the evening he attempted to engage me in lectures again. The first time he spied me attempting to shelve some books and beckoned me over. At first I thought he was finally asking me to help him attach a file, so I went over only to have him say "You want to see something interesting" as I got within his field of power. I was able to escape fairly quickly, but vowed to not leave the desk again. So on the second attempt, Gene came up to the desk bringing printed pages of "something interesting" to show me there. I went all glassy eyed and stone faced in an attempt to fend him off and he left after only a minute.

I soon took to lurking just inside the door to the staff workroom, where I could see approaching patrons, but Gene could not see me. Eventually, I was able to come out of hiding, not because Gene left, but because an older couple he knew had entered the building. They often come in together to check email and, being in Gene's general age-bracket and having at least a minor interest in geneal0gy, are frequent victims for his lecture traps. I like to call them, Mr. and Mrs. Alternative Target. I boldly came out of hiding to watch the action.

Gene spied them and pouched. Mr. Alternative Target, being a gentleman, stepped into the attack zone, allowing Gene to seize upon him and his wife to escape unharmed. She retreated to the comfy chairs to read the newspaper while her husband was being mauled. The mauling went on for some time, throughout which I moved freely about the floor, safe in the knowledge that I was now immune from attack.

Apparently, the internet was not big enough to contain the lecture and Gene wound up leading Mr. Alternative Target to our local history room to continue. He looked SO happy. At this point, Mrs. Alternative Target bravely attempted to save her husband by stepping near the door to the local history room and interrupting Gene to alert her husband to the fact that they needed to leave soon. Unfortunately, Gene's power increases in the presence of dusty old tomes and Mr. Alternative Target was mired but good no matter how visibly impatient she looked. She stepped over to the circ desk.

"That man is certainly... interested in family history," Mrs. Alternative Target said to me.

"He sure is," I said.

"I suppose it's good to have something you can be passionate about like that."

"I suppose so."

Not long after the Alternative Target family finally made their escape, Gene left too. He seemed tired after such a long day, but very happy all the same.

The next morning, I related the tale of my evening to my coworkers. I also told them of my plan to program my phone to dial the desk in emergency situations. Mrs. A suggested we also needed to set up a series of signals we could give one another in order to facilitate rescue in case any of us were caught in Gene's vortex of boredom. Stomping our feet, Mr. Ed style seemed the most popular of the possible signals we could use. However, the signal we adopted was Mrs. C's suggestion: If any staff member sees any other staff member engaged in conversation with Gene we are to immediately run over and save them by any means necessary.

The simple solutions are always the best.

Jumpin' Gene (PART II)

Having made my decision to have a good attitude in my dealings with Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine, I greeted him warmly when next he darkened our door. And Gene, for his part, seemed to notice my good mood. In fact, he seized upon the opportunity to mention that he was looking to take one of the genuine long lost relative pictures he'd been emailed him and resend it to his daughter. He wondered if, perhaps, I might show him how to attach it to an email later.

"Whenever you're ready to send it, come get me and I'll show you how to do attach it," I said cheerfully.

That was pretty early in the day. Throughout much of the remaining six hours Gene was with us, I kept waiting for him to call me over to do the attachment. I was actually looking forward to putting my best face on it and being a helpful and service-oriented "liberry" ass. instead of the spiteful, passive-aggressive one I'd been lately.

Around 6 p.m., when only I and Ms. D were still on shift, Gene finally called me over to his computer. I should have been alarmed when I saw that his screen wasn't immediately open to his email account, but no warning alarms sounded within my head. Even when he uttered his familiar and usually terrifying phrase, "Let me show you something interesting," I still somehow was not afeared. Only when he clicked to a new window and I saw the branches of a family-tree pop up on the screen did I finally scent danger.

"Look here..." he began, and immediately trailed off into his latest geneal0gical discoveries.

Oh %#$&ing heck, I thought. I've just allowed myself to be willingly lured into one of Gene's patented geneal0gy lecture traps!!

And indeed as I thought it, it sprung shut around my foot.

For months now, I and the rest of the staff have kept a very Shields-Up policy when dealing with Gene. We try not to make eye contact. We try not to linger in proximity to him. We try not to speak to him in anything but the most clinical and utilitarian of language. For we know if we allow him even the smallest of openings, we'll be trapped in geneal0gy lecture purgatory until one of the other staff members can emergency dial Zelda Rubenstein and she can come and pull us from Gene's deadlights. (Just to mix my Poltergeist metaphors with my Stephen King's IT metaphors.)

Even before my forced good mood, however, I suspect we've gotten a bit lazy about our Shields Up policy. Now that we have more than three computers at our disposal, there have been zero occasions when Gene has had to wait around until a computer came free and he's therefore had no cause to inflict such lectures on the staff in order to motivate us to get him a computer faster. Recently, though, Mrs. J and Mrs. B have become mired in Gene-land by being too friendly too close to him and now it was my turn to suffer.

I braced myself for this earthly equivalent of Vogon Poetry and hoped I could find an excuse to dash away or, more likely, to claw my way across the carpet, prone and nearly lifeless. Alas, there was no readily apparent excuse to do so. Sure, there were people at the circ desk, but newbie Ms. D had them neatly in hand—damn her ungreenhorn-like efficiency and natural ability!

Then something Gene said caused my ears to actually turn on and listen. It took them awhile to overcome their natural aversion to boring-ass-lectures, but if I was hearing correctly, I could have sworn Gene had just proven a lineage trace to someone who had actually been interesting.

"You're related to... Elv!s?" I asked, just to be clear. Gene gave me an odd look, for he'd clearly just told me that, albeit in long-and-rambling-begat form.

"Yeah," he said, and pointed back to the screen where there was a detailed family tree showing how Elv!s's people had come originally from North Carolina and then a branch of them had gone to Mississippi where the king himself was eventually born. This seemed interesting enough for the moment, so I listened as he did more begats. Minutes crawled by.

(TO BE CONCLUDED...)

Jumpin' Gene (PART I)

I decided that I've had something of a bad attitude about my job as of late.

(*COLLECTIVE GASP* "No!!!")

Yes, yes. I know it is difficult to accept, but it is indeed true. I have had a bad attitude at times, particularly when it comes to dealing with Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine.

Okay, sure, Geneal0gy People are among the most irritating of all the patron archetypes—what, with their frequent whining about your library's lack of vital research documents, such as a complete archive of all county and state obituaries, passenger manifests for every ship that crossed any given body of water from the years 1476 through 1957, and, of course, a complete and accurately-researched geneal0gy record for their entire family, and all. But it's also very easy to get annoyed with those who don't whine, especially when they spend as many hours per day hard at their own research as Gene does, not to mention constantly tormenting the staff with tales of their boring-ass ancestry. Still, even all of that should not be cause enough for staff members to be rude to the Geneal0gy People, even if said Geneal0gy People have decided to take their irritation a notch further.

Case in point, Gene recently purchased a jump drive because somebody told him he should. It's actually not a bad idea, because instead of printing out a ream of paper per week, as Gene does, he could simply save all those important online documents he finds to his drive and explore them later. Gene doesn't quite see the logic in this, though. No, mostly what he wants to save are pictures of his long, lost, dead relatives that have been scanned and emailed to him by other long-lost yet recently-found, not-yet-dead relatives. Unfortunately, and despite my best efforts to kill the rumor, I've developed a reputation around the "liberry" as the go to guy for tech questions, so Gene always comes to me for help.

So, one day I showed Gene how to save things to his jump drive.

The next day, I had to show Gene how to save things to his jump drive again.

The next day, I showed Gene a third time.

And so the pattern went, with me becoming increasingly irritated about it the more times I had to show him.

Part of my irritation was that each time I showed Gene how to save images, he kept trying to make the process far more complicated than it actually is. He would open all such tutorial sessions by complaining about his inability to see his picture in advance of saving it. I repeatedly tried showing him how to choose OPEN from the selection provided by the download menu, but, depending on which computer station he was seated at, nothing tended to happen when he did this. This further cemented the complaint in his mind and the irritation in mine. And the more irritated I became, the more it showed in my voice and manner, which surrounding patrons could no doubt detect too. (Granted, they were all probably very sympathetic to me, having been on the receiving end of Gene's lengthy lectures about the intricacies of his family tree, not to mention how interesting the life of his great aunt Loofie had been, many times themselves. But still.)

The other major annoyance was that only one of the images he asked me to help him save was actually of a relative of his. The rest were just odd internet flotsam; like a picture of three dogs against a field of blended colors, or a texture tile jpeg. Gene couldn't figure out why the long-lost relative he'd been corresponding with had chosen to send these to him, and he was angry that she was wasting his time. He was also angry that each and every one of her emails to him had at least two such images attached.

During our third tutorial session, after I'd showed him how to save an image that turned out to be animated smiley faces, I finally realized that the lady wasn't intentionally attaching any images at all, but had set her email account to include them as part of her signature file or as backgrounds for the email itself. I nearly laughed out loud at this, and it fortunately served to diffuse my anger at having to deal with Gene, for I had been about to strangle him.

