I work in a library. One of our regular patrons, an older woman who comes in frequently to check out movies, comes in with a man I’ve never seen before. They select several DVDs and bring them to the desk to check out.

Me: “Oh, you’ve got four new releases here; the limit on those is three at a time. You’ll need to pick one to put back.”

Woman: “Oops!” *To the man* “Okay, which of these do you want to see more?”

Man: “I don’t want to see any of ’em!”

Woman: “Well, what kind of movies do you like, anyway?”

Man: “Sex movies!” *To me* “What kind of sex movies you got around here?”

Me: *Speechless*

I work in a library in a small suburb of Cleveland that’s roughly 40% white, 40% black, and 20% Latino/Hispanic. While the branch library I work at is small and located in the poorest section of town, our patrons are very, very loyal.

This happens during one of the very rare days when the director of our whole library’s system happens to be visiting my branch, something she does maybe twice a year.

Director: “You’d better put those scissors away. They can be used as a weapon.”

I look around and realize she’s talking about the scissors in a pencil cup behind the desk, far out of the reach of any patron.

Me: “Okay.”

I humor her and stick the scissors in the desk drawer.

Director: “In fact, all of this needs to go away.”

She gestures to the pencils, tape dispenser, pencil sharpener, and other office supplies sitting on the desk.

Director: “If this was a prison library, none of this could be out.”

I start reaching for the nearest objects just to humor her and respond with a smile, very congenially.

Me: “It’s a good thing this isn’t a prison library!”

Director: “It might as well be!”

She replied in a deadly serious tone with some acid. I was so surprised that I fell silent and went about completing the task.

And this is the same director who is currently pushing for a one-million-dollar levy on those low-income, struggling-to-get-by families.

(I work in a pizza restaurant. A gentleman comes up to the register and places a to-go order.)

Me: “Your total is [amount less than $20].”

(He pulls out his wallet and digs through it for a moment before pulling out a bright orange card. I immediately recognize it as a card for store credit from a home improvement chain. The closest one is at least ten miles away.)

Customer: “So… will you accept a card from [Home Improvement Store]?”

Me: “Sorry, I wish I could. If it were a credit card, I could. Do you have another form of payment?”

(With a big sigh, he shoves the card back into his wallet, pulls out a bank card, and starts mumbling to himself.)

Customer: “It should work the same way. I just don’t get it. There’s [amount] on here. [Home Improvement Store] is ripping me off!”

(He hands me the card and I swipe it.)

Me: “Thank you, sir. Your food will be out in a few minutes.”

(I’ve had people try to pay with gift cards from other restaurants, with phones and watches, and even an IOU. But this was a first.)

(We have an odd coworker. We LOVE this guy; he is in his fifties, his work is perfect, and he is just so eager to help. He’s very intelligent, loves to talk philosophy and the like… but he has an anxiety disorder that, however much we try, can get on our nerves. No one ever snaps at him about this. This is an example of one of those days when we smile, grit our teeth and remind ourselves that he cannot help it. He has noticed that a former librarian and currently a volunteer has been weeding things for us. We usually give certain standards that must be met — i.e. if the book hasn’t been circulated for ten years, take it off the shelf and put it on a cart, or if the book is in really bad condition, torn up, dirty, etc., put it on the cart to be checked. He really wants to try his hand at weeding and finally wears me down. I tell him to pull only books from a certain section that, according to the stamp, have not gone out since 2012. He proceeds to bring each book to my office.)

Coworker: “This one hasn’t gone out since 2015. Should I put it on the cart?”

Me: “No, only if the last date is 2012 do you want to put it on the cart.”

Coworker: “Okay.”

(Two seconds later.)

Coworker: “This book is stamped 2012, but there’s also a 2013, five 2015s, and a 2017.”

Me: “Then 2012 isn’t the last date, right?”

Coworker: “Oh, right.”

(Three seconds later:)

Coworker: “This one isn’t stamped at all.”

Me: “And what does the spine label say?”

Coworker: “Oh! It’s a new book. I just shelved this a few minutes ago.”

Me: “That’s right.”

(A second later, [Coworker] presents me with a book that one needs a hazmat suit to touch and I wonder how on earth it ever went out in that condition.)

Coworker: “This isn’t too bad, is it?”

Me: “[Coworker], give me that. I’m withdrawing it right now. And go use some hand sanitizer and bring me some.”

Coworker: “I guess it was in pretty bad shape, huh?”

(This goes on for every. Single. Book. He. Pulled. At the end of the hour, he saya something like:)

Coworker: “I don’t think I’m ready to do weeding after all. I am too afraid of making a mistake.”

Me: “Well, you gave it a shot and that’s what’s important. You shouldn’t be afraid of making a mistake, though, because [Volunteer] and I both look over the cart and decide if we will really toss the book or not, so we’d catch it if you didn’t.”

Coworker: “Oh, that’s right. But I wouldn’t want you to think I was stupid and couldn’t figure out how to decide if a book is too old or not.”

Me: “We never would think that, [Coworker]. I appreciate you wanting to try something new.”

Coworker: “Is it okay if I go back to shelving books? That’s so much easier.”

(That’s what kills me. Most people find the Dewey decimal system a huge challenge — it was for me at one time, as well — but he has absolutely no trouble getting the books in the right order. But figuring out that 2012 should be the LAST date stamped in an old book is a scary process. He is still with us, still greets each of us about fifteen times each morning, and he is still making our lives easier by shelving everything in perfect Dewey order. To be honest, since he gave up on being a weeder instead of a reader, he seems to have calmed down quite a bit. And according to his counselor, he’s doing really well in the world!)

(I am standing by and monitoring the self-checkout stations when the following occurs.)

Patron: “Excuse me, miss?”

Me: “Yes?”

(She holds up one of our books.)

Patron: “Where do you keep the real copies?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Patron: “The real copies.”

Me: “Uh, I can assure you that all our books are real.”

Patron: “No, everything you have on the shelves is fake. I want to know where the real books are.”

Me: “I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am; all our books are indeed real.”

Patron: “No… no, they are not. Thank you, anyway.”

(She then put her book down and just calmly walked out of the building.)