I'll take "Cap'ns other than Crunch for $400, Alex."

In what is perhaps his final appearance of 2006, Cap'n Crossdresser paid us a visit today. He was decked out in a quilted red coat, a low cut tangerine-colored blouse, baggy green slacks, a peach colored knitted scarf and dark boots.

That is all.

And her head she'd be scratchin' while her thoughts were busy hatchin' if she only had a... well, you know.

We think we've solved the problem of Newbie Greenhorn Ms. S, or at least have deduced why she's such a problem. Ms. S, we've determined, rarely if ever engages her brain in the course of doing her job. We have quite a bit of evidence.

For instance, despite the fact that we've repeatedly explained to her how to process new books, thereby also having explained to her the various color coded dots we place on the spines of our smaller paperbacks to differentiate them by subject, not to mention where to FIND said dots, Ms. S went ahead and put a few romance novels out sans dots. When confronted about it, she claimed she couldn't find the dots and didn't know what else to do. (For the record, the dots were in plain view atop the open basket of office supply crap beneath the front edge of the circ-desk.)

No, wait, I got a better one. Despite the fact that we've repeatedly explained to her how to put patrons on hold for books within our computer system, and that if a patron doesn't pick up their hold before their time runs out that she, Ms. S, is to cancel out that patron's hold, pass the hold to the next patron on the list and then be sure to put the original holding patron back on hold at the end of the list, Ms. S still can't quite manage to do it. Patrons keep coming in and telling us they missed their first turn on hold and want to know where they fall on the list now, only for us to discover they're not on it anymore. We know she's at fault because she's the one who initials the old hold slips, which we save in our rubberband bound Ass Covering Hold Slips Pile, which she somehow found beneath the circ desk.

No, wait, I got a better one. Despite the fact that we've repeatedly explained to her how to process interlibrary loans when they arrive, and despite the fact that she's been doing THAT VERY JOB for the past FEW MONTHS, she utterly failed to process an incoming loan that had been hand-delivered by a local branch. She even left a note saying that she didn't know what to do with it, so she was just going to leave it on the desk.

No, wait, I got a better one. Despite the fact that we've repeatedly told her that we do not renew books that patrons interlibrary loan from other libraries—simply because they're not OUR books to renew and getting the other libraries to cooperate on renewing them is a pain in the ass—she tried it anyway for a fellow who showed up with his ILLed book in person. I imagine that she first tried to renew it with our circulation software several times, scanning its barcode only to find the computer unwilling to cooperate due precisely to the above reason. So, instead, she just stamped a new due date on the date due slip and let him go. Then, the very next day, she found that same guy on her list of patrons with overdue ILLs, didn't make the connection that he was the guy she'd dealt with the day before, and she called and left a message for him that his book was overdue and he needed to bring it back. When he came in to complain about it to me—quite irritated about it, as you can imagine—I tried to explain the whole "We don't renew ILLs" bit and that his claim that Ms. S somehow had was not possible. The patron then became even more irate with me and said, "Well, whether it's possible or not, she did it! Look right here!" and showed me the stamp in his book—which, these days, means nothing, unless the computer also has that date, which it did not and, more to the point, could not.

No, wait, I got two better ones. Despite the fact that Ms. S has received all of the above training and BEYOND from us on MULTIPLE occasions, she cannot help but ask questions that have already been covered by said training or that have painfully, PAINFULLY obvious answers. And since she works her weekend shifts alone, Mrs. C is often the target of such querries via the telephone. A few weeks back, Mrs. C received a call from Ms. S, who said: "We're running low on 10 inch book wrap. What do I do when I run out?" Mrs. C told her that when she ran out of 10 inch book wrap, she could stop wrapping the 10 inch books. (My suggested answer: "Oh, that's easy! See, Mrs. A keeps the Philosopher's Stone up in her office bathroom. You can use it to transmute some 14 inch book wrap into 10 inch book wrap, no prob. Oh , and by the way, the Philosopher's Stone has taken the form of a big pair of scissors. And it demands you write a note on the pad that we need to order more 10 inch book wrap. Just thought I'd let ya know.")

And then there was last weekend, when Ms. S phoned Mrs. C at home to alert her that our canvas mail bag was completely stuffed with outgoing ILL packages, so she wanted to know what to do with the rest of the ILL's she'd packed up, which could no longer fit in the bag. She'd better be glad she didn't phone me with such a great setup line, for I would have been unable to resist telling her exactly where I thought she should cram the other packages.

No, wait, I got one last better one. Ms. S recently complained that she was running low on her orange shelving slips. Rather than go all the way over to the activity room and retrieve some orange paper to cut into new slips, she chose to use a more conveniently located stack of pink paper she found in our supply cabinet, which she cut into dozens and dozens of new slips. Then, so no one would get confused that she was now using both orange and pink slips, she carefully wrote her initials on each and every one of them. I remarked to Mrs. B that for someone who so frequently tries to get out of doing any work, this seemed like an awful lot of effort. Mrs. B countered that Ms. S was able to do that work while sitting down, which was the real objective of the operation. I'm starting to hope those aren't the only pink slips Ms. S sees.

Found Poetry (Or "Actual Hand-written Email First Drafts found in Actual Libraries")

Yesterday, while going back to log a computer on for someone, I noticed that the previous user of said computer had left behind a half-piece of notebook paper on both sides of which were handwritten words. Being a curious soul, and considering that the previous patron had been gone for over an hour, I picked it up.

You never can tell what patrons will leave at the computers, or, even, on the screens of the computers. Sometimes it's just a pair of sunglasses. Other times, though, we get comedy gold.

For instance, our late, lamented patron the Purple Nun, used to spend quite a bit of time composing emails which she would leave on the screen without sending them to anyone. When asked if she would prefer to send the mail to someone, the Nun simply replied that the person meant to find it would find it. (I don't know what any of the email said, as I was apparently not the predestined person.)

Or, there's the case of Stoner Lad, who once left on the screen a Microsoft Word draft of a grammatically incorrect mash note filled with wildly misspelled genitalia and other descriptives. He'd evidently pasted it into an email, but left the original draft for me to find. If only I'd saved it.