I then explained the concept of Signature File Crap to Gene and told him to ignore those images unless a third image was attached titled with the name of one of his relatives. He seemed satisfied by this. In fact, Gene seemed downright apologetic over the next couple of days. Whenever he came in, he'd be sure to tell me how he'd attempted to save a few things again and he thought he might have even gotten it right. "I'm still learning," he'd say.

That's when I started to feel bad about my own behavior and decided to adopt a better attitude toward Gene. There was no reason to be pissy with him. No matter how many hours he might spend hogging up our computers per day, he's still pretty green to computers. I really should be able to help him do whatever he needs to do without ire, if for no other reason than it's my damned job.

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

Creep Sweep Blues

I only recently began closing on Fridays again, but wouldn't you know that first one I was scheduled for would coincide with me having some place else I was supposed to be come our closing time of 7p. Not wanting to trade out with Ms. M (who I already owe for numerous previous trades) or Ms. D (who was working the rest of the weekend) I decided to just work extra hard to get all my crap done early so I could depart as close to 7 as possible (i.e. get Gene off the damn computer at least 10 minutes til close). I figured I could do it, as the place I had to be was nearby.

Shortly into the last hour of my shift, a lady patron came in. A minute later, another lady patron, a friend of the first, came in and they saw one another. The two apparently had not spoken in ages, so they went into the nonfiction stacks and conversed most of the hour away while browsing, usually in front of the section where I was looking to shelve books.

About fifteen minutes until 7, they wrapped up their conversation, the first lady checked out some books and then departed. The second lady, still tucked deep in the stacks, slipped out of my mind entirely and I forgot she existed. After all, I was busy trying to get Gene and the computer users to relinquish their computers so I could shut them down and clean up all their grubby fingerprints. Soon they were all gone, the building was completely quiet and I was at last able to finish my crap in peace.

Minutes later, when I went out to unlock the book return, I noticed a vehicle still in the parking lot. I was pretty sure I was alone in the library, so I wondered if the vehicle belonged to someone who had simply parked in our lot to walk elsewhere in the area. Didn't seem likely, as we're not exactly located conveniently near anything of interest, but stranger things have happened. I locked the front door and proceeded to finish writing down the stats for the day.

Normally when closing alone, I do a creep sweep of the entire building, moving along one side of the nonfiction stacks, eyeing each aisle and every nook and cranny, then checking young adult to make sure the Coot hasn't fallen asleep in the comfy chairs there again. Then I circle back around to the other side of nonfiction, then through reference, cross the main floor, check the mysteries and general fiction stacks before cutting past large print books and into the juvenille and easy reader sections, pop in for a check of the restrooms and then head downstairs for a quick once over. However, on this particular night, due to my need to be elsewhere and my false confidence that I was the only person in the building, I decided to forego those steps. For a moment, I did consider activating our intercom system to announce we were closed, just in case the owner of the vehicle outside was indeed still in the building and was, perhaps, downstairs, but I couldn't remember how to activate it, so I just gave up and shut off all the lights.

"Ahhh!" a female voice called from the nonfiction stacks.

"Oh. Oops," I said, flipping the lights back on.

"I take it you're closing?" the voice called again.

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, I thought I was alone."

The second lady from earlier came out with her selection of books and apologized for being so quiet in the library. I apologized for nearly locking her in, checked out her books and sent her on her way.

Then, so as not to make the same mistake twice, I went ahead and did the creep sweep of both floors, found no one and hoofed it out the door myself.

Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #97

SETTING: My "liberry" as a female patron approaches the circ desk.

PATRON— Can you help me? I just did an email on one of your computers, but when I tried to go to it I can't.

(I pause to try and interpret what she has said, but find my inner-Patronese translator doesn't seem to be functioning.)

ME— Um. What was that again?

PATRON— I just did an email on your computer, and I need to see if they got it, but it won't let me.

(Pause.)

(Nope still no translation. The closest I get is that this is yet another patron who has activated our non-functioning MS Outlook and has sent a non-email into the ether.)

ME— I'm sorry. I think you need to show me what you're talking about, because what you're saying doesn't match up with what I know about email.

(Goes to computer where patron brings up the login screen of Yahoo Mail and points to the login username and password blanks.)

PATRON— I just set up this email and it won't let me look.

ME— Ohhhh. You set up an email account.

PATRON— Yeah.

ME— I see. Okay. Well, do you have your username and password?

PATRON— Uh huh. But when I type it in, it takes me to this page...

(Points to screen again which I now notice is Yahoo's "This ID is not taken yet" page, indicating a misspelled or otherwise incorrect username has been tried.)

PATRON— I typed in Hamdinger_Heaven291@yahoo.com (not her real address) but it won't take it.

ME— Just try Hamdinger_Heaven291 by itself. That's your username. You don't need the rest. Then do your password below that and it should work.

PATRON— Ohhhhhh. Okay. (Starts a typin'.)

ME— Um, be sure to do the underscore.

PATRON— The what? Oh... Oh, yeah.

(I leave. Minutes later, she's back.)

PATRON— This thing is still not letting me do this!

(I return to her machine.)

PATRON— It's saying there's no Hamdinger_Heaven291@yahoo.con. It's saying .con, not .com, but I typed .com!

ME— Looks like a typo.

PATRON— Yeah, it did to me too, but I typed .com!

(I started to return to my earlier theme of how she needed to type neither Yahoo.com nor .con in order to access her email account when I happened to notice that the address that was actually written on her piece of paper was Hamdinger_Heaven291@hotmail.com.)

ME— Wait. Do you have a Yahoo email account or a Hotmail account?

PATRON— Well, I was trying to get into Yahoo.com but it won't...

ME— (Holds up hand, then starts to pull out own hair with it. Voice strains to remain calm...) All... I need... to know... is if you signed up for... a Hotmail account... or a Yahoo account.

PATRON— I… I… (Pause) Can you tell?

(She hands me another piece of paper, a copy of an email she'd evidently sent earlier from a Hamdinger_Heaven291@hotmail.com.)

ME— Looks like Hotmail. But you're on Yahoo's page.

PATRON— I know. I tried to go to Hotmail and it took me here.

(Ah, another victim of the seemingly random tendency for our computers to ignore all possible avenues leading to Hotmail except typing "msn.com." She probably did type in Hotmail.com and it took her to a Yahoo search engine by default. I ask her to type MSN.com into the address bar and then choose Hotmail from there. Once she types in her correct username and password she was in.)

PATRON— I'm so sorry.

ME— That's okay. Don't feel bad. It's not like MSN goes out of its way to make things easy.

No, seriously, we don't take those.

A lady came huffing and puffing through our double doors, lugging a medium-sized box which she set on the circ desk.

"I've brought you a box of donations," she said.

"Oh. Thank you very much," I said. One flap of the box was open and allowed me a limited glimpse into the box itself. There I could see a row of books that looked remarkably close in size and shape to text books.

"Are some of these text books?" I asked.

"They're all text books," the lady said.

"Um... I'm sorry, but we don't accept text books," I said. "We don't take donations of Readers Digest condensed books and we don't take text books."

The lady stared back at me, but was not angry at my dismissal of her gift. "Yes, that's what the woman I spoke to on the phone said. But," she added, adopting a hopeful tone, "she said you could sometimes get rid of them for us?"

No, what the woman she'd spoken to on the phone had probably said was that if we received any text books we would just throw them away. Not the same thing, but I could now see her angle on this. This lady wasn't thoughtfully donating books she thought we could use; she clearly knew we wouldn't use her text books. Instead, the idea of throwing them away herself was so repulsive that she was intentionally passing her moral book-dilemma on to us. She had already been told that we would throw them away, but if she didn't have to be there to see it then it somehow wasn't as bad. It's like the practice of loading one gun in a firing squad with blanks; she's allowed to live in a world where she can hope that maybe, just maybe, we took pity on those books and added them to our collection despite policy. This is, after all, the primary reason people donate so many boxes of moldy, rat-gnawed, estate-sale books to us: because they can't bear to throw them out. And it's why our annual book sale is such a public service. We throw out a vast quantity of books most years, but the public is spared the horrors of seeing us do so.

In retrospect, I probably should have been Mr. Cool, taken the lady's text books, patted her on the shoulder and assured her we would take good care of them. I could then have put the box out by the garbage and she could have gone on living in her happy, sunny, little candy-colored world, where all books are loved and have cozy homes and get snuggles and treats. Yep, that would have been the Mr. Cool move to make. But I wasn't feeling like Mr. Cool. I'd had a bad afternoon of it already and had just spent several tense minutes trying to teach Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine how to use his #%&*ing jump drive, YET AGAIN, and was not in the mood to coddle anyone. She'd turned up knowing full well that we didn't accept what she was bringing and she could therefore throw her own books away.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't know who you talked to, but our policy is that we do not take text books."

