Christmas Party, the first

Ash and I headed out to a Christmas party, last night (no, not the "liberry's" party, which we have not yet decided a date for, though we do have an interesting theme for gift exchanging). The host of the party was a fellow I know from church and from The Outdoor Drama What I Did for the Past Two Summers. I've been to parties at his place before and know them to be enjoyable and food-laden events not to be missed. Most of the people at this party were folks I didn't know, being friends of the host. But I did recognize one lady there as a patron at the library and she me--or so I thought.

We had just arrived and I was on my way to the enormous food buffet on a quest to stuff little cheesy fried sausage balls down my gob when the woman spied me and waved me over. I think she even called me by name, though it was sort of loud so I can't be sure. She introduced me to a fellow she said was her nephew and then told him that I was doing a great job "teaching for us." As inaccurate as that sounded, I decided to just let it go in favor of politely excusing myself to the buffet. But she wouldn't let it go.

"You've been at TRI-METRO HIGH for how long, now?"

"Er... I'm not."

She blinked at me for a second then said, "Oh... well... I mean, not now, but you were there?"

"Nooo," I said. "No. Not me."

"Sure, I've seen you there," she said, rather insistently. "I remember seeing you there."

"I'm not a teacher," I said.

The woman stared at me, as though I were making this up. "You're not teaching now, but you were at TRI-HIGH," she said, as though trying to give me an out from my lie.

"Er... uhm... " I said. It didn't occur to me to just tell her, No, actually, you know me from the library where I've had to bust you and your boyfriend off the computers on several occasions, not to mention that I've had to teach, reteach and reteach again the process of attaching files to email to your boyfriend, who's about the most technophobic human being I've ever met and who was nearly in a nervous fit over the process, mananged to screw it all up twice after having FINALLY attached all the files he'd intended to attach and then nearly peed himself begging me to help him do it again, as though I was actually going to deny him assistance. No. Instead, I plunged further down the awkward road of denial.

"I think the only time I've ever been to TRI-HIGH was when I once rehearsed there with the chorale."

"Ohhhhhh," she said, as though the light had suddenly gone on in her head. "That's where!"

Never mind the fact that our chorale rehearsal had been on a Saturday and she had not been there. I decided to let that lie, now that the ajar door of her world seemed firmly shut again. I imagine we'll run into one another at the "liberry" soon enough. I also imagine she'll have no recollection of any of this.

Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #68

(Setting: My "liberry." A large and repulsively stinky man—stinkier still than Mr. Stanky himself—arrives and signs up for a computer. Our computers are all full and a female patron is already waiting for the one that's about to become available.)

ME— It's going to be a few minutes before we have a computer for you.

MR. STANKIER— Oh, do you think so?

ME— Yeah, I'm pretty sure.

(I go back to the computer hall, see that there is now a free computer, log it off and back on and then start back up front to tell the female patron her computer is ready. As I pass through the children's room, Mr. Stankier is on his way back to the computer hall.)

MR. STANKIER— So, you got me fixed up?

ME— (Pause) No. No, I don't. Like I said, it's going to be a few minutes before we have a computer available for you.

MR. STANKIER— Oh. A few minutes, then?

ME— Yes.

(What I really want to say to him, though, is: "What the hell is it with all the large, rock stupid, foul and stinky patrons we seem to attract? Is there a club of you guys I'm unaware of? And does it meet in the ass of a dead dog?")

Oops, spoke too soon

A lady patron arrived at the circ desk and alerted me we had an interlibrary loan for her. I fetched it from our holds cabinet while the lady patron dug in her purse for her card. This often happens with ILL-seeking patrons, particularly in the past couple of years that we've been enforcing the YES, YOU NEED YOUR DAMN CARD policy.

"Oh, no," I said, "we don't need your card for interlibrary loans."

"You don't?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, I didn't think so, but I came in without my card the other day and the young lady here said I had to have it. I tried to explain that I never have for interlibrary loans before, but she wouldn't back down. By the time I'd walked back home to get it, I decided to just wait."

"Do you remember which day this was?" I asked, knowing the answer already.

"Mmm... a couple days ago. Probably Saturday."

"Ah. I see." Yep, I was right. Not surprisingly, it had been Newbie Greenhorn Ms. S being overzealous about her job. "Well, I apologize for that."

"Oh, it's no problem. I needed the walk."

The lady patron signed her ILL slip and left, at which point I turned to Mrs. C and we both exchanged looks of befuddlement at Ms. S's stupidity.

"What did she even...? Was she trying to...? Is it even possible? I mean, how could...?" I said.

"I don't know," Mrs. C said.

Our confusion may seem odd, but that's probably just because you don't know how ILLs work around here. We don't require a card for ILLs because we don't check them out on the patron's library card at all. The interlibrary loaned books, you see, are already checked out on OUR library's library card before they're even mailed to us. Once we receive it, we check the appropriate accordion file folder to see who wanted it locally, process that information into our ILL binder so that we have a record of the book's title, the patron requesting it and its due date, then we give it to that patron and have them sign the accompanying ILL slip to show that they received it. Again, we DO NOT check the book out to them on their library card. That screws up the whole process for us and for the other libraries, as once a book is checked out to a patron and not a library it suddenly becomes subject to a much less generous loan time (say 2 weeks instead of a month) and causes other problems down the line. So the fact that Ms. S insisted on seeing a card might mean she's been checking the ILLs out on patron cards, screwing up not only our library but others as well.