The note I found yesterday, however, I did save. It appears to be a paper first draft of two separate emails, written by a female to her boyfriend. (Who drafts email on paper, anyway?) Handwritten in pencil on the first side of the half-sheet of notebook paper is the following letter, capitalization and punctuation intact, though a name or so has been changed.

(Andy)
Hey baby, I miss you too,
see you soon though.yeah we have to go to the cemetery.I get scared so easy! [the word "though" is scratched out here]Ugh. Come to WV!
haha.
If Matt says Anything to
you just don't say Anythingback okay?
he's trying to start shit.
But whatever.
I'll talk to you soon

*Big Hugs!*
xoxo, Lis

And on the other side of the paper was the following note.

(Matt)
Shut your fucking mouth
& leave me Alone.[The words "I Hate you So" are scratched out on this line]
& I swear to god if you
start fucking with Andy
I will Rip your fucking face off.
This is the end of it.
So backup.

Wow. Quite a soap opera, huh? Entertaining and open to a few interpretations.

I suspect by posting this, though, I have violated my "liberry" ass. code of ethics in a most heinous way. However, it is the patron's own fault for leaving the note behind for someone else to throw away.

Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #65

*RING*

ME: Tri-Metro Public Library?

MAN ON PHONE: Yeah, I need to renew my books.

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

MAN ON PHONE: (Pause, followed by a slight sigh of frustration) Well, this is a whoppin' big number. Where do I start?

ME: At the beginning.

MAN ON PHONE: (Long pause) Yeah. Okay. I guess so.

TUAT on hiatus?

My TUAT story time has been put on hiatus. Much as with Joey's spin-off from Friends, the official reason is ratings. My boss, Mrs. A, found it difficult to justify the cost of keeping two employees on Tuesday nights if we weren't actually going to have any kids show up on a regular basis.

Sure, I had my good weeks, when I'd have up to 6 kids turn up for story time. Those were great weeks. But more often than not, I'd have 1 or less kids show up and that was kind of depressing. Mrs. A was sad to see the program cancelled, but thought we might be better off coming back as a series of specials centered around holidays. At least, for the time being.

My very last TUAT was on Nov 14. One kid showed up for that, too, had a great time and then I had to break the news to his mom that it was the final show. Mrs. C told me to put up a sign letting people know the program was no more, but I never got around to it. Most of the kids who turn up for story time don't often visit the library regularly otherwise, so it wasn't really going to do much good for them. Also, because I had the shortsightedness not to take contact information from the parents of the few regulars, and because I don't generally know their names, I didn't know how to get in contact with them otherwise. I didn't really think of this fact, either, because I've essentially been gone from the "liberry" since the Thursday before Thanksgiving.

Last night, around 6:38, the door opened and Good Alan and three friends came running in, his mom right behind him. Good Alan saw me at the desk and happily exclaimed, "All right, it hasn't started yet!"

"Er, uh, actually, I've got some bad news," I said. "I'm afraid I've been cancelled."

Good Alan's mom was shocked and seemed very sad about it. She asked me why this was the case and I tried to explain the whole ratings issue in terms that didn't cast blame on her for not bringing Good Alan every single week. (Frankly, Good Alan's mom is the best mom of any of the regulars because she frequenly brought more than just her kid and was constantly inviting her friends and their kids. One person can only do so much P.R., though.) She asked if this was a decision by the "liberry" board, but I said it was a simple matter of economics.

As for the kids, they didn't seem too put out about it. They were happy enough when Good Alan's mom took them in the children's room and read them a story or two herself. On their way out, Good Alan's mom stopped back by the desk and told me that it just wasn't the same without me reading. She said again that she was very sorry to hear of the cancellation and that she and Good Alan really enjoyed my program. As she spoke, her eyes began to blink rapidly and looked very wet. She seemed very much about to cry, which made me feel horrible and honored at the same time.

The trip home

On our way back, we passed through Illinois, Indiana and Kentucky, and stopped for the night near Louisville. We stayed at a Red Carpet Inn of the sort that's just this shy of scary, but you can tell that it was probably very scary not long ago before they refurbished the whole place with new stuff. It wasn't ideal, but it was cheap. That night we dined on ice cream from Cold Stone Creamery and watched The Fountain. (My review: it was a beautiful, strange film that I was completely enthralled with until the very last scene, at which point there was an ending that was not nearly as satisfying as I'd hoped it would be. This was the same feeling I had after seeing 12 Monkeys. Still, like 12 Monkeys, it's one of those movies that sticks in your brain and I've since come to terms with it a bit more, even if it didn't end ideally.)

The next morning, Ash wanted to look for bead stores. There was no phone book in the room, so I walked across the parking lot to the little lobby building and asked the lady at the desk if she had one.

"No, we can't keep them in the building," she said. "They just walk off."

While I was there, I stepped into the next room of the building and picked up some complimentary coffee and doughnuts and returned to our room. Around two minutes later, there was a loud screeching of tires and I saw a maroonish SUV speeding out of the parking lot. I wondered briefly if it had just been stolen. Later, when we went to check out, the lobby door was locked and the lady inside waved us over to an after hours window made of thick glass.

"I'm sorry," she said in unexcited even tones. "We've just had an altercation here and I can't let you in." In other words, they'd just been robbed, most likely by the people who sped off two minutes after I'd returned. Had I been two minutes later going for a phone book, I might have been caught in the middle of an armed robbery.

Little Known Facts about Missouri

We're back from our Thanksgiving roadtrip, a little heavier than when we began it. For the most part, things went well--turkey was eaten, naps were taken, small children entertained, pink eye was defeated, arguments argued (though only small ones), small angry dogs were infuriated and I was only sick for a day of it, having picked up a cold on Monday that by Thursday became a raging nose-clogger. Zicam is wonderful stuff, though, so the ill effects lasted only a short time. (By the way, I recommend taking Zicam but only in melt-on-your-tongue-pill form. The nasal gel is just evil evil stuff that causes your synuses to burn horribly and your voice apt to whine.) It was great visiting with family, some of whom I haven't seen for a couple of years now.

During our trip, we observed a few things that we'd not noticed before about Missouri.