The lady looked a little sad, but gave me a sheepish grin and hauled her box away.

"Mr. Stanky? Is that you?"

The Stankmobile was in our parking lot when I arrived for work today. And here I was hoping for a good day.

I entered the building, expecting to be hit about the face and neck with Mr. Stanky's reek. Surprisingly, though, the air smelled fresh. I crept to the workroom door to peer out at the computers and spied Mr. Stanky seated about mid way down the row. Other computer patrons were seated to his immediate left and right. They were also conscious. I still detected no foulness on the wind.

Then I noticed that Mr. Stanky's hair had been trimmed and combed and his usual sweat-soaked/stained t-shirt had been replaced with a blue-green colored suit coat. Upon closer, yet still distant inspection from the other side, I saw that he was also wearing a shirt and tie, which looked rather crisp.

Mr. Stanky had apparently undergone one of his quarterly hosedowns. It's a rare occurrance, that we've noticed in only about one out of every ten visits he pays us. And as pleasant as it is not to be attacked by his stench, it's also sort of disconcerting. It's like you're encountering the Mirror Universe version of Mr. Stanky, where he's a fine, upstanding and lemon-scented citizen. Of course, this illusion doesn't hold up so well if you get too close to him. No matter how scrubbed and polished he might seem at first, his foulness is so pervasive that he usually has some degree of contact stench left over from his house.

Still, I'll take any amount of relief I can get when it comes to him.

Dear Fatty Manchild...

... I realize that you are far too busy surfing the internet to be bothered to answer your cell phone. On most occasions, I might even respect this. However, whoever is phoning you clearly wishes to speak with you in a most desperate manner, for they have been phoning and rephoning you once per minute for the past eight minutes, allowing each ring cycle to ring its fullest. And while we currently have no anti-cell phone policies preventing you from allowing your phone to ring ad infinitum, I must take issue with your decision to do so, as opposed to simply turning it off or declining the calls. I say this, because your decision to allow your phone to ring so frequently has meant that the rest of us have been subjected to repeated performances of your ringtone choice of Kid Rock's "Bawitdaba" at your phone's top volume.

One very practical and satisfying method for muffling that noise comes immediately to my mind, sir. Pray I don't entertain it further.

Yours with malice,

--juice

My Ass: Fate Gives in to Temptation and Takes a Second Bite

It is of course well known that careless talk costs lives... or, at least, sanity.

I tangentially referred to Chester the (Potential) Molester in my post on Friday morning. Not even a name check, but a link to a name check. So, naturally, he had to turn up at the "liberry" later in the day. Since this rarely fails to happen when he is referred to in any way, I should probably just make it a rule to stop referring to him in any way. Now that the spell has been cast and completed, however, here's what happened...

Chester strolled in shortly after 5, when I was the only staff member on duty and thus unavailable to shadow his every move throughout the building. Fortunately, he didn't start casing the joint for underage girls and came right over to me at the circ desk, moving with ease and fluidity despite the unconcealed look of hatred and death I was beaming in his direction. (Others have withered beneath the power of my gaze, but Chester has been infuriatingly immune to it.)

Care to take a guess what Chester asked me for?

Why, yes, you are correct: Yet another #%$&ing FAFSA form!

Course, it took me a couple of tries to actually understand what he was asking for, because of his traditional low mumbling and general refusal to speak up and enunciate, but a FAFSA form it was.

I told him we didn't have any and that I hadn't seen any for months. This was completely true. And it's not that we don't like having FAFSA forms available for our patrons, it's just that our lack of forms is almost entirely due to Chester having taken ALL of them during previous visits. (I suspect he's making an underage papier-mâché sex doll out of them.)

Chester mumbled something about the community college library being closed for the evening, hence why he sought them from us. Then he asked for a computer.

My major dilemma in giving him a computer was that the only two available computers were near another one being used by a high school-aged girl. My choice was to either seat him diagonally across from her, where he'd have a good line of sight on her, or I could seat him directly next to her where he'd be directly next to her. I opted to put him across from her.

I lurked at the desk, watching him like a hawk—albeit a hawk who's seriously considering becoming a vegetarian, cause the prey around here is unappetizingly bloated and gamey-looking and tends to wear ratty knit hats. During my surveillance, I never saw Chester at the girl at all. And from what little I could see, his web-surfing seemed to be limited to sports-related sites and nothing Chris Hanson might be able to bust him for. (Now there's an episode of Dateline I would love to see!)

Chester left after around 10 minutes without further incident and without his precious FAFSA form. And while I will now shut up talking about him, so as to avoid repeat visits, I suspect he might make another appearance soon because his arrival reminds me that we need to warn Ms. D about him and he will no doubt be summoned by the forthcoming mention of his name.

Actual Creepy Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #96

My hope that we'd not see Mr. Creepy Guy for another 20 years lasted only a week. Holy shit, is that guy creepy! And this time, I got to see some of it first hand.

There were already bad omens of his return a day or two back when I heard Mrs. B discussing Mr. Creepy Guy with Mrs. A. Okay, first off—and I cannot stress this enough—if there's one basic rule I've learned when it comes to creepy assed patrons and keeping them away, it's: DON'T SAY THEIR NAME, IT ONLY GIVES THEM POWER!!! Time after time, and example after example, I've seen unsavory and unwanted patrons magically appear at the sound of their own name. This particular discussion of Mr. Creepy Guy arose because of issues over his permanent address on his patron record. It seems he doesn't have one and, much as Mrs. A predicted, truly is living in his car. Still, he had a valid card issued by a neighboring branch, so we apparently let him check out a book anyway.

Today he appeared in a puff of brylcream fumes to return his book. As he passed it to me to check in, he was all genial smiles and actually seemed, at first, to be a fairly normal and not necessarily creepy soul. I'd assumed his thinning mane of slicked hair was dyed due to its raven-black sheen. However, if you're living out of your car, can you really afford Just for Men? Maybe I'm wrong on that point.

Mr. Creepy Guy asked if there was a pay phone in the building. There is not. Generally, we let patrons use our desk phone if it's just a short call, but I didn't want him using our phone, so I suggested a pay phone down the street. Mr. Creepy Guy then asked if he might use our desk phone if he paid for his call. I had to then admit that, yes, this was possible, as long as it was a local call. While I was saying this, though, the phone rang, Mrs. B answered it then passed the receiver to Mrs. A, who happened behind the desk at that moment. I told Mrs. B that Mr. Creepy Guy needed to use the phone. And while I didn't spell it out, I was pretty sure the indication that Mr. Creepy Guy should have to wait his turn and use the desk phone only after Mrs. A was finished with it went without saying. Apparently, though, it did not and I should have spelled it out. I was, however, busy trying to find an excuse to get away from the desk myself and grabbed some books to go shelve.

I returned from shelving, less than a minute later, to see that Mrs. A was off the phone but Mr. Creepy Guy was nowhere to be seen. At first I assumed he'd left or gone to the can. Then I heard his voice, looked around the corner and saw him in the staff workroom, seated at Mrs. B's desk, yacking away on her extention.

ME— (In low voice to Mrs. A) Why is MR. CREEPY GUY in the staff workroom?

MRS. A— I don't know. (Turns to Mrs. B) Why is MR. CREEPY GUY in the staff workroom?

MRS. B— (Looks deservedly guilty) Well... you were on the phone... so I told him he could use... my phone.

(Long pause)

ME— That's not a good idea. (Pause) At all.

MRS. A— No. It's not a good idea at all. You'd better watch him like a hawk. He's a con-man and he'll steal us blind.

ME— (Looking at Mrs. B with hurt expression) My stuff's in there.

Immediately, I went into the workroom and made my presence known. It sounded as though Mr. Creepy Guy was trying to confirm that someone had received a change of address request from him, switching from General Delivery to a P.O. box. As I pretended to do something with my computer, I glanced down and noticed that the top page of my Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist note cube atop my desk contained the exact description of Mr. Creepy Guy's woody station wagon as well as his full real name. I'd been standing in that very spot almost exactly one week before, taking down the description while scoping out his car through the window. And I'd written his real name at the bottom of it just in case he shot me dead during my proposed attempt to sneak out and jot down his license plate number. Good thing Mrs. B had put him at her desk instead of mine. I removed the page and put it in my pocket.

Mr. Creepy Guy finished up his call and stood up. He thanked me for the use of the phone and said he'd pay us 50 cents, as that's what it would have cost him at a pay phone. Not making eye contact with him, I told him he didn't need to do that, but he insisted, so I told him he could pay Mrs. B.

MR. CREEPY GUY— What's your name?

(Pause)

ME— JUICE.

(Why couldn't I have just said, "Cecil"?)

MR. CREEPY GUY— Good to meet you, JUICE.

And there followed another pause, but I refused to turn away from my screen for fear of being offered a paw to shake.

