I’m doing work-study at my college’s library. I’m working the circulation desk when this crazy old guy calls in. He tells me he is looking for some mystery man. Silly me, I assume he is talking about an author, so I type the name into an author search. Nothing comes up.

Me: “I’m sorry, I don’t see him in our database. Can I check the spelling?”

Caller: *In a patronizingly patient voice* “It’s [M-Y-S-T-E-R-Y M-A-N]. He’s seventy-five.”

Me: “Oooookay. I’m still not seeing him. Can you tell me what he wrote?”

Caller: “He’s not an author. He’s Mystery Man, and he’s seventy-five, and I need a picture of him.”

At this point, I am officially confused, but I already said I’d help the man, so I Google the Mystery Man. The search comes back with over three thousand results — most of them doctors, strangely enough.

Me: “Sir, can you tell me anything else about [Mystery Man]?”

Caller: “He’s seventy-five, and I need a picture of him!”

At this point, I am shuddering at the thought of having to explain a Google search to someone who apparently has no idea how to use the Internet, or possibly even a mouse. Not to mention that this isn’t even my job.

Me: “Sir, I’ve looked up the name, and I’m getting over three thousand results. I can’t possibly sort through all of this information right now or find the right man without more information.”

Caller: *Patronizing* “Listen, he’s [M-Y-S-T-E-R-Y M-A-N]. He’s seventy-five, and I need a picture of him.”

It occurs to me that even if I could find a picture of [Mystery Man], I have no way to send it to this guy. He obviously doesn’t know how to use a computer, so email is out, and libraries aren’t in the habit of printing out pictures and paying postage to mail them to random callers. I think maybe I could at least direct him to someone who could help him. 

I remember that our county’s public libraries have larger collections and offer limited Internet service to patrons. I’ve even seen their extraordinarily patient and knowledgeable librarians help older patrons use computers before.

Me: “Sir, do you have a public library card?”

Caller: “No.”

Of course not.

Me: “Sir, you need to go to your local public library and ask for help there. They can set you up with a library card, and then you can—”

Caller: “Never mind, you’re not listening to me!” *Click*

I’d always heard that people call librarians for all kinds of random answers as if we were a physical extension of the collection.

This is about ten years ago when I am in college. It is finals week, and due to a learning disability, I take my exams in this concourse between the two largest dorms on campus. I finish my exam, and as I’m walking to leave I notice a backpack behind what I assume to be a structural column.

It’s 8:00 in the morning, and there isn’t a reason for this being here. I am near the cafeteria, so it may be a worker’s bag, but that would be weird since they have secured cubbies. Normally, I’d ignore this, but in the previous few days, there have been bomb scares at several other colleges and universities. They were all pranks, and likely so is this. But that being said, if this isn’t a prank, I don’t want to be the guy on the news saying, “I wish I’d said something,” so I call the school’s public safety office to report it.

I tell them all of what I mentioned above, and the dispatcher sends some officers but asks me to stay on the line.

Dispatcher: “Huh. That’s for sure suspicious. Do you mind going over and looking through the bag?”

Me: “Um, no, I’m not doing that.”

Dispatcher: “Why?”

Me: “If it’s a bomb I don’t want to be anywhere near it, let alone go messing with it. If it’s not a bomb and a student left it, I don’t want to be accused of stealing. You said the officers were on their way; they can do it.”

Dispatcher: “I’m sure it’s fine. Just open the bag for us.”

Me: “I’m not going to do that, and if that’s all you need, I’m going back to my dorm.”

Dispatcher: “Why don’t you want to look in it? That’s suspicious!”

Me: “Maybe because I think it could be a bomb?! Why are you so insistent that I do this?”

Dispatcher: “Well, the officers aren’t trained to handle a bomb.”

Me: “Neither am I!”

I hung up. I later found out that the backpack was obviously nothing. Public safety did come to question me as a matter of procedure, and that was it, thankfully!

When I was a freshman in college, I had a maths teacher who was very strict about how she taught and how she expected us to learn. For example, she would force students to take notes, and if they didn’t, she would make them leave.

During our midterm exam, someone asked how much time was left and [Teacher] said we had five minutes. At this point, I was only about halfway done with the test, so I rushed and finished it barely in time. Most of my classmates and I turned in our tests and left the room. When I checked my phone, I realized there were another twenty minutes left. The students who hadn’t finished in five told me that after we left, [Teacher] realized that she had read the clock wrong and gave them another twenty minutes that those of us who left didn’t have.

I’ve always been pretty good at math, but obviously, after rushing half the test, I didn’t get a good grade. The part I didn’t rush was perfect, though.

In the next class, after showing us our results, [Teacher] said that we needed to develop a strategy to improve our grades. She said that if we created a plan, stuck to it, and provided evidence of us doing it, she would give us some extra credit. What she expected us to do was say something like, “I’ll practice every week,” and submit pictures of us doing it as evidence, or something like that.

Now, while I didn’t blame [Teacher] for reading the clock wrong, I did blame the fact that I thought I only had five minutes left for not doing well on that test. I was confident that I could have gotten a perfect grade on it if I’d had the extra twenty minutes. And so, what I said I would do is “bring a watch to the next exam”.  Was it an arrogant thing to say? Yes, but I also thought it was stupid to follow along with [Teacher]’s plan to micromanage our studies.

[Teacher] got mad at me and said that if I didn’t do anything else, I would fail the final for sure, but I assured her that the watch was enough for me to do better.

A few months later, on the day of the final, I submitted a picture of a watch on my wrist as evidence of sticking with the strategy. I got a perfect grade on the final. Since my strategy for improving my grades worked, she had to give me extra credit — not before arguing that I didn’t deserve it, of course.

In the 1970s, I attended a liberal arts college and earned a sociology degree. One of the upper-level courses was a seminar on sociological theory. Each class period focused on a different theorist. We were expected to have read the material before class and be prepared for discussions. 

On this particular day, we were to discuss the works of Georg Simmel, a German theorist who wrote about group interactions. One aspect of his theory was about how individuals sometimes surrender individual decision-making and succumb to the will of the crowd. He noted that this is more likely to happen in larger groups.

The professor stood at the podium and addressed the class.

Professor: “Tell me about Simmel.”

There was silence as each of us waited for someone else to take the initiative.

Professor: *Sternly* “Somebody had better start talking.”

I spoke up.

Me: “We were demonstrating Simmel’s theory. Our group is large enough that none of us feel individual responsibility.”

Professor: *Grinning* “Smarta**.”

My classmates and I are all standing outside the classroom, chatting with the professor, because the door to the classroom is locked. The professor has to call the maintenance person, so we have to wait. 

On the door and the wall and windows around it are banners and small posters for events and fun things around campus, and we’re reading them all and commenting about them. 

One of the posters has what looks like some kind of Asian script, meant to be read from top to bottom, right to left. We’re all discussing what it says because it’s written very strangely compared to the rest of the poster, which is written in English, left to right. Because I took Japanese in high school and am still studying, I’m trying to make it out. 

It finally dawns on me. 

Me: “Oh, hey, it says, ‘Asian Spring Festival, All Are Welcome.’”

Professor: “You can read that?! That’s so cool! What language is it in?”

Me: *Pauses* “It’s actually in English; it’s just that the font and formatting are weird.”

Everyone: “…Hey, it is in English!”