My friends and I are in the Uni library, working together. We’re all in a creative writing class, and we’re creating outlines for novels.

Classmate: *Shuffling through some of her many papers.* “Ugh!”

Me: “What is it?”

Classmate: “I can’t find it.”

Other Classmate: “Find what?”

Classmate: “My story outlines! I had them all laid out, and now I can’t find them.”

Other Classmate: *Starts snickering.*

Classmate: “What’s so funny?!”

Other Classmate: “You’ve literally lost the plot!”

One of them found it far more amusing than the other…

I live in an impoverished area, and so to try to help out a little, I run a service on Saturday afternoons at the local library that does basic fixes for computers for free. 

I had an old lady come in with a Toshiba laptop.

Lady: “It’s really slow. Can you make it faster?”

I run a hard drive cleaner software, a malware scanner and remover, and a few other programs to check for viruses, manage files, and clear caches. We got the computer’s boot time from ten minutes down to two.

Lady: “That’s still really slow.”

Me: “How old is this laptop?”

Lady: “Ten years.”

Me: “Based on the age, and that it only has 2GB of RAM, this is as fast as I can get it without reinstalling the operating system.”

Lady: “Then, just, I don’t know, do something.”

Me: “Ma’am, your computer is old. It cannot support newer material.”

Lady: “Well, then. Just do something.”

Me: “Your computer cannot be fixed for free. I recommend buying a new laptop.”

Lady: “Okay. How much will this cost?”

Me: “Nothing, ma’am. This is a free service.”

Lady: “Okay. Do you have a website?”

Me: “No, ma’am, I just advertise my services through the library.”

Lady: “Okay, so the library is where I leave the one-star review about how useless you’ve been?”

The one-star review was up on Google and other sites by the next day, likely written on her freshly cleaned-up laptop.

I’m working in a library. One of the patrons in the study area has been talking loudly for long enough that she’s been shushed by other patrons twice. After a third shush, she starts yelling.

Me: “Ma’am! You can’t be yelling in the library.”

Patron: “I don’t see a sign that says be quiet.”

Me: “It’s pretty well implied worldwide that libraries are supposed to be quiet places.”

Patron: “I don’t do “implied,”—” *Finger quotes.* “—I do signs!”

Other Patron: “Oh, cool! There are no signs saying I can’t pee all over noisy patrons, and since the restrooms on this floor are so far away…”

The other patron walks over and makes a show of reaching for his fly.

Patron: “Stop! Go away! Eww!”

Other Patron: “There’s no sign telling me I can’t.”

The patron grabs her laptop and phone and hurriedly makes her way to the exit.

Me: *To the other patron.* “Thank you, sir. I can’t believe we might have to put up a sign asking people to be quiet in the library… or not to pee on noisy patrons.”

Other Patron: *Sad.* “Aww…”

I work in an older library. On the first floor, there’s a niche in the very back with a couple of study desks and chairs. The second floor extends almost to the back wall, with a gap that means someone can stand in the final aisle of shelves on the second floor and look down into that niche on the first floor. Incidentally, the way the walls are shaped means that any sound made in that niche carries up to the second floor with crystal clarity.

One day, I went up to the second floor to pull holds, and heard someone having an extremely… unfiltered… conversation. As I walked towards the back of the second floor, their voice became louder and louder, and I could tell it was because they were sitting in the first-floor niche on their phone. The various patrons I passed had pained expressions.

I walked to the final aisle of shelves, leaned down, and pinpointed the talker.

Me: “Ma’am?”

Woman: “And then that mother-f***** had the f****** gall to say to me that I was a w****, so I told him where he could stick his—”

Me: “MA’AM!”

Woman: “Hang on, someone’s being an eavesdropping little b****.” *She starts looking around.*

Me: “Up here, ma’am.”

She looks up and sees me.

Woman: “I am trying to have a private conversation!”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure you are. Just be aware that from where you’re sitting, your conversation can be heard by everyone on the second floor.”

Someone In The Next Aisle: “I want to hear where she told him to stick it!”

The woman swore violently and ran out, yelling “THEY HEARD EVERYTHING!” into her phone. Murmurs of “thank you” followed me all the way back to the front of the floor.

I’m a librarian at a public library, and I have a patron come up to the reference desk to ask for help on a computer.

Patron: “I’m trying to make a Gmail, and I keep getting an error!”

Me: “Okay, let’s take a look and see what’s going on.”

I follow her over to the computer she’s using and see she’s entered a really long Gmail address, like “War and Peace” long. The error message says something generic, like “invalid username”.

Me: “I think I know what the issue is. Google has a limit on how many characters your username can have. I don’t know what it is off the top of my head, but I can go back to my computer really quickly and look it up, and then we can shorten your username and try again.”

Patron: “No, you’re wrong.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Patron: “That’s the username I want. Gmail has to take it. Something else is wrong.”

Me: “Um…I don’t think so, ma’am. I really do think that’s the issue. But let me check, and I’ll come back over and help you get set up.”

Patron: “I’m telling you that’s not the issue. This username should be fine. Something else is wrong. I don’t understand why you won’t help me.”

She’s starting to get louder, and I’m trying to figure out how to de-escalate the situation.

Me: “All right, well, let me go back to my computer and see what that error might mean so we can get this figured out for you, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”

I go back to my computer. Sure enough, Google has a character limit for usernames. I print the information out and take it to the patron.

Me: “Hi again. Here’s what I found online. Google has a limit, and your username is too long, so can we shorten it up so it’s less than thirty characters and try again?”

Patron: “No. This is the username I want.”

Me: “Okay, well, that’s why you’re getting that error. I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m happy to try to help you think of a shorter username.”

Patron: “I don’t know why you won’t help me and why you’re being so rude!”

Me: “Again, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude, and I am trying to help you. If you pick a different, shorter username, I can help you get set up with Gmail; otherwise, there really isn’t anything more I can do.”

The patron then yells over to the circulation clerk: Can you help me? Since she won’t?

Clerk: “Um…”

Me: “No, ma’am, that’s not his job, and honestly, if you don’t want to pick a different username, none of us can help you.”

I go back to my desk. She stayed at the computer for a little bit, getting visibly more agitated, but she wasn’t being disruptive, so I left her alone. She left in a huff a little while later with a parting shot about how she didn’t understand why none of us would help her. 

Another patron who had overheard the whole thing piped up:

Other Patron: “Some people are beyond help.”