Mr. Creepy Guy left the room, returned to the proper side of the circ desk and paid Mrs. B his 50 cents. What I next heard him say, however, I was scarcely able to believe, even while hearing it with my very own ears.

MR. CREEPY GUY— (To Mrs. B) What's wrong with you?

MRS. B— What do you mean?

MR. CREEPY GUY— Well, yesterday you looked beautiful...

(Wait for it... WAIT FOR IT...)

MR. CREEPY GUY— ...but today you look plum gorgeous.

(And the world shudders at the concentrated power of his skeeviness.)

MRS. B— I think you need to get your eyes checked.

Mr. Creepy Guy ended the above exchange by telling us all to have a nice day. He then went and fell asleep in a comfy chair by the window, where he snoozed for nearly a full hour. We don't have any policy against sleeping in the library, cause it so rarely comes up. However, if we'd had a policy against it, I don't think any of us would have enforced it then. I'd much rather have him asleep and quiet than awake and chatty.

Additional Rogue Returns

Wow, it's a banner couple of weeks for returning stinky patrons!

I was no sooner through our front door, arriving for my afternoon shift, when I spotted an old rogue at the computers. We've not seen, nor better yet smelled, the Sweatiest Woman in all the Land (ne the Uriniest Woman in all the Land) for nigh on three years.

After the first two years of her absence, I had begun to wonder if she'd moved away or, perhaps, passed away. However, I spotted her in a restaurant several months back and knew she was still around.

One question popped into my mind: Was she still as putriffically stinky as before? Did I dare risk walking near enough to find out?

No. No, I did not dare to.

Soon the Sweatiest Woman in all the Land departed.

After much procrastination, during which no other employee made a move to go log off her computer, it was left to me to do. This I did, holding my breath as I walked over, only risking a test sniff after I'd successfully ordered the computer to reboot.

Yep. Still sweaty and/or uriney.

Joy.

I'll take "Captains Who Didn't Date Toni Tennille" for $.79 cents, Alex.

And now, the fashion report:

Cap'n Crossdresser dropped by. His outfit was a blue denim sundress and pink shirt.

I didn't get a look at his shoes.

That is all.

Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #95

*RING*

ME— Tri-Metro County Library?

CALLER #1— Yes, I'd like to renew some books.

ME— Okay. Can I have your library card number, please?

CALLER #1— (Long pause) Oh. Oh, I didn't realize I would need that. Let me find it.

*CALL WAITING BEEP*

CALLER #1— (Rumaging) I've never needed it before.

ME— Could I put you on hold for a moment?

CALLER #1— Yes.

*FLASH*

ME— Tri Metro County Library.

CALLER #2— Can I renew books over the phone?

ME— Sure thing. I just need your library card number.

CALLER #2— (Long pause) Oh. I didn't realize I would need that. I never have before. Let me find it...

Grrrrrr.

Mr. Creepy Guy

While walking across the parking lot on my way in to work, I noticed a man seated at the drivers seat of a woody station wagon, smoking a cigarette through its open door. The guy had backed his car into the parking space so that the rear of the woody was practically touching the embankment beyond the space itself. The guy was wearing some sort of uniform top, the kind with the name embroidered on the breast. I didn't see what company it was for. I figured he was probably just not a "liberry" kind of guy and was waiting for someone else, perhaps a wife, to finish browsing.

An hour later, while talking to Mrs. B, Mrs. J came up and pointed out the window.

"You see that man in that old beat up car out there?"

I looked out and was surprised to see that the rusted woody station wagon was still there, its driver still smoking behind the wheel. Mrs. J then said that she'd had an encounter with the man in the library that morning. He'd been sitting at one of our tables when Mrs. J happened to walk by him. The man stopped her and asked what her name was, so she told him. He told her that he remembered her. Then he grinned real big and added, "I just love how you talk. I just love to hear it."

In his defense, Mrs. J does have a distinctive, countryfied way of speech about her, but this didn't stop her from being creeped out by him. She quickly went back to her shelving. Later on, though, she noticed him staring at her and when he caught her eye he started grinning again in a manner she found most unsettling.

I found this to be pretty creepy too and my paranoid nature began to take up the threads of the story in my mind. The hood of the guy's car was pointed almost directly at the front doors of the "liberry," where he'd have the vantage point for watching people come and go. What if he was out there waiting for Mrs. J to leave for the day so he could follow her home? Sure, he would have had no idea she got off work at 2, but the fact that he was still there at all might mean he was willing to wait however long it took.

"Hey, if you need someone to walk you to your car, I'll do it," I told her. Mrs. J said she just might. Then I realized how awful I would feel if after I'd walked her to her car, Mr. Creepy Guy just started his engine and followed right behind her. How could I keep him from doing that? Fake a seizure and jump on his hood?

Mrs. B was thinking along the same lines, and told Mrs. J, "I could go out and start my car first, drive in front of his then pretend like I forgot something and just park it there while I searched, letting you get away."

"Yeah, that would work!" I said.

We then stood there, staring out the window at Mr. Creepy Guy, wondering what he was up to. I thought about going out there and writing down his license number. It would be hard to do this subtly, as he was parked with his license facing away. I'd have to climb the hill behind him in order to see the back end of his car at all and he's surely see me doing that. I didn't really care if he saw me, though, because it would at least send the message to him that we were keeping an eye on him.

Before attempting this, I thought it might be best to alert the boss. I went to Mrs. A's office and told her there was a creepy dude out in the parking lot.

"Yeah, that's MR. CREEPY GUY," she said, using his real name.

"You know him?"

"He's a con man and a creep and you should never take your eyes off him." The tale she then spun was of a patron who is essentially an old rogue from back in the early `80s, when Mrs. A was just a "liberry" ass. herself. At the time, Mr. Creepy Guy used to come in and try and sweet talk the female staff, thinking himself as charming as a James Garner type, or—dare he think it—a Burt Reynolds type, but failing miserably at it. In addition to being a prototypical-Red Alert, dude was also a full participant in any get-rich-quick or pyramid scheme of the day and would attempt to rope others in as well. And—extra-creepy bit here—at one point Mr. Creepy Guy was an official suspect in a local murder but managed to avoid being charged due to lack of evidence.

I told Mrs. A that he had been eyeing Mrs. J earlier and that we were trying to find a way to sneak her out to her car without him following her home.

"Oh, he's not waiting for MRS. J," she said. Mrs. A explained that Mr. Creepy Guy tends to prefer girls far younger than Mrs. J's sexagenarian status. He is also well known for sitting in his car in front of area establishments, smoking for hours at a time. She wasn't worried. Still, if Mr. Creepy Guy needed defeating, Mrs. A was glad to help out. She and Mrs. B devised a plan wherein the two of them would go outside together and walk out to Mrs. J's car. Meanwhile, Mrs. J herself would sneak downstairs and out the back door. Mrs. B would start Mrs. J's car and drive around back out of sight of Mr. Creepy Guy, where Mrs. J would then take the wheel and head home unseen.

It was brilliant and it worked like a charm.

Mrs. B snuck back in and when Mrs. A returned she reported that Mr. Creepy Guy had been eating lunch in his car.

"He probably lives in his car," she said.

Half an hour later, Mr. Creepy Guy entered the library. He was indeed wearing a uniform shirt with "Mr. Creepy Guy" embroidered on the front, only using the letters of his real name. He had the slicked back, thinning, dyed semi-pompadour of a Sha Na Na auditions reject. As I watched, he did a walk through from one end of the building to the other. I can't say for sure, of course, but I got the impression he was looking for Mrs. J. Not finding her, he used our restroom, left the building and drove away.

I sure hope it's another 20 years before we see any more of this asshole.

Dear Community College Student in Your Mid 40's...

...you clueless, clueless thing, you. 

Okay, so I genuinely feel sorry that you spent over an hour typing up a paper only to have our patron computer crash on you because it didn't like the cheap-ass Wal-Mart jump drive you inserted into it at the very end of the typing process. (A cheap-ass Wal-Mart jump drive which, I might add, also crashed every other computer in the building that we used to test it further.) That was unfortunate and could not have been predicted. Fortunately for you, but disturbingly for us, the computer crash coincided with our computers collectively deciding that they all no longer wished to participate in the use of our usual patron-information-protection software, which is supposed to return each system to a blank slate and wipe out anything patrons foolishly saved to the hard drive each time the computer is logged off. Now we have to deal with people angry that their Hotmail logins come pre-filled-in for their convenience and having their complete Netflix queues available to be viewed by one and all. Happily, though, this meant that your paper was there waiting for you when we logged your computer back on for you, despite my assurances to you that it would not be. Having warned you against the use of cheap-ass Wal-Mart jump drives in our computers, we then sold you a 3.5 diskette on which you could save your paper. We even held your little hand and showed you step by step how to save your paper to it. You claimed you already knew how and did not ask for further help at the time you eventually saved it. Why, therefore, have you now returned, days later, and asked me why your paper is no longer on your disk? I have no way of saying for sure why your paper is not there. If I was to hazard a guess, I'd say you didn't save it to your disk in the first place or somehow managed to delete it afterward. However, I won't suggest that, but will instead politely give you the benefit of the doubt that it was the fault of cosmic rays, big scary monsters, or, as you have now implied, that our disk was bad and ate your file. Stranger things have happened. Oh, sure, the test file we saved onto your disk while showing you how to save stuff is still there, but I'm sure it's our disk's fault—and, therefore, our fault—that your paper is no more. 