For instance, did you know that Missouri not only had enough money in its highway repair coffers to fix all the massive potholes along the section of I-55 that I complained about two years ago, but they also had enough left to plant a nice shiny mile marker at every 1/10 of a mile? That's right, whereas most interstate highways have mile markers placed at a rate of, y'know, one per mile, Missouri I-55 has ten of them per mile. My best guess is that this was to help the towtrucks locate all those drivers who'd lost their front axles after plowing into a pothole at 80 mph, a couple years back, but I don't really know the real reason. It still seems excessive, not to mention taxpayer-money-sapping.

Also, did you know that it's apparently illegal for people in Missouri to be nonsmokers? Yep, pretty much every person in the state smokes a couple packs a day on either a first or secondhand basis. It's worse than North Carolina. Now, granted, I'm a nonsmoker, though not really an obnoxious militant one, yet. And I'm also probably spoiled because I live in a community where smoking inside of buildings within the city limits has been banned in nearly all cases except for private residences; so I can go for weeks at a time without smelling cigarette smoke. Even so, I never really thought about how nice it is to live in that sort of atmophere until heading to Missouri, where non-smokers in restaurants are clearly in the minority. We went out to breakfast with my parents every day we were there and without fail the smoker to nonsmoker ratio was wildly skewed toward the smokers. We even began taking bets on the number of people smoking we'd find in any given establishment and we always underestimated. By the time we left the state, we and our clothes smelled pretty much like the impacted anal glands of a cigarette butt and we were quite unhappy about it.

Also, did you know that in Missouri, they don't stuff the turkey with dressing at Thanksgiving, but instead use a mixture of raw cotton and crystal meth? Okay, well, our family doesn't, but I'm pretty sure there's some of that going on around there. Probably some cigarettes in there too.

Outta here

Since I'm not at the "liberry" at all this week, due to a variety of things, not the least of which is our Thanksgiving sojourn to Missouri, I'm taking the week off.

See ya back here on Nov 27.

And Happy Turkey Day!

Year Three in the Can

Today is the third anniversary of the beginning of this blog.

Whoo, and might I add, hoo.

Crab's Complaint

I was working the desk during story hour, today, when Mr. Crab, third grumpiest old man in all the world, habitual forgetter of his "liberry" card, and a man quite unafraid to mention that he's a $200 annual "liberry" donor, scuttled in.

I was glad he visited during story hour, because it meant Mrs. B and Mrs. C were otherwise engaged. So when Mr. Crab came to the desk with books to check out and then didn't have his "liberry" card, he would have to deal with me. Last time, and despite all good sense otherwise, Mrs. B let him get away with checking the books out on her card. This would not be happening on my watch. I imagined he'd wail and gnash and threaten to withhold his $200 annual donation from us, as usual, but it would do him no good. I would quote "liberry" consortium policy to him, shrug my shoulders in mock sympathy and then offer to hold his books at the desk until such a time as he could remember to bring his library card when setting out to come to the library.

While waiting for him to do this, there was a sudden rush on our computers, causing me to dash to and from the circ desk to sign people on and boot other people off. Soon enough, I saw Mr. Crab scuttling toward the desk to check out, but I was already in mid-dash and decided he could wait a whole 30 seconds until I returned. On my way out of the room, I spied Kanji the Kid coming in the front door.

When, at last, I returned to the circ desk both Kanji and Mr. Crab were waiting there. Kanji was standing nearest our computer sign in sheet, so I told him it would be a while before we had a computer, as they were all quite full.

"Actually, I don't need a computer. I need to renew some books I have out," Kanji said. He nodded toward the circulation desk computer, as though I should fire it right up.

"Do you have your library card?" I asked.

"No."

Ah ha, I thought. Just the situation Mr. Crab was waiting for. Would I treat anyone else differently than him? In this test, though, I would deny Kanji any such service, right in Mr. Crab's face, so he would know what he had coming to him before he tried to pull the same trick.

"That's why I called home and got my number," Kanji finished. He passed me a little yellow slip of paper with his card number written out.

"Ah. Very good, then," I said. I typed in his number, renewed his books and Kanji happily lumbered out of the building.

When I looked up at Mr. Crab, I expected to find him pre-surly for my convenience. But he just slid his books at me and then passed me his "liberry" card without a fight, or even his usual lengthy search of his overstuffed wallet, or his usual threats to withhold donations should he not find it and then be denied service. As I began checking his books out, our desk-side surl-o-meter began to ping.

"Rude!" Mr. Crab griped. "That young man was rude, shoving his way to the desk, like that, ahead of other people. Rude." He then gave me an expectant look, as though waiting for me to agree with him or otherwise give him a fight. I started to explain that Kanji didn't mean to be rude; he just has Aspergers. Then I decided that Mr. Crab wasn't owed any explanation, so I just shrugged. Mr. Crab took his books and made for the door, nearly plowing into a lady patron in his haste to exit.

"He's one to talk about rude," the patron said after Mr. Crab had left. "He nearly ran over me and didn't even say `excuse me.'"

I started to explain that Mr. Crab didn't mean to be rude; he's just an asshole. But I decided against it, so I just shrugged.

Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #64

*RING*

ME— (Answers Phone) Tri-Metro County Library.

MAN ON PHONE— Yes, in the book Gone with the Wind, does Scarlett actually say the phrase, "As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again"?

ME— Couldn't tell you. I might be able to do some research on this and get back to you, but I couldn't tell you off the top of my head. I've never read the book.

MAN ON PHONE— (Incredulous of tone) You haven't read the book?

ME— Nope.

MAN ON PHONE— What kind of library are... Who is this? (This last part was said in the tone of someone who wants very much to know the name of the one man on earth who hasn't read Gone with the Wind.)

ME— JUICE.

MAN ON PHONE— JUICE? Do you have a last name?

ME— AARON. (Though, in reality, I said my real last name, which, when pronounced properly, frankly sounds kind of like a sneeze.)

MAN ON PHONE— Come again?

ME— AARON.

MAN ON PHONE— Oh my. (Long Pause) Well, I guess I won't bother you anymore then. (Hangs up before I can further offer assistance)

ME— (Looking around at my three coworkers and two sundry patrons who heard my half of the conversation) That was the strangest phone call I've received this month.

After relating the full call to them, the ladies immediately dove into this reference question with gusto and in under two minutes had produced the answer of Chapter 25. If only the man had left a number before hanging up.