The madness--it's spreading!

Auxiliary Trouble (or "Ms. S finally gets one right")

My once-a-month Monday shift went pretty smoothly, yesterday. The only real incident I had came with a 4p arrival of Brent & Brice: The New Devil Twins.

I've not seen much of the Devil Twins in a while, particularly after all the confusion we had with them back in June, during which we finally learned which of them was which and that, while they are brothers, they aren't actually twins in the first place. In the intervening months, Brice—the shorter brother, whose patron record fines tab was the far scarier of the two—actually brought all his books back or otherwise paid his fines, so he's been allowed to use the computers again. Brent, the taller one, still has a LOOOOONG overdue book out and is still therefore banned from computer usage. This fact, however, didn't stop him from signing up for a computer in front of me, God and everybody when the two of them walked in Monday afternoon.

I didn't have computers for either of them at the time, so I sent them away to wait while I double checked both of their patron records to make sure at least one was still in Dutch with us. Yep. Brent still owes $60 in fines and/or book replacement fees. So I went back and broke the news to him that I couldn't let him use the computer until that was taken care of. He tried to act surprised about it, but I don't think his heart was really in his performance.

Jump to today.

Not long after I arrived, Mrs. C mentioned that the twins had been on scene during another incident over the weekend. She said that on Sunday she received a phone at home from infamous Newbie Greenhorn Ms. S, our weekend warrior womanning the desk. It seems that Brent & Brice were in the "liberry" along with two members of the Brent & Brice Auxiliary League of Neighborhood kids. (Of course, they were all using computers since Ms. S didn't remember that there were any banning issues involved.) At some point during their visit, Ms. S had gone upstairs to drop off some nonfiction and when she returned downstairs she spotted a member of the League—a 10 or 11 year old kid who I'll call Tony—behind the circ-desk. Tony saw that he'd been spotted, for Ms. S said they locked eyes, and he zipped from behind the desk. When confronted as to why he was behind the desk, he claimed he was trying to find a pen with which to sign up for a computer. (Because the can of pens RIGHT BEHIND the computer sign in sheet wasn't obvious enough, eh?)

Now, the thing you have to remember about Ms. S is that she's terified of our cash box and the possibility that she might somehow miscount it by three cents and get brought up on charges. We've tried to explain to her that as long as the count isn't wildly off, it's all right and that miscalculations happen. She remains in fear of the box. Also, being a very very slow human being in both mind and body, she likes to do the end-of-the-day cash count as early in her shift as she can get away with so she'll have plenty of time to count and recount and recount should something come up wrong. And, since we close at 5 on Sundays, she'd already done the cash count some time between 3:30 and 4p. Luckily, this meant she was already aware that there had been a $20 bill in the cash box, the very bill which she saw was missing following Tony's visit behind the circ-desk.

"What do I do?" she asked Mrs. C.

"I'll be there in a minute," Mrs. C told her.

Minutes later, Mrs. C arrived and the kids were all still in-house. Ms. S pointed her to Tony and Mrs. C asked to speak to him in private. She explained to Tony that Ms. S had seen him behind the desk, that he was NOT supposed to BE behind the desk and, while we were not going so far as to accuse him yet, we were now aware that there was a $20 bill missing from the cash box. Had he taken it? Tony claimed he had not taken it and reiterated that he was looking for a pen.

"In that case, is your mom home?" Mrs. C asked.

"Yeah."

"Would you call her for me?"

"Yeah."

Tony dialed, but said the number was busy. So Mrs. C passed the time by talking to Brent & Brice and the other League member present, alerting them to the situation and asking if they knew anything about it? They said they didn't and recommended she call Tony's mom again. So Mrs. C had Tony phone home again, got through this time and reached mom. Mrs. C explained the situation to Tony's mom, stressing again that we weren't accusing him but that evidence did seem to point in his direction. Tony's mom said that she'd never known him to steal, but that there was always a first time for it. She agreed to deal with the matter and return the money should she find it. Then, she asked to speak to Tony and, from his growing petrified expression, apparently gave him the what for.

Mrs. C was relieved. Ms. S was even more relieved.

Jump back to this morning. Mrs. J, our sexagenarian "liberry" ass., was straightening up around our restroom and noticed a $20 bill behind the trash can. So it would appear that Tony, knowing Ms. S had seen him, ditched the money rather than get caught with it.

We don't, at this point, know Tony's phone number to call his mom back and let her know, but that will be easy enough to find out. My suggestion, in the meantime, is that we put a little note behind the trash can that reads:

Dear Tony,

So sorry, but we're afraid what you came to look for is no longer here.

XXOO
--the staff
p.s.-- you're banned.

Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #67

SETTING: My "liberry." I've just logged a computer patron onto a computer. He sits down and sighs.

COMPUTER PATRON: Don’t know why I’m using this thing. Every time I print anything it always cuts off my prints.