Now, please listen very closely, for I'm only going to say this for the third time... IF YOU NEED HELP SAVING YOUR FILE TO YOUR DISK AND STILL DON'T ACTUALLY KNOW HOW TO DO IT, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, COME GET A STAFF MEMBER TO SHOW YOU HOW. Failure to do so will result in having your disk painfully inserted into your A:Drive, if you know what I mean. 

Every-so-Joyfully Yours, 

--juice

Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #94

SETTING: My "liberry" as a female patron approaches the circ-desk from the direction of our nonfiction section.

PATRON— Hi. I'm looking for Jane Eyre.

ME— Ah. That will be over in our fiction section, under Brontë.

PATRON— No, I need the biography of her. About her life.

(Pause)

ME— Um... (Pauses again to consider how best to politely break the news to her. Realizes there is no good way. Proceeds...) Jane Eyre is a fictional character in a book written by Charlotte Brontë.

PATRON— (Long pause) Oh. (Long pause) I must have misunderstood.

Mr. Stanky: The Return

A seizure of horror gripped me as I casually glanced out our front window. There, in our parking lot, was the open-sided, plywood-roofed Jeep that we know as the Stankmobile. More horrific still, it was empty, which meant its owner, one Mr. Stanky, was no doubt coming up the walk outside of my field of vision. This was the moment I'd been dreading for weeks.

Because of our recent introduction of additional patron computers, we've increased the amount of time our patrons can have at a station from a half hour to a full hour. This is almost meaningless, however, for we only enforce that time limit on the rare occasions that all the computers are full, including the 15 minute stations. Most of our regular computer patrons, such as Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine, really like the new rules since it means they potentially have no time limits whatsoever. As long as there's at least one computer available, and there usually is, they can stay on all day. The major drawback I foresaw weeks ago was that this new setup would also work to the advantage of our more tenaciously repulsive patrons, such as Crusty the Patron and Mr. Stanky. I was afeared to my very soul.

Within seconds of my Stankmobile sighting, the front doors bumped open and in he came, clad in the usual sweat-soaked, sweat-stained T-shirt and shorts, which he had, no doubt, been clad in for at least a week. I remained at the far end of the desk, away from the computer sign-in sheet, which Mr. Stanky noticed shortly and for which he made a slow lunge. I hadn't yet caught a whiff of him, and was looking to prolong the time before I was gifted with that inevitable experience.

I scurried away from the desk and went out to log him onto a computer, so that I would then have time to scurry away from the computers before he got close. But which one to put him on? There were only two people on computers at that moment, but despite the fact that one of them was Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine (who had already been on the entire morning), I politely decided to place Mr. Stanky equidistant from both computer users. Before I could get that particular machine logged in, though, Mr. Stanky was upon me. I tried to take in enough breath to sustain me back to the circ-desk, but he was too close and I wound up inhaling some of his fumes.

Sweet Melissa!! It was worse than usual, if such a thing is even possible! Had he been rolling around in a carcas all morning?!!

I made my escape, but the stench just seemed to follow me. It felt like it was not only in my nose but permeating my clothes, sticking to my skin like some sort of stank napalm. I wanted to take a shower—a nice, long, radiation-scrub shower administered with a wire-bristle brush on a long stick, Silkwood-style.

Where the hell was the Febreeze?! The Lysol?!! The Easy-Off?!!!

I retreated to the staff workroom, but the fumes followed me in there, too. Every time I took a sip of my instant tea from my hard-plastic sippy cup, my nostrils pulled in Odeur de Stanquet, nearly causing me to gag.

Unfortunately, I couldn't stay in the relative safety of the workroom because the front doors opened wide, a stream of people seeking computers began to flow through them and beyond Mrs. J, I was the only staff member not out at lunch. I tried keeping the newcomers away from Mr. Stanky, but there was only so much I could do before most other available spaces were taken. When Mrs. J took a turn at logging people on, she sat some poor kid directly next to Mr. Stanky despite the fact that the 15 minute station furthest away from him was available. It would have been kinder to seat him beside a mace-fogger, really.

Fortunately, Mr. Stanky didn't stay the entire afternoon, but cleared out shortly after an hour. If only the lingering evidence of his presence had cleared out with him, for we were forced to share space with its slowly diminishing returns for another couple of hours still, thanking God that we'd had the good sense to order vinyl-covered computer chairs to replace the old cloth ones.

Dear Mr. Perfect...

...I realize that you are in deep, abiding and passionate love with the word processing program W0rd Perfect.

I realize that you adore this program to a degree bordering on and possibly crossing into a religious fervor.

I realize that you miss W0rd Perfect dearly, having gone so long without seeing it on the majority of our patron computers.

I realize that you feel all other word processors are lesser programs that have only come to wide use due to a conspiracy instigated by Micr0soft in which they prefer to bundle their own suite of programs with their own operating system and do their best to block all other programs from being used, even if and possibly because, as you believe, those other programs are superior in all respects to the dreaded 0ffice suite.

I realize that while your great love of W0rd Perfect is currently chaste and chivalrous in nature, I suspect you would indeed make sweet sweet love to it if only we had the technology.

I realize these things. You do not have to explain them to me... YET. AGAIN.

I now need for you to realize that while we do still have one remaining patron computer that contains W0rd Perfect, it is currently in use by Matilde the Cranky Wiccan and I will not bust her off of it merely to allow you to suckle at your lusty, Corel-spawned teat.

No.

Please also realize that while I have spoken on your behalf to my superiors and have asked if there was any chance we could see our way fit to purchase and install W0rd Perfect on all our computers, I did so not out of any service-oriented nature but merely in the hope that if we granted your wish you might finally shut the f*ck up about it. I have since been informed by my superiors that this "ain't gonna happen," which I believe I have explained to you on one previous occasion already. Purchasing said program for each of the patron computers would be costly and redundant as those computers already contain a word-processing program that is, to our way of thinking, far superior to your particular choice of unrequited visual affection, which, incidentally, blows more goats than Halle Berry's Catwoman.

Also, note that I in no way believe that granting your wish would actually accomplish our ultimate goal of getting you to shut the aforementioned f*ck up. In fact, I am fairly certain that doing so would only lead to lengthy sessions of proselytizing to the staff, and any other patrons unfortunate enough to stray too close, as to the wonderfulness of your electronic dream-bride and how unworthy Micr0soft W0rd is of sharing four of the same letters in her name.

Please also realize that I have exhausted the avenues available to me to do anything to help you and am leaving the responsibility for bothering my superiors on this particular issue entirely in your hands from this point forward. In other words, I would appreciate it if you would leave me the hell alone about it.

You should do this, if not for my sake, then for your own...

...for there is one last thing I wish you were capable of realizing, but that I know you are not...

...you, sir, have no idea the mental gymnastics I have to go through in order to keep my limbs within my control and prevent them from setting you aflame every time you bring up your favorite topic. I do not know how much longer I can stave off the commands of the voices whispering in my head. If you must return to bother me some more, please, for your own protection, do so only while wearing fire-retardant clothing. Some kevlar couldn't hurt either.

Your greatest fan for ever and ever (but only if you go away for ever and ever),

--juice

Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #93

(Setting: My "liberry" as Mr. Little Stupid approaches the circ-desk with a question.)

MR. LITTLE STUPID— How do you spell steel?

ME— Steel? As in the metal, or as in, "to steal something"?

MR. LITTLE STUPID— No. As in, "I'm steel goin' someplace."

(Pause)

ME— Oh! "Still." Sure. S-T-I-L-L.

MR. LITTLE STUPID— (Writes it down) Thanks.

I'll take "Captains Other than Jack Harkness for $800, Alex."

And now for the fashion report:

Cap'n Crossdresser was in today. He was decked out in a blue, untucked, plaid shirt, an off-tan, mid-thigh-length skirt and high, black platform-sandals.

That is all.

Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #92

SETTING: My "liberry" as an unfamiliar woman arrives at the circ desk.

ME— Can I help you?

LADY— Yes, can you tell me where your books on tape are?

(I give her directions on how to find our books on tape section. Five minutes pass by before the lady returns to the desk, empty-handed and mildly-annoyed.)

LADY— You only have books on tape.

(Pause)

ME— You asked for `books on tape.'

LADY— But I need them on CD. You only have them on cassette and I need them on CD.

(I then had to explain to her that while our books on CD collection is admittedly smaller than our books on tape section, it does exist and was, in fact, right there at the end of the books on tape section she had just been browsing. She seems doubtful, but returns for a second look.)