So, no, as God is my witness, and despite the fact that I'm a southerner, I haven't read Gone with the EFFing Wind, nor have I seen the film, nor do I have any major plans to do either.  Ever.

It's not that I think they're bad, or anything. In fact, I hear they're both quite good, (though Mrs. A is of the opinion that while Scarlett in the book is a strong, likeable female protagonist, her film counterpart is a spoiled, whiny bitch). Consuming either of these versions is just ridiculously low on my priorities of things to experience in life. They're classified somewhere above "eating a mouthful of sand, again," but still well below "getting to meet that girl who played Annika in the Pippi Longstocking movie, who I had a crush on when I was a kid."

(Sorry, but some of these priorities were set for me roundabout 1979. I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about it.)

The Coot

The Coot has been in the Benign Irritants column of our Rogues Gallery for a while now, but I've not had much to say about him because he's not been much of a hassle to me personally. Well, until this week.

As far as patrons go, the Coot is actually pretty ideal in most respects. He visits the "liberry" frequently and stays for several hours at a stretch, either reading books or periodicals. He doesn't hound us for computers, nor does he seem to have any use for them at all. He keeps to himself. And while he rarely checks anything out, thereby keeping our circulation numbers slightly lower than he might, he is a user of the library in its best sense.

Of course, not all is rosy with the Coot. He has, on occasion, complained in bitter tones to our staff about a lack of certain nonfiction titles on our shelves that he wants to read. (We've offered to ILL them and he has sometimes taken us up on the offer.) The Coot has also disingratiated himself to Mrs. A in particular by being a less than quiet patron.

See, Mrs. A's office is located beside our periodicals area, at which there are two semi-comfy chairs and a small table. This is where the Coot likes to nest, piling the tiny table high with periodicals and books that he peruses throughout his visiting hours. While he's perusing, though, the Coot is known to make many strange noises. Sometimes these noises take the form of the usual coughing and sneezing and snorting. More often, though, they manifest as loud and painful sounding moans, groans and wails. Sometimes, he sings. We don't know if the Coot is in actual pain, though we suppose it's possible. Our theory about his noises has evolved somewhat. Originally we thought he was in pain. Then we thought he might have some form of tourettes. Now, though, we are starting to suspect that the Coot moans and wails as editorial comment against the frequent phone calls Mrs. A receives throughout the day disturbing his reading time. Whatever the case, the noise he makes drives Mrs. A nuts and she's frequenly fled our office to get away from it. And sometimes, her noise seems to drive him further into our nonfiction room, where he relocates his nest to a different semi-comfy chair.

None of this affects me, so I don't really care if he emits the odd wail now and then. What does affect me is his seeming inability to put our periodicals back where he found them.

One of my duties as "liberry" ass. is to process and catalog the periodicals. When they arrive, I enter them into the system, put barcodes on the ones that need them, stamp REFERENCE ONLY on the ones that don't and haul `em all upstairs to stick in the magazine display shelf. Each magazine has its proper place on the shelf, clearly labeled for all to see. The Coot cares not for labels. If he actually manages to put a magazine back on the shelf at all—which is rare, because most of the time he just leaves them wherever he happens to be nesting when he's finished reading them—he refuses to put it back in its proper place. He just wedges it on in wherever his hand happens to fall and walks away. Granted, he's not the only patron who does this. (In fact, evidence suggests that most periodical reading patrons do this, but then again I wouldn't notice when a patron has put a magazine back properly, precisely because it would be put back properly.) However, the Coot is the most flagrant disregarder of our magazine labeling system.

At closing time on Monday, after a day of fending off book-shoving brats, I went upstairs and found our magazine rack in the most utter state of disarray I'd ever seen. Someone, the Coot, I'm guessing, as he'd been right there reading magazines all day, had relocated nearly every magazine we have on display to what I can only describe as its OPPOSITE location on the display shelf. Seventeen was shelved under U.S. News & World Report, Time under Organic Gardening, Rolling Stone under Mother Earth News, Atlantic Monthly under FamilyFun and Parenting was shelved under High Times. (Okay, I am kidding about that last one. It was really shelved as Teen People.)

I don't know for sure that the Coot was responsible. It could have been that book-shoving brat's revenge for busting him shoving books. But it seems like it could have been the Coot at play. I wonder what sort of editorial comment he was trying to make this time.

Monday the 13th

My once a month Monday solo shift, today, wasn't nearly as traumatic as Mondays typically can be. There was really only one moment during the whole day when the chaos threatened to overwhelm. However, from the state of our shelves when I arrived, the "liberry" appeared to have been locked in the throes of chaos all weekend long. Considering that Ms. S had been the weekend warrior riding the desk, this was probably true. Several partial shelves of books had fallen over, sans bookends. Other shelves had their books shoved back from the front edge of the shelf, the victims of one of our industrious book-shoving child patrons. Such children irritate the bejezus out of me.

Don't get me wrong: I do understand that "liberry" logic and little kid logic don't have much common ground. In "liberry" world, whenever possible, books must all line up neatly with the front edge of the shelf so that they are pleasing and uniform to the eye. In little kid world, books must be shoved all the way to the wall, because there's all that empty space back there and it's somehow satisfying to shove `em back into it. And keep shoving them back into it, until they've gone around an entire room. (Oddly, most book-shovey kids only shove books back on one shelf level, usually the arm-height middle level, leaving the lower and upper levels alone, regardless of whether or not they can reach them. I don't know if this is by design, or if it just doesn't occur to them that all the other shelves have books with space behind them too.)

What's even more irritating about the book-shovers is that it's difficult to catch them at it. Usually their work is only discovered long after they've left the building. So you can imagine my great joy today—after having spent a lot of time pulling all the weekend's shoved books back out to the front edge and righting and bookending their fallen comrades, not to mention swearing under my breath at the kind of terrible things that would make Dick Cheney blush that I was going to do to whatever brat was unfortunate enough to let me catch him shoving books—when I looked over the edge of the circ-desk to spy a newly arrived kid shoving a whole row of mysteries back with wild abandon.

"PLEASE, don't shove those books back, please," I said. I added the second please because kid's mom was standing right there and the first please was uttered in a rather harsh and possibly bloodthirsty tone.