ME: (Understanding that he meant the printer only prints what it’s capable of printing from a given screen and invariably winds up cutting off the right half of his prints due to a sidebar on the left side that forces all the text he wanted a couple inches to the right...) Yeah, sometimes that’s a problem when you have a sidebar on the left. But most email services have a Printer-Friendly-Version link at the top that will open your text in a new window that won’t have the sidebar on the left.

PATRON: But I’m not printing from email.

ME: Well, other sites often have one too. It’s usually at the top of the screen and will say Printer-Friendly-Version or Printable Screen.

PATRON: (Not listening to me whatsoever) But it cuts off the right side of my text.

ME: Exactly. So you just need to look for the Printable Screen link. Like I said, it’s usually at the top of the page and then you can then print without any problem.

PATRON: (Still oblivious to the information I am imparting at him) I just hit PRINT, and then it cuts off the right side of my text.

ME: That’s what I’m saying to you. Look for PRINTER-FRIENDLY-VERSION or PRINTABLE SCREEN. It will be in a link. It will usually be at the top of the web page. If you click it, it will open your text in a new window that won’t have a sidebar and won’t cut off your text on the right when you print from it. If you just keep hitting PRINT on the normal screen it will just keep cutting off your text. You have to look for PRINTABLE SCREEN or PRINT-FRIENDLY-VERSION. It’s usually at the top of the page.

PATRON: I don’t know much about computers.

(I nod and walk away.)

Lame Ducks

The patron known as Granny returned to the "liberry" yesterday, minus her destructive grandson. The rest of the staff had gone to lunch, so no one else had to smell the aura of stale cigarette smoke that clung to her. Granted, she was a far cry from the olfactory offensiveness of Mrs. Carol Satan, but my recent trip to Missouri has made me more sensitive to such things.

Granny turned in some books, inquired about the cost of a video she couldn't locate, failed to pay for it and then set about looking for more selections. After five minutes, or so, the door opened and a startling looking man walked through. I recognized him as Yosemite Sam, her husband who bears a striking resemblance to the cartoon character of the same name, albeit with black hair. It was far too cold for Sam to have clad his torso only in his trademark leather vest, but he wore the vest over a dark long sleeve all the same. The rest of him was clad in black clothing made, whenever possible, out of leather. The startling thing about him was that his hair was not pulled into a receding pony tail, but was down, splayed out in a tangly mess from beneath a black leather cowboy hat. His eyes were wide, wild and rather glinty. He could have passed for the malevolent father of Jeff Fahey's already malevolent character, Tyree, in Silverado; the very sort of fellow that, were you to come upon him on a dusty western street, near, say, a saloon, you would be well-advised to find the nearest horse headed out of town. I very quickly stopped making eye-contact with him. However, the temptation to look up soon became too great and I hazarded a quick glance only to find Sam's wild eyes staring right back.

"Yah'd think she'd be through, by now," Sam said, jutting a thumb in Granny's direction. I raised eyebrows in response, then quickly returned to my list of overdues. I caught a whiff of Sam, though. He smelled of stale cigarettes, but there were also two parts body odor and alcohol thrown into that three part mix. God, I prayed, please don't let him start in on his home-brew business with me again.

"Paul Harvey's out there calling everyone lame ducks," Sam said, indicating, I assume, the radio in his car. Before he could continue further, the door opened and Mrs.es A, B, C and J returned from lunch. I could tell by Mrs. A's expression that she too caught wind of Sam and soon she was looking for air-freshener. Sam and Granny only stayed a few minutes more and mostly confined their talk to themselves. Sam seemed to indicate that Granny had enough books at home as it was and that they ought to bring some of them and give them to us. Granny disagreed. Then, as they left, Sam lingered in the door until Granny was outside, then turned back to me and, with a few glances back over his shoulder to make sure Granny wasn't there to hear him, said that he was planning to sneak a box of Granny's books to us regardless of her approval. I just nodded and smiled and told him I had to occasionally watch my wife for such treachery, as she often gets it in her head to rid our house of clutter and usually eyes my clutter as the first to go.

"Oh, yew got one of them, too, huh?" Sam said. Then his boots clomped out the door. You could practically imagine the sound of spurs jangling as he left.

Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #66

(Setting: My "liberry." A man enters the building and approaches the desk, bearing a single volume from a set of encyclopedias.)

ME: Can I help you?

MAN: Yes, I wanted to see if your library would be interested in having these. I have the whole set and they're very, very nice.

ME: (I look down at his book, which is indeed a very, very nice E volume, gilded edges and all, from the year 1987.) Well, I'm sure we could accept them. We often sell encyclopedia sets in our book sale.

MAN: Oh. I thought you could use them here at the library.

ME: Well, no. We already have a current set of encyclopedias in our collection and yours are from 1987.

MAN: But, they're very, very nice.

ME: They are.

MAN: And you can't use them?

ME: Not for the collection, but we could possibly sell them in the book sale.

MAN: (Long pause) I... I... I'd rather give them to someone who'll use them. Maybe I can find someone else to take them.

ME: I understand, sir. I understand.

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...)