"Yeah, let's hire her."

An unfamiliar-looking mother and her eight-year-oldish daughter approached the circ-desk and announced they needed library cards.

I started with the daughter's card, reading the information from the form I'd had the mom fill out. As soon as I typed in the daughter's full name, our circulation system's backup warning functions kicked in and popped up a window warning me that there was a pre-existing patron record with the same name and contact information.

"Looks like we already have her in the system," I said. "She has a card listed with TOWN-C."

"Oh, yeah. We had cards there, but we've moved and we can't find them anywhere," the mom said.

I explained to her that I could make her replacement cards, but we would charge a dollar for each of them. She said that was fine and produced two bucks.

While changing the barcode of the daughter's card, I noted that there were fines in her record equalling $70. I clicked the fines window to see that Town-C had levied $35 fines for each of two videos the daughter had checked out in 2005. I pointed this out to the mom and let her know that while I could go ahead and replace her cards, we couldn't circulate anything on her daughter's card until those fines were taken care of with Town-C. Mom said she understood.

I then pulled up the mom's record to replace her barcode number and found the mom had been fined over $200 by Town-C for six books she'd not returned from 2005. I informed her of this and went ahead and printed off lists of both sets of listed unreturned items.

After studying her own list for all of two seconds, mom said, "No, no, no, we brought those back. Yes, we got the letter in the mail and we brought those..."

I held up a hand. "It's neither here or there to me. I have no control over those fines. That's between you and TOWN-C. And, like I said, we cannot check anything out to you until those fines are taken care of with TOWN-C."

The mom nodded, then immediately started back on her "we brought those back" theme, but stopped short of a full retelling, possibly because of my I've said my piece and set my foot and am now tuning you out expression.

My boss, Mrs. A, happened to walk behind the circ desk during this and saw generally what was going on with the mom and daughter. Then, perhaps sensing that the chief "liberrian" was present, the mom popped up with, "Hey, can I get a job up here? I need me a job in a place like this."

Mrs. A turned and smiled and told her we had no positions open at the moment.

The mom seemed to take no offense, but picked up the new cards I'd made for them (and which, moments after they left, I would load up with notes and warning flags indicating to anyone else in the consortium that they were to do no business with these people until their fines were paid) and departed.

"Yeah, let's hire her," Mrs. A said in a low voice as soon as they were through the door.

This probably marks the second major deadbeat patron that I've heard of to express interest in a job at the "liberry"; the first being Ma Fagin.

Attack of the S.E.W.S.

Recently, I began noticing that every time I checked our public men's restroom to make sure it was clean and stocked with necessities, the countertop around our sink was awash with water. This seemed very odd, to me, because the sink's faucets are quite tame in their water pressure and wouldn't have splashed onto the countertop without a goodly degree of help.

I theorized that we had another mystery patron on our hands, akin to the Serial Shitter. This new shadowy figure, however, could only have been known as the Serial Excessive Water-Splasher, which isn't nearly as sexy a name.

Now, granted, we're very happy that our patrons are washing their hands after making tinkle or stinky, but it's very annoying to have to mop up excess water several times per day. And, sure, our paper towel dispenser is nearly three feet away from the sink itself, requiring some degree of travel from the sink, over the countertop and a small section of floor to reach the towels. However, the fact that I'm perfectly capable of washing my hands in the very same sink without leaving even one drop on the counter would seem to indicate that this wasn't the root cause of the problem. I tried various ways of testing the sink to make sure it wasn't a defect in its manufacture, but could not recreate the water pooling effect through natural use. The additional fact water is often splashed on BOTH sides of the sink and not just the one nearest the paper towels indicated to me that someone was intentionally moistening our countertop.

Mrs. A suggested it was the doing of some of our Unobstructed Doors clients. That I would be able to accept, but for the frequency of the occurrence. This was happening not only daily, but multiple times during the day. This was the fault of a regular, which narrowed the spectrum of the search somewhat.

Right away the list of my top suspects included Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine, Mr. Little Stupid and The Coot. I was particularly suspicious of The Coot, because while Gene and Mr. Little Stupid can hog up the innanet for hours at a time, the Coot regularly stays parked in our comfy chairs by the windows for the entire day. He builds himself a little nest there, with stacks of books and magazines and personal belongings on the tables nearby. We even had a recent incident in which the Coot vanished, leaving his nest behind including his glasses and a light jacket. We searched the entire building for him, fearing he'd crawled off somewhere and died, but couldn't find a trace of him. Eventually, he walked in the front door, having gone on a stroll outside for a while, returned to his nest and remained there for the rest of the day.

Yeah, I could see the Coot splashing water. He was probably one of these people who eshewed the use of paper towels entirely, preferring either an air-dryer or, because we lack an air-dryer, to just fling the water from his hands in the general direction of our countertop. The only problem with this is that there is never water to be found on the mirror above the sink, which you would expect to find following a hand-flinging. Also problematic, the water on the countertop usually appeared in a volume that was more than could have dripped off of two hands on one try. Again with the evidence of premeditation.

Days later, I noticed the Coot was in-house and that someone had again moistened our bathroom counter excessively. I cleaned it all up and set about to keep watch on the people who went into the restroom. After a couple of hours, the Coot gathered up his belongings (leaving behind all the piles of magazines and books he'd been browsing) and departed the building. Less than 30 seconds later, he returned, stepped into the restroom for a minute, then departed for good. I bolted for the restroom. Sure enough, there was a damned lake atop our counter!

"AH HAH!" I cried in a low whipser upon exiting and making my way back to the circ-desk. "It's the Coot!"

Mrs. B looked confused until I told her the breakthrough in my investigation. She found it improbable that the Coot was the only suspect, as the ladies room seems to have its fair share of excess water splashing too.

I then dashed to find Mrs. A and tattle on the Coot. I figured she'd be up in arms, as he's one of her least favorite people, even though he no longer parks outside her office to groan and fart and sing. She wasn't surprised at the news, but said there wasn't much we could do about it. It would just be one more thing to add to the list of annoying habits this man exhibits in our presence, for several hours at a stretch, on a daily basis.

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.

Actual Conversations That Child-Aged Patrons Have Always Suspected Occur in Actual Libraries Now Ocurring in an Actual Library #91

SETTING: My "liberry." The day was otherwise quiet and peaceful until the arrival of "Danger" Ben Stout. I don't know what set him off, but Danger Ben, in short order, began running around the library at top speed, squealing in delight with the full capacity of his little lungs. It sounded as though the child had been given a Red Bull with a banana Runts chaser and then paid a lengthy visit by the Tickle-Monster, who was even then continuing to invisibly chase him. The racket this happy child was making ferociously attacked the spinal columns of every adult in the building, causing us to cringe and wish destruction upon those allowing such noise to continue unabated.

MRS. A— (Wincing at the sounds of glee reverberating from the very walls) It sounds like someone is having too much fun.

ME— Yes. (Pause) We must make it stop.

And the stars aligned (a.k.a. "The Password STILL is...")

Wow the computers were lousy with Rogues! At one point we had Matilde the Cranky Wiccan, Jimmy the Anonymous Snitch, Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine and three members of The New Devil Twins Auxiliary League of Neighborhood Kids using at the same time. This is even more impressive than last week's Rogue Constellation Alignment when Mr. Big Stupid and Mr. Little Stupid were both using at the same time.

As usual, the League of Kids descended on us in a clump to sign up for computers. I went out and logged them onto the second, third and fourth computers on one side of the computer bank, skipping the first one, a 15-minute station that I'd logged off not five minutes before. I then returned to the sign in clip-board to mark which computers I'd placed them on and make sure they'd listed their sign on times. When I turned `round again, though, I noticed that one of the kids was seated at the 15-minute station and had its desktop loaded up and everything.

Dammit! They knew the passwords AGAIN!

Okay, so it wasn't exactly a difficult password to hack, especially considering it was actually the old password that the League already knew. With all the recent computer installation and printer and password issues that have been going on, we finally got the tech guys to go in and set all the logins and passwords to the same thing and make the stations all print to the same printer. Only, the tech guys changed all the passwords back to the old old password, the same single letter it had been back before we got them to change all the passwords to my initials. The League all knew the old old password, so here they were again with free access.

Not that it really matters in the grand scheme of things, since the only reason to have passwords—y'know, beyond our whole need to wield power over people and feel all mighty and stuff—is that requiring them forces patrons to come sign in at our clip board, allowing us to both count them as computer users in our stats and to know who signed on when so we'll know who to kick off when.

I busted the kid off the 15 minute station, didn't say anything to him about knowing the password and then went to write a note to Mrs. A explaining the situation.

We've now changed all the passwords, this time to the initials of a staff member other than myself.

Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #90

(SETTING: My "Liberry" where an Early Middle-Aged White Lady approaches the circ desk.)
EARLY MIDDLE-AGED WHITE LADY— Can I have two tickets for LOCAL EVENT WE'RE SELLING TICKETS FOR?