The shover whipped around, mid-shove, with a gratifyingly frightened and guilty expression on his face. This was no tiny kid who could claim innocence, either. This was an 11-year-old who clearly knew better. His mom, like a doe sensing a whiff of trouble in the air, looked up, too. I then added, "We like to keep the books pulled out to the front of the shelf."

The two of them set about pulling the books back out, but, having not been trained in the proper method for doing this, they did it pretty half-assedly.

The subject of patrons doing basically harmless things in libraries that they are clearly not meant to do and also know better than to do is not a new one. In addition to our book-shoving brat, we were also visited today by another purveyor of "liberry" irritation: The Coot.

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

I Dream of Gene (Leaving)

Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine was in typical form last week. He came in Friday for a long haul session of research and was disappointed to hear it would be a 20 minute wait for a computer. So he plopped down in the front room and set about making us miserable, i.e. by talkin' at us. His topic at least varied from geneal0gy, centering instead on our lack of computers and our restrictive time limits, but these were subjects broached only in the most pleasant and genial manner he could muster. Then Gene asked how many computers the Town-C branch had, compared to our three. 

"A lot," I said in a hopeful tone. "At least five." 

"And are they as busy as these?" he asked. 

"Last time I was down there, they weren't," Mrs. C offered. 

Gene mused on this for a bit and then said that he didn't like having to drive to Town-C to do his work. Mrs. C then suggested that he try the local community college "liberry" because they didn't have any time limits whatsoever. It was only a short walk from our front door. 

Again, Gene decided he wasn't interested in actually going anywhere. Mrs. C then pointed out to him, in her own very pleasant and genial manner, that technically we still have a rule on the books that each patron is to receive a maximum of 3 computer sessions per day, but that we just haven't had to enforce that rule in several years. (This was a new one on me, otherwise I might have campaigned to get it reinstated beforehand. ) The rule itself, as Mrs. C later explained, stems from a time when we only had one public access computer which was constantly being fought over by the likes of Mr. B-Natural and The Untalented Mr. Ripley. It was actually Ripley who got the rule established, for he was even more hungry for computer time than Mr. B-Natural or even Crusty and would stay all day long as the machine's resident user, only taking temporary and highly reluctant breaks when bumped off for other patrons. 

Gene didn't seem to sense the veiled threat in Mrs. C's words. Eventually, he got a computer and stayed there for over 2 hours before the others filled up and it was time to boot him. He did his little frustrated laugh, gathered up his crap and made for the desk to sign up again. We did have another patron who was also out of time at that point, a kid who'd been on for over an hour. I didn't really feel like booting the kid off, either, because it seemed to me that as long as Gene had been on past his initial half hour, the kid should get some consideration too. Plus, it really annoyed Gene that we didn't immediately bump the kid off for him, who he HAD to know was out of time too. Unfortunately, not bumping the kid meant we had to listen to Gene go on and on about how much it would cost him to get good internet service in his neck of the county and about the massive crooks who ran his phone company. I tried to hold out for as long as possible, but after only five minutes of his patented good-natured complaining, I ran for the computer hall and told the kid he had to give it up. 

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," Mrs. C said after Gene had hauled all his crap back to the computer hall. She'd been sitting in closest proximity to Gene and therefore received the brunt of his attention. 

I really shouldn't complain about Gene. As far as annoying patrons go, he's at a pretty low and inoffensive level. We should really pray for more just like him.

All in the Gene (a.k.a.: "Set a course for adventure, your mind on a new romance!")

Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine is still far from being a Rogue Patron, but he’s certainly not helping himself when it comes to staying out of my field of temptation to classify him as such. In fact, he’s rapidly encroaching upon Crusty the Patron’s record for sheer computer usage. 

For the past couple of days he's been really putting the geneal0gy pedal to the geneal0gy metal, burning up the hours just a researchin' and researchin' as fast as his little geneal0gist fingers can go. Apparently, it's been going well for him. Trouble is, other people need to use computers too, so we have to bust him off frequently. Now Gene's never ever been nasty to us when we've had to go back and tell him his time is up. However, his typical reaction when we do is almost as annoying.

As we approach, Gene looks up at us to roll his eyes in a mostly inoffensive way. We then break the news to him someone's waiting for his computer at which point he shakes his head and gives off a little laugh in what I can only intuit is a George-McFly-wagging-a-finger-at-old-Biff "Oh, you wacky liberry staff, interrupting my important important work, yet again. Well, I guess I'll go ahead and get up, but only because I'm such a nice guy. What am I gonna do with you crazy kids?" sort of tone. It's okay if you hear such a laugh once, but after the 5th time in a day, it really starts to gnaw on your ass. 

Gene then makes a giant production of gathering up all his geneal0gy crap, which he'd previously spread across the whole of creation (i.e., his computer desk) and packing it neatly away in his giant geneal0gy-crap-bag, which he then hauls up front to begin the next stage of his campaign of annoyance. 

See the brilliance of Gene is that he has a sure fire method of getting a new computer as quickly as possible. He plants himself in the front room and proceeds to lecture anyone in proximity on the infernally-boring subject of his geneal0gy research. He whips out a chart and starts pointing at relatives, telling you where they came from, why they left where they had originated from, what they did when they got where they were going, what their name got changed to, where they moved, who they married, what libraries they did their geneal0gy research in, what "liberry" staff they irritated, etc. When he starts in on that, we can't kick other patrons off computers fast enough. And if it turns out there's going to be a long wait for the next computer patron to run out of time, (say, anything over a minute) it rapidly becomes an every-staff-member-for-themselves situation. Suddenly, alphabetizing the easy-reader section looks mighty inviting and we will break our asses running to get there first. And God help the poor, dumb, slow soul who gets trapped behind the desk when the exodus occurs, because they're the one who'll have to endure the pain. 

Having been that poor, dumb, slow soul on more than one occasion, I can report that not only does Gene go on and on and ON about geneal0gy, he's now taken to complaining about the slowness of our computers, how much time the work itself takes, the costliness of the geneal0gy sites he uses, how he really needs to get his own computer, and a bunch of other stuff I try my best to tune out. 