ME— Sure thing. (Gets tickets) That will be $50.

EMAWL— (Plunks down a credit card)

ME— I'm sorry, ma'am but...

EMAWL— (Irritated, yet still making this as a statement and not an inquiry) You can't take them.

ME— I'm afraid not.

EMAWL— (Fishes in pocketbook) I don't see how you can't take them. How do you ever deal with fund-raising if you can't take them?

(Not being rude enough to say, "Most people just write us a check," I merely shrug. The lady frowns and plunks down $60 cash and I fetch her $10 change. Meanwhile her husband, a regular book-reading patron who has always been nice to us, approaches the circ desk, book selection and library card in hand.)

EMAWL— (Peers over her husband's offered card) I suppose I need a library card as well.

ME— Sure thing. I can whip one up for you quick.

(While she's filling out her application, I check out her husband's book. It occurs to me that while this early middle-aged white lady is still a good twenty years away from being "old", she's well on her way to becoming an Old White Woman all the same. She clearly has the attitude of entitlement brewing away in a great heaping kettle on the stovetop of her persona. This being the case, I know that when she reaches the line on our application requiring a driver's license, she's going to gift me with a consignment of shit. And as with most Old White Women, this consignment will not be delivered due to any sort of mistrust of giving us that particular information, but will be due to her deep-seated feeling that she, herself, should be immune from having to supply it. She'll be fine with it on a conceptual level and is probably content with everyone else in the world supplying it; she just doesn't think SHE should have to on a strictly personal level.)

EMAWL— (Reaching the driver's license blank and pausing there, pen hovering in the air, eyebrow raised...) So, if I don't have a driver's license, I can't have a library card?

(I start to explain our reasoning behind requiring that unique identification number, but can tell from her expression that nothing I have to say on the matter is of any consequence to her. My salvation comes from her husband, who at that moment interrupts her, adopting the perfect tone of a man who's not going to put up with his wife's unnecessary crap THIS time, and says...)

HUSBAND— But ya DO have one.

(I detect an icy chill in the air following this, but the Early Middle-Aged White Lady has no counter-argument that can defeat this logic. Instead, she sniffs, writes down her number and passes me the form. Shortly she departs with her new card, which I'm absolutely certain will never, EVER be used.)

Fine Free Late Arrivals

A couple weeks back, the wife announced that she knew what she was going to get me for my birthday.

"But I don't think it will get here by your birthday," she added. "Do you want to know what it is?"

"No," I said. "I want to be surprised." For you see, unlike SOME PEOPLE, I don't feel the need to pester my loved ones for hints as to what my presents are until they accidentally let something slip or allow a stay psychic impulse to float into the air where I can catch it and ruin their day by guessing my present.

So she let it go... for the moment. But did warn me that I was not allowed to go to our bank's website and snoop, for the charge would soon be appearing there. Uh huh, I thought.

On last Saturday, the day before my birthday on which we went out for my birthday dinner, the wife reminded me that while she had a card picked out, she did not yet have my gift. "It will be here Thursday," she said. "Do you want to know what it is?"

"No."

"Do you want a hint?"

"No. I don't want to guess it and make you mad that I ruined the surprise."

"You'll never guess it," she said, tauntingly.

"That's right," I said. And then demonstrated this by not guessing at all.

On the day of my birthday, she again began plying me for guesses.

"C'mon! What do you think it is?"

"No, I don't want to guess and spoil it!"

"You're never gonna guess. You would never expect this."

"Okay, so give me a hint," I said.

She was reluctant at first to even hint, but when I pointed out that I always give her hints (and she always winds up guessing anyway even though my hints are immaculate), she relented.

"It's classy," she said. "But you'll just use it for nerdness."

Well, that was no good, cause that could be said about a great many things. But it was a start. So I asked if it was something we both could use.

"Yeah," she said, though there was something in her voice that made me thing Not so much.

"Is it an item of clothing?"

"No."

I thought some more and then started putting the pieces of the puzzle I did have together. Whatever it was would probably be from a specialty store that is instantly recognizable for a single type of product; cause if it was from Amazon or eBay or an other online store, it wouldn't matter if I saw it on our bank site because just seeing the online shop's title wouldn't give away
what it was. I told this to the wife.

"No, it could still give it away," she said. After all, if it was through eBay, our PayPal payment could be listed as having been made to an online retailer, such as WhoNA, purveyor of all things nerdy and Doctor Who-related. Did she get me a Tardis cookie jar? Nah, she'd never think that was classy. (Plus it would compete for counter space with my Darth Vader-head cookie jar.)

She pestered me for more guesses as to the actual identity of the item and I gave her a few, but still she wanted one last one.

And suddenly, out of thin air, I knew what it was. It was an item from a specialized company, the very name of which is recognizable for a similar line of products that speak of both class and quality. It was something I would not have otherwise expected. It was something I would use for nerding. All the clues added up and the sum was a certainty.

"I know what it is," I said. Oh, I should have kept my mouth shut.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I can't tell you. It will ruin it."

"No. Go ahead."

I steeled myself and said, "You got me Bose headphones."

There was a long pause before she said, "I'll never tell."

I explained to her my deductions on it, noting that I had, just two weeks back, mentioned that I thought I would soon be needing a new pair of headphones as I'd accidentally dipped the right earphone of my Zen Vision's pair into the water fountain at the gym and it just hadn't sounded right since. I must have even subconsciously suspected headphones might be involved, because I nearly bought a pair of new phones while in the mall the night before, but put them back at the last second, fearing I might spoil something.

The wife continued to ply me for hints and guesses afterward, but I was pretty sure she was only doing so in order to conceal that I'd nailed it.

Yesterday, upon my arrival home from work, she presented me with a gift bag in which I found a new pair of Bose in-ear headphones. They're spectacular! The sound is just everything I'd hoped for in a headphone. They fit quite comfortably in my ears and the sound seems to be coming from somewhere in the center of my cranium.

"Do you love them?" the wife asked.

"I haven't known them long enough to love them," I said. "But I think I might be in lust."

"Trimetrcntypblicliberry?"

Not that it's any surprise or enormous feat, but Ms. D is already leagues better than Ms. S when it comes to being a newbie greenhorn "liberry" ass.

When answering the telephone, she very calmly and clearly says, "Tri-Metro County Public Library" as her greeting, and in a very pleasant tone to boot. This is in fantastic contrast to Ms. S, who consistently used as few syllables and, indeed, vowells as possible and used them at 743 mph and which sounded like, "Trimtrcntypblcliberry?"

(And yes, the only part of that train-wreck of a greeting she actually annunciated was the word "liberry" and with no trace of irony whatsoever. I've long suspected that irony as a concept was completely lost on Ms. S.)

Of course, Ms. S's greeting was still better than that of Mrs. J, who has been known to answer the phone using the phrase, "What?" and has thus been restricted from answering the phone at all.

I predict Ms. D may graduate to full "liberry" ass. status in record time, though perhaps not without some fun speed bumps. I've already suggested that we tell her she has to go through a few hazing rituals, as the newest newbie. We should tell her that we're gonna go rearrange the 641.5s and she has to read and reshelve them properly, using only her butt.

Mrs. A countered that we should make her do the 800s instead, as they're far messier right now.

Mr. Griffith Drops a Hissy

After years of being one of the most lenient libraries on the planet as far as enforcement of fine collection and printing fees goes, Mrs. A recently announced that it was time to change our ways and we would soon be cracking down. Our previous unofficial policy was that if the patrons didn't bring up the fact that their books were a few days late we didn't hound them for fine money, or even bring it up. It still got put into the fines tab of their patron record, but unless the amount there crossed the $5 threshold, we didn't pay it much mind. Similarly, if patrons were printing from the internet and Hotmail printed one last sheet of paper with only a couple lines of links or a damned banner ad, we didn't force them to pay for that particular useless page and just carved it up for scrap paper.

No longer.

Our You Print It, You Pay For It policy is now to be enforced to the most extreme extent of the definition and we've been giving our patrons notice that, come September, they'd better have cash on hand when they bring in late books or, God help them, an ass-whuppin' we will go.

Enter Mr. Griffith, a regular but previously-unchronicled patron. He visits, often with his sweet family in tow, and has been very pleasant to me in most regards, other than his habit of trying to rope me in to some kind of glorified pyramid scheme he himself had been roped into. One night, Mr. Griffith came in after 6p to do some net-surfin' and eventually printing. Only, the particular computer he was using was one that recently decided to default to a non-existent printer instead of the usual laser the others are set to go to, so none of his prints were actually printing. I explained the matter to him, telling him to try printing again, but to be sure and select the laser printer from the list of three printers the print-dialogue box would offer him. A few seconds later, the printer spat out five sheets of paper.

When he came to inspect his prints, Mr. Griffith was very annoyed that there were five sheets as he'd only intended to print one. This wasn't because all his previous printing attempts went through, either. It had been a five page document, but he'd only wanted the first page. I asked if he had used the print dialogue box to tell the computer to only print the one he wanted, but he said it hadn't given him the chance. What he'd done, it seems, is double click on the laser printer icon instead of merely clicking once, as is necessary. (Some people think you have to double click EVERYTHING when it comes to using a mouse.) The computer had taken this command not as "Please use the laser printer to print these pages" but as "Please use the laser printer to print these pages NOW." Sure, it was an honest mistake, but it had been his honest mistake. I figured he would just pay for them all and count it as a lesson learned.

After half an hour of making more-controlled prints, Mr. Griffith came to pay for them. He said he didn't think he should have to pay for the other four pages from the first set. I explained that our policy, as is clearly stated on numerous signs around the computers, is one of You Print It, You Pay For It. Mr. Griffith didn't like this.

"Can't you cut me a break?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'd like to be able to, but I have to do what my boss tells me and she's says we're enforcing the rule."

Mr. Griffith began to grumble again, but I cut him off.

"I have to do my job, here," I said. "You're welcome to contest it and try to get a refund, but you'll have to talk to MRS. A about it and she won't be in until next week."

Mr. Griffith said he thought he just might and left. I hated to see him angry, but in the end it's only 40 cents and it was his fault. I wrote the incident up on our notepad for Mrs. A to see on her return.

Jump ahead to the following week. Mr. Griffith came in, signed up for a computer and was very friendly. He didn't even mention the incident from before. Shortly, Mrs. A returned from lunch and decided to finally check the note pad for important messages from the previous week. She read my note about Mr. Griffith and, as she would explain later, confused him for someone completely different. Not realizing he was seated a few yards away, she loudly announced, "No, we're not issuing MR. GRIFFITH a refund. If he didn't want it he shouldn't have printed it. Can you imagine the kind of chaos we'd have if we..."

"he's sitting right... over... there," I whispered, nodding in Mr. Griffith's direction without looking at him.

"I don't care where he is!" Mrs. A blasted. Then she paused and looked over to the computers where she didn't see the fellow she'd mistaken him for.

"Which one is he?"

I pointed.

"Oh," she said. "He's not the MR. GRIFFITH I thought he was."

Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #89

*DIALING*
*RING*
*RING*
*RING*

MAN— Hello?

ME— Hi, this is JUICE calling from the TRI-METRO County Library. I'm calling for FRANCINE HUGHES.

MAN— She's not here right now.

ME— Can I leave a message?

MAN— Yeah, okay.

ME— Recently FRANCINE checked four books on CD from us, but when she returned them we found that their cases seem to have been soaked in gasoline.

(Pause)

MAN— Oh, no. Aw, man. Oh, I was afraid of... I'm sorry. She put those in the back of my truck, but she didn't know I had gas back there and... well, I guess it's my fault, really. What do we need to do?

ME— We just needed to let her know she needs to pay for those.

MAN— Oh. Oh, man... How much?

ME— $106.73.

MAN— Whoo. (Sadly.) I guess... I guess I'll need to pay for those... then.

ME— Thank you so much.

(While this conversation took place some weeks ago, the audio books in question remain sealed in a Wal-Mart bag atop the far back corner of our circulation desk, as yet unpaid for.)

One score and fifteen years ago...

I turned 35 over the weekend. The wife and I celebrated by leaving Tri-Metro and driving to a larger town equipped with an Outback, where we feasted on Aussie Fries, steaks, and a giant can of Fosters. It was great.

At the end of the meal, our waitress came over and asked if we were too full for dessert. I looked to the wife to see if she was going to give me the excuse necessary to order something wicked involving fried apples, but she just shrugged and said, "It's your birthday, do what you want."

"Oh, it's your birthday?" the waitress asked.

"Er... yeah," I said reluctantly. I'd not intended for the waitress to learn it was my birthday. Giving out knowledge such as that to wait staff is a dangerous thing in my book because it often leads to loud singing of specialized restaurant celebratory songs by entire flocks of them. Sure, it might net me a free dessert of some sort, but it really isn't worth it to have to sit through something like that. It's not that I'm embarrassed of the attention; I simply HATE loud interruptions of any kind when I'm trying to dine peacefully and find these kinds of stupid "customer friendly" displays unbearable when directed at anyone, but especially at me. Nothing burns me more than sitting down to a nice quiet meal only to have it interrupted by multiple choruses of "It's your BIRTHDAY BIRTHDAY BIRTHDAY and we're here to celeBRATE! So on your BIRTHDAY BIRTHDAY BIRTHDAY here's a f**king piece of CAKE!" (I say multiple choruses, because it's never just one; if some jackass has a birthday and gets that treatment, suddenly there are at least two more that have to have it too.)

So I sat there and awaited the onslaught of obnoxiousness.

A few minutes later, our waitress returned alone and placed an envelope on the table.

"Happy birthday" she said quietly.

I opened the envelope to find it was a simple Outback birthday card signed by the entire wait staff, wishing me a happy birthday. No song, no fuss, and no clutching of conveniently-large steak-knives necessary. Okay, there wasn't a gift certificate in there like I'd hoped, but in effect the card itself was a gift certificate. It was a "Get-out-of-Hellacious-Song-Free" card.

When the waitress returned with the check we told her that we greatly appreciated the card as opposed to the usual song. She said that it was a new policy instituted only a few weeks ago. If I'd not had the good fortune to be born so late in the summer, I might not have escaped unscathed.

So, in addition to fantastic steaks and cheesy bacony fried potatoes, Outback now makes my Christmas card list for ditching the woefully unnecessary choral numbers. Thank you sirs and madams of the Outback management for your wisdom.

David Cronenberg films I'd prefer patrons didn't see

The tech boys were in recently to install some new patron computers. In the process of making updates, though, they managed to ditch the passwords from all but one of the remaining old computers, so now patrons can log themselves on willy nilly, and do. (For some reason, the techies don't seem to care if patrons have immediate unregistered access to the computers, but they won't give us the admin passwords to make any changes to the systems we see fit.)

Now the only computer that still has a password is a recycled computer we had lying around. Trouble is, we've used a couple of different logins during its lifetime and damn if any of us can remember it on the first try. This is why former Newbie Greenhorn Ms. M called me away from an important "liberry" quest to assist her when she couldn't get it to log on for a patron.

"I keep trying the usual username and password, but it just freezes like that." She pointed to the screen, where the login box was grayed out as the computer considered whether or not it would accept the password she'd just entered. We watched it, along with the young lady who was waiting for it. After thirty seconds, or so, it refused to accept the password and popped me back to the login box. I tried a new password and the box grayed out for another thirty seconds before refusing once again.

During this time, I noticed that the young lady who was waiting for the computer—a late high school or maybe early college-aged girl, seated nearby—was staring at me and not in a good way. It wasn't exactly the hairy eyeball, but there was something in her expression that clearly wasn't rating me very highly. Sure, I was an employee who evidently didn't know his own password and was therefore making her wait far longer than she might have liked to get to her MySpac3 on, but the look seemed to go beyond even that offense. Did I smell bad? Did I have a booger on my face? What?

The log in box finally ungrayed, I tried another combination, the box grayed out again, and I received yet another baleful look from the patron. Only after the box cleared, another 30 seconds later, did I recall that this particular computer actually took a different login than the one we'd been using. I typed the proper one in and managed to guess the right password for it and the system loaded just fine.

"There ya go," I said to the girl.

I left the computer bank, determined to return to my important "liberry" quest, which was to find a toilet plunger and have a look at the men's restroom toilet. An earlier patron had reported that it wasn't flushing properly and suggested a plunging was in order. I found the plunger, stepped into the restroom, plunged the toilet, but didn't find any real problem with it flushing before or after. While I was there, though, I figured I'd take the bowl for a test-drive and have a wee myself. Only when I went to unzip my fly, I found it preunzipped for my convenience.

Chills of horror ran up my spine as I did the math and realized that the young lady at the computer had likely noticed this and disapproved. Not only that, but her seated perspective had been at about my crotch height. My cows were fortunately still tucked in the barn behind the safety of their boxer-brief barn door, so it wasn't like I'd been flashing her, but still it couldn't have looked good.

What was protocol in this situation? Should I go and apologize? No, I'd technically done nothing wrong, intentional or otherwise and apologizing for it would just draw more attention to it and might bring up questions as to whether or not it had actualy been unintentional.

For a minute I considered just staying in the bathroom until she left. Then, looking in the mirror, I noticed that with my arms at my sides, my untucked t-shirt actually covered most of my crotchal area. Even from her crotch-high POV, the chances of seeing that my fly had been unzipped weren't really that great. She might not have seen it at all. Then again, she had been staring daggers at me.

I left my sanctuary and returned to work, hopeful that the chick had just been annoyed that she was having to deal with a moron who didn't know his own password rather than a moron who didn't know his own password and who was additionally trying to show off his junk.