I'm now thinking the only logical defense against Gene is to stick fingers in ears and sing the Love Boat theme song at full volume, off key. That, or maybe a swift application of a "liberry" taser. And that is an essential piece of equipment we lack. I frequently propose that we buy one and just as frequently my proposal is rejected by my boss, Mrs. A. Maybe we should trap her at the desk with Gene for about 20 minutes and see how that loosens up the purse strings.

A-Okay

Since most of the "real" staff was out of town all week, today was the first day I was able to speak to anyone regarding the Crusty situation. 

I tried to tell Mrs. C on Thursday, but Crusty wouldn't leave the building and I didn't want to risk my voice carrying from the circ desk to the computer hall. (With Crusty's sense of smell obviously blunted, his hearing might have increased in power to compensate.) So I kept quiet. 

Today, though, Mrs. A had also returned and, naturally, so had Crusty. It was also raining, so I knew there was no way Crusty would actually leave the building if he could help it. 

I asked Mrs. A if I could speak to her in the activities room, the most distant point from computer hall you can reach and still remain on "liberry" property. I think Mrs. A probably thought I was going to complain to her again concerning Crusty's crustiness and smell and she started to try and head me off at the pass by telling me she'd been researching the matter. I told her it was okay, that I wasn't complaining and that I may have taken care of the matter, though perhaps not as permanently as we might like. I told her what went down earlier in the week and how Crusty was considerably less crusty now as a result. 

"I didn't think I smelled him, today," she said. 

In turn, Mrs. A told me that she'd spoken with several colleagues on the matter while at the "liberry" assoc. conference and they had told her it was fine to kick someone out for being filthy provided we had such contingencies written into our "liberry" policy. Such an addition would require a vote by our board of directors and Mrs. A felt confident that they would approve. Our plan now is to borrow the wording of such policies from another "liberry" that already has them, add them to our policy, get the board to approve it. And because she can't imagine how we would go about approaching said stinky patrons regarding their condition, she wants to send the entire staff off for training in such methods. 

Unfortunately, my proposal of instituting a policy in which we simply apply a sock full of quarters across the backs of our stinky patrons skulls, followed by a quick wheelbarrow trip with them out to the dumpster, was not approved. 

As complicated as this situation may yet become, I am heartened that Mrs. A sought advice on the matter from her peers and is willing to enact policy about it. It was getting to the point where I was considering how justified I would be in threatening to quit over the matter.

Of course...

 ...the thing I failed to take into account before speaking to Crusty the patron's friends and housemates, (y'know, in regard to Crusty's general crustiness and sanity-sapping stench), is that his friends might in fact go tell Crusty that I'm the guy who told them. This only occurred to me after I arrived at the "liberry" to open up this morning. 

It was a troubling thought.

In an ideal world, they might take Crusty aside and calmly tell him something like, "Pardon me, Crusty, but are you aware that your body odor is capable of knocking a buzzard off of a shit wagon? Well it can and, oh look, it has. And on a related subject, your beard seems to be doing its best impersonation of the Ally Sheedy snowflake scene from The Breakfast Club on a fairly constant basis. Would you, perhaps, be so kind as to take a damned bath?" 

However, while I would much prefer that Crusty's friends were discrete about where they gleaned their information, I had no control over how they imparted it to him and I could see that for them it would probably be far easier to blame it on me. It could just as likely get phrased, "Pardon me, Crusty, but were you aware that someone seems to have given you a good hearty beating with a large chunk of driftwood they hauled out of the cess pit of a hog farm? And your chin, sir, while still covered in hair, is like a putrid yet flaky croissant originating from the Butt-Riest Valley Baking Company and which I have no doubt was once in close proximity to the wang of a desert-dried corpse. But don't take our word for it; that guy from the library said so, as well." 

What if Crusty was pissed off at me? What if he confronted me about the matter? What if he, dare I say it, raised a stink? 

I mused on that for a while before deciding that if he wanted things to go down like that, it would be fine with me. I would simply say, "Do you really want to have this conversation?" If so, I would then explain to him that being exposed to his leavings was not fair to our patrons, nor to me, nor to our computer keyboards. Furthermore, I now know that he is not homeless and does have access to running water and soap, so he no longer has any excuse for turning up smelling like a turd blossom. 

While I was still formulating my potential side of the argument, the door opened and Mr. Stanky walked in.  Sonofa... He signed up for a computer and I put him on the little one by the stairs, his favorite. 

Mr. Stanky's hair looked wet. I hoped he had just washed it and that it wasn't simply clogged with grease. I supposed he could have had a bath. After all, I hadn't been clubbed by his usual invisible stench cudgel when he came in. In fact, it actually took a couple of walkbys as he sat at the computer to detect any sort of odor from him. He was stinky, but not anywhere NEAR his usual levels. He only stayed his half hour. 

By 12:30 there was still no sign of Crusty. Perhaps he was too embarrassed at being confronted with his own uncleanliness to return? Maybe it would be a good thing if they told him I'd said it. 

Around 1:45, Crusty walked in and signed up for a computer. I'm not entirely sure if he'd bathed his whole body, but his face seemed a good deal cleaner. He'd trimmed his beard short and there was no sign of crust. Furthermore, while he didn't smell springtime fresh, he certainly wasn't overpowering. Perhaps he'd bathed and just put on some old and only semi-stinky clothes. Whatever, it was a vast improvement and a welcome one. 

Crusty also failed to punch me in the face or acknowledge at all that I'd had anything to do with his sudden sprucing up. Competition for the computers was pretty fierce, so he got busted off a couple of times before I had to leave for the day. Still, I'm satisfied that he's moving in a positive direction.

THE FRIEND OF MY ENEMY IS MY... wait, that aint right. THE ENEMY OF MY FRIEND IS... er, no. THE FRIEND OF A FRIEND OF MY ENEMY IS... oops, outta spa

With most of the staff out of town at our state's "liberry" assoc. meeting, it's been me and the Newbies holding down the fort. 

I rolled in today fully expecting to find chaos in reign and Crusty the Patron (a.k.a. Nearsighted Dave) hogging up one of our computers, stinkin' up the joint. Instead, Ms. M managed to stave off the chaos, but I did detect the distinctive scent of Crusty upon the air. 

I checked the computer hall, but oddly he wasn't there. We even had an empty computer available should he turn up, which I had confidence he would. The lingering fumes were explained by a glance at our computer sign in sheet, which told me he'd already been in twice that morning, and a glance at the free keyboard in the back, which was choked with his crust. 

After I cleaned and disinfected everything in sight, Mrs. J and Ms. M told of how the computers had been eat up all morning and it was only now that things were finally calm. Crusty had been asked to relinquish his computer three different times and finally gave up on the last one. So began the waiting game, in which my spine clenched every time I heard the door open and I was only too happy to give anyone through it a computer, so long as they were not Crusty. Oddly, he didn't show, but this didn't help my nerves. 

Mid afternoon, a couple arrived. I recognized the man as a fellow who had accompanied Crusty several days ago. They'd both been in on a particularly rainy afternoon and I remembered that the man had identified himself to me as Crusty's friend after alerting me that he'd relinquished his own computer to Crusty in order to let him stay on. Furthermore, the man, both then and today, did not strike me as being in quite the same "In Need of Meds" situation as Crusty. In fact, he seemed like a pretty normal, pretty likeable guy. 

An idea began to stir in my brain. 

What if I was to approach Crusty's friend about Crusty's situation with us? Sure, it was a risky move, but I got good vibes from this guy. He seemed to actually care about Crusty and perhaps was in a position to be a good influence on him and, hopefully, his bathing habits. Breaching the subject, though, was daunting. To my horror, I also realized it was very much the sort of move my dad would have made given the same circumstances and I wasn't sure I wanted to go down that particular road. Not that it's a bad road to travel, but my car handles much better on more passive aggressive parkways. 

Still, the idea of this nagged at me. 

The husband and wife looked around for a bit, found some books they wanted, asked me to help them with finding some others and eventually they came to check out. The wife said she had probably lost her card in a house fire they'd been through a few months back, so she would likely need a new one. I set her up with one and wasn't going to charge her for a replacement, then saw she wasn't in the computer at all and just made her a new card from scratch. 

While they waited, the husband said, "Let me go see if DAVE is here," and went back to the computer hall. Crusty Dave was not in, so the man returned to report this to his wife, providing me with the best IN to the situation I was ever likely to get. 

I finished checking their books out to them and, seeing as how no other patrons were present in the room, said, "You're friends with DAVE right?" 

"Yeah," the man said, cheerfully enough. 

Now I'd done it. I'd stepped out there, but hadn't really given much thought as to how I was going to phrase any of this. 

"Is he... without a home, at the moment?" 

"No," the man said. "Well, yes and no. He stays with us right now." 

"Ah," I said. "Okay," I also said. There followed a very long pause. "We've been having a bit of a…" pause, "...kind of a..." painfully long pause. "How do I put this?" 

"Bluntly," his wife said. 

"Go ahead and just say it," said the man, still upbeat. "I can see you're coming from a good place." 

"Okay. Well. We've been having some... hygiene issues with him," I said. 

The man seemed at first to start to defend his friend. Then, in a split second, reconsidered, so that his initial defense statement went, "Yeah, but he... I know, I know. I agree." 

I explained then that there wasn't a whole lot we could do about this issue, but it had long since become a problem for us. I explained about the beard dandruff in the keyboard, which received knowing nods and appropriately disgusted looks from both husband and wife. Feeling emboldened by this, I added, "And he smells pretty bad, which kind of makes the place unlivable for those of us who work here." 

They nodded. 

I then, in slightly more polite terms, mentioned how he stays a very long time on the computers, which would be fine by us except for the whole stench and dandruff thing. (Actually, he would be very annoying without the stench, but we'll gladly tolerate it if he's clean.) I explained that we've had no other real problems with him and that he always gets off when someone else needs a computer.  I mean, eventually, he does.  And that he's always welcome to sign up for more sessions if he wants and that we're in no way trying to restrict his use of library services.  We just wish he wasn't so unpleasant. 

The man said he understood completely and that they've actually been dropping hints to Crusty for a while now that he's ripe. The man said they would now gently confront Crusty about it and if suggesting didn't work he'd just tell him bluntly and lay it out there. The wife explained that they had recently lost everything in a house fire themselves and were only just now getting back on their feet. They have a house, but apparently no plumbing as of yet so they have to take showers at her sister's house. Crusty, an old friend of theirs, turned up one day and has been hanging around ever since. He has not, however, taken them up on their offer of the use of the shower. 

I felt bad for their loss and more than a bit guilty for whining about stinky patrons when the stinky patron's friends had lost everything they owned. Then again, he is the one not bathing when it's available. I was very pleased with the encounter, though. The couple took my request well and had exactly the positive reaction I'd hoped for. Maybe it will do Crusty and us some good. (My dad would be so proud.)

CrustOrama!

Crusty the Patron (a.ka. Nearsighted Dave) was, of course, back today. He left us with marginally (MARGINALLY!!!) less crust than last time, but he made up for his slight lack of dermal generosity by staying on the computers for nearly SEVEN HOURS!!!!! 

He had already been there for an hour and half by the time I arrived. Then, half an hour later, we had a sudden rush on the computers and I was able to boot him off for someone else. I again cleaned up his crust and disinfected the area before allowing the next person on. 

Crusty lingered in our front room for several minutes. I wondered if perhaps he'd signed up for another session of computing time and was just waiting for his turn to roll back around, but his name wasn't on the sheet so I didn't offer when another computer freed up a couple minutes later. 

Eventually, he left the building, but did not take his lingering stench with him. I had to carpet bomb the front room with Febreeze air-freshener. (We now have cans of the stuff hidden EVERYWHERE. Frankly, I'd prefer to have it in Fire Extinguisher form.) 

Crusty was only gone for about 10 minutes before it started to rain. He'd departed on foot, so he must not have a car, or at least not one nearby. As soon as the raindrops began to fall, he once again appeared. I wondered if he would notice the Febreeze, but thought it unlikely, what with his olfactory centers likely burned out from his own scent. I didn't really care either way. 

"Uh... I forgot I was supposed to e-mail somebody," Crusty Dave said. At that point, I had two empty computers in the back, so I didn't have any other avenue but to let him use one. I told him he could sign up again and went back to log him on. And from that moment until nearly 6:30 when I, at last, had enough computer demand to boot him off again, Crusty Dave's ass didn't move from his computer chair. 

And what, you might ask, was he doing for nearly 7 straight hours? Lookin' at porn, that's what. Or, at least, as much nakedness as our filters would allow him see—which turns out to be quite a bit, actually. This use of our facilities bothers Mrs. A more than his tender flaky crust.

Nearsighted Dave: The Return

One of my least favorite computer patrons of old has returned to plague us again. No, not Par— (oops—don’t say his name, it gives him power). I’m talking about Nearsighted Dave. 

We’ve not seen Nearsighted Dave since 2004 and a wonderful two year respite it’s been. However, a couple weeks back, he returned and began using our computers in his usual voracious manner. The thing is, it took me close to a week to figure out who he was. Since we last saw him, Nearsighted Dave has either fallen on hard times or just gone off his medication. His hair has grown long, stringy and greasy, his beard has grown shaggy and somewhat matted, and, by the smell of him, his bathing habits seem to have become intermittent at best. The fact that he’s perfectly content to stay on our computers for hours (HOURS!!!) at a stretch should have been a tip-off to his identity, but considering that this could be said about so many of our “intanet” crowd, it wasn’t. Some time last week, I happened to notice how this then-mystery patron consistently sat with his face literally (and, again, I must emphasize how correctly I am using the word “literally,” here) three inches from the screen.  That's when all the evidence staring me in the face became apparent and I had a moment of clarity. 

Nearsighted Dave is still just as annoying as he was back in the day. If left to his own devices, I have no doubt whatsoever that he would stay planted in front of our computers for the entirety of our working day and beyond—taking time out only to deposit the occasional woefully stinky turd in our bano and then refuse (REFUSE, I TELL YOU!!!!) to use the air-freshener so clearly available. The only way he’ll relinquish his computer is when the other two are full and we have to bump him off to let someone else on. And, of course, he gives you the stink eye (“literally”) when you ask him to relinquish his system and takes a phenomenal amount of time departing. 

As annoying as that is, Nearsighted Dave has now become exponentially worse. He’d already been on for several hours yesterday, his face practically pressed against the screen, one of his hands stroking his ratty beard in a contemplative manner, when it came time to boot him off for one of the other three patrons who’d suddenly arrived wanting a computer. I went back, told him we had someone waiting, withered appropriately under Nearsighted Dave’s stink eye and dismissive “OkAAaayyyy” and returned to the desk to await the moment when I'd have to go back and tell him again. And on my second trip back to tell him again I heard Dave get up. He can sense when you’re coming to tell him again. 

Then, as I was logging off his computer, I noticed a gray and ash-like substance spread across the keyboard. What, was he somehow smoking at the computer? No, I could only smell his unwashed presence, lingering ghost-like in the area, and not smoke. Oh, hell, I thought, as I realized what the ash was. I bolted up front, where my boss Mrs. A was trying to eat her lunch. 

“I hate to ruin your lunch like this, but I think you need to come look at this computer. The guy that was back there has left something foul and unholy,” I said. We returned to the computer hall where she examined the substance. 

“What is it?” she whispered. 

“Beard dandruff,” I whispered back. 

“Oh. My. Lord.” 

Moments later, armed with disinfectant spray and a large paper towel, I set about cleaning up the leavings. It was just as disgusting as you think. Afterward, I returned to the circ desk to consult with Mrs. A. 

“What do we need to do about this?” 

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do,” she said. Her point was that we can’t get rid of Mister Stanky because he stinks so much, so how can we get rid of Nearsighted Dave for being too crusty? I fell back on the legal aspects of the case, recalling her attention to the ALA article we found back in February that covers how libraries are able to do precisely that. Mrs. A, in turn, fell back on her old faithful stance of “I’m not going to be the one to test that case in this state.” I then returned to my original premise that what Nearsighted Dave had left on our keyboard was both foul and unholy. She agreed, but again said there was nothing we could do. 

“Um, maybe I don’t want a computer after all,” a nearby male patron said. He’d been waiting for the next available computer and had overheard what we’d been talking about. Unfortunately, our actual words had been very vague as to the identity of the substance I’d found, so this guy had the impression that it was an even fouler substance than it really had been. I tried to assure him I’d disinfected the keyboard.

“No, I don’t care how much you’ve disinfected it. I don’t want that computer. Once you get that stuff in there…” 

“Oh, no!” I said, realizing his assumption. “We’re talking about dandruff. Not... that.” 

He seemed relieved. 

“And if it had been... that,” I said, an eye in Mrs. A’s direction, “I would have thrown him out of here physically, whether it got me fired or not.” 

Mrs. A pshawed my threats and assured our patron that we’d never had anything like that happen around here before, though she had heard of some of our local coffee shops with “intanet” access having to deal with that, (including one rumored incident involving one of our former “intanet” rogue patrons whose name I nearly invoked earlier). 

After a bit, Mrs. A consulted with Mrs. C on the matter and it was decided that we should point out to Nearsighted Dave that our computers in the back are equipped with an in-computer desktop magnifying glass that he can use to enlarge content at his leisure. Should he choose to use it, his face wouldn't be positioned directly over the keyboard, so when he begins contemplatively rubbing his chin again his dandruff will at least fall in his lap rather than in our keys. 

I remained angry throughout the afternoon. I tried getting some perspective on the matter, but just couldn’t manage it. I felt like I could smell Nearsighted Dave’s stench clinging to my clothing and I kept checking myself for crust contamination. As far as foul substances I’ve had to deal with in my job go, dandruff is actually pretty benign. I mean, I’d much rather clean that up than another in-toilet Jackson Pollock ass-splatter from the Serial Shitter. Still didn’t mean I wanted to deal with it. So often the foul substances we do find are anonymously gifted to us. To me, this means that when we DO know who’s responsible for one of them we are obligated to nail him to the wall for it. 

Alas it appears this will not be the case. I got no sympathy from my wife when retelling the story to her. She is, after all, a doctor, who throughout her long workdays has to deal with mookystinks and foulness that make dandruff seem sweet and sterile. In fact, if it weren’t illegal for her to publicly speak about her patients, and if she actually had time and inclination to do it, a blog written by her would be an amazing and horrifying thing to behold. A story she once told me about discovering a potato chip in the fat fold of a patient would be enough to secure her blog immortality.