I’m a sixty-ish-year-old woman wearing a knitted cardigan working the service desk of a library, with my hair up in a bun and reading glasses hanging around my neck. I am the stereotypical vision of an old librarian lady.

A young male customer walks up to the service desk and leans in for a whisper.

Customer: “So… I… uh… I got this drug test—”

Me: “I cannot sell you my urine.”

Customer: “How… how did you know I was going to ask that?”

Me: “You were here last month filling out job application forms. Here you are today reeking of weed. You got a job offer, and they have a drug test requirement. People like you also seem to think that either the library offers a lot more services than it really does, or we poor librarians are so poorly paid that we’d be willing to sell our own bodily fluids to make rent.”

Sadly, that last part isn’t too far from the truth.

Me: “Besides, my urine would be of no use to you anyway.”

Customer: “Why? It’s not like you could be pregnant.”

Me: “It’s cute you think my urine is free from illicit and mind-altering substances.”

I very sloooooowly curved my mouth up into a wide psycho smile, eyes wide. He backed away and I haven’t seen him since.

Related:
The Contrarian Ex-Librarian
The Contrarian Librarian: The DVD
The Contrarian Librarian Runs Out Of Time
The Contrarian Librarian: The Childhood Years
Softening Of The Contrarian Librarian

Waaaaaaay back in the stone age, with the Internet just becoming a thing, I worked in a library. A patron in his twenties said to me:

Patron: “You must be thrilled. With the Internet, you will never have to answer reference questions again. All books will be on the computer, and you won’t have to buy books for the library.”

He went on to list a bunch of reasons why we should essentially be delighted over the potential for losing our jobs.

My coworker piped up.

Coworker: “I assume you will be thrilled to pay our monthly unemployment checks or our welfare checks if we can’t find jobs?”

Mr. Thrilled looked at us in confusion.

Patron: “You’d lose your job because you wouldn’t have to do any of these chores?”

Me: “Dude, that is our job.”

He looked surprised, and then pensive, and then finally said:

Patron: “Gee, I hadn’t thought of that!”

Clearly, dude. Clearly.

I retired after thirty-seven years. We still answer reference questions because humans are still unable to sort through the enormous amounts of information — real and not so much — on the ‘net. People cannot figure out when they are reading parody accounts. People can read but cannot interpret what they have read.

And, most of all, a lot of people, many of them born after the birth of Google, cannot figure out how to use the computer, fill out a form, or create a password.

I would like to believe libraries are safe for another thousand years.

I am homeless. No, I don’t drink, and no, I don’t do drugs. I am trying to get a job, but finding employment when homeless is not an easy task. (Something I need to get out of the way.)

Every few days, I take a trip to the library to charge my phone and batteries so I can keep my phone on and working. I typically spend three or four hours in a quiet corner of the library glued to the power outlet.

Today, I had a cute and then frustrating interaction between a little kid and her parent.

I walked through the sliding doors of the library and wandered around looking for an open chair near an outlet to sit and charge.

I heard this little voice shout out in excitement and glee, “Santa!” and pitter-patters of little boots running over to me.

Now, I get it. I really do. A big bearded man dressed in red, with big black bags and an oversized backpack strapped over his shoulders — any little kid would easily mistake me for the big jolly man.

The kid stopped dead in front of me. She couldn’t have been more than four years old, and she was clenching her fists tight, trembling in excitement.

She looked up at me, her eyes opened wide.

Kid: “HI, SANTA!”

That made me smile, and I laughed.

Her mother came running over and scooped her child up.

Mother: *To me* “I’m sorry!” *To her kid, walking away* “That’s not Santa!”

The entire interaction put a smile on my face, but here’s where it went downhill.

I found an open seat and plugged in my phone to charge and do my thing.

The little kid and her parent were on the other side of the library, but the kid was still brimming with excitement. I could see her head poke out of the bookshelf, staring at me every so often.

That went on for about half an hour.

Until, I guess, the mother couldn’t handle her child anymore, and she came over to me.

Mother: “You need to leave and find a different spot. You’re distracting my daughter.”

Me: “Hey, I’m sorry, but this is the only open space with an outlet. I need to charge my stuff.”

Mother: *Very sarcastically* “Oh? Why’s that?”

Me: “Because I don’t have one. I am homeless.”

I thought that was the end of it because her face went red and she walked away.

But no, she came back.

Mother: “I went to the front desk to ask if there are any outlets outside and if it’s okay for you to use them. They said they’re okay with you using those outlets, so you can go out there.”

Seriously!

Me: “So, you don’t want me in the library, a public institution, to charge my stuff? You would rather me sit outside in the cold just because your kid thinks I’m Santa? Really, that’s it. Well, ho ho ho, Merry Christmas to you. I’m going to stay right here until my batteries are charged.”

The lady went to the front desk, and I listened in because I figured I was screwed, and I was getting kicked out.

Mother: “Can you tell that guy to leave?”

Library Staff: “We can’t unless he is intentionally making a disturbance or being violent or threatening.”

I have been there before; I keep to myself and don’t bother anyone.

So, yeah, I was there for four hours. I didn’t move or get kicked out. My things are charged and good for the next few days.

Honestly, it wasn’t the worst interaction I have ever experienced. At least she was somewhat polite. I don’t think she was being malicious at all; I think, in her mind, she was doing a good deed.

I am working the late shift (1:00 pm to 9:00 pm) at the local public library. An older lady approaches the reference desk.

Older Lady: “I need to fax this piece of paper.”

Me: “Okay. Just so you know, our fax machine can only take a credit or debit card, Apple Pay, or Google Pay. No cash.”

Older Lady: “Ugh.” *Digs through her purse* “Okay, I have a card.” 

We walk over to the fax machine about 100 feet away. I help her scan her document and input all the information, and then we get to the part where she has to pay. (Our fax machine requires that you pay before it will let you enter the fax number.)

I put her card into the chip reader. It fails. I try swiping it. It says to use the chip reader. I try again. It fails.

Older Lady: “You have to type in the amount.” 

Me: “No, that’s not how our machine works. It knows to charge you $1.00 because you’re faxing one page.”

Older Lady: “No! Everywhere else I go, they type in the amount. I don’t understand why you won’t help me!”

Me: “Ma’am, that’s just not how our machine works.”

I call over a coworker who knows more about the fax machine than me. The coworker messes around with the machine. 

Coworker: “Ma’am, [My Name] is correct. We don’t have any way of typing in an amount.”

Older Lady: *Angry gibberish*

I walk back to the reference desk. A few minutes later, the lady comes back over to me.

Older Lady: “I just don’t understand why you won’t help me!” 

Me: “Ma’am, our machine doesn’t work the way you want it to. I’m sorry about that.”

Older Lady: “No! Don’t say you’re sorry! If you were sorry, you would help me!” 

Me: “Okay, ma’am. There’s nothing else I can do for you. You have a good night.”

Older Lady: “No! I won’t have a good night because you won’t help me! I want a complaint card! I want your name and your coworker’s name!” 

Me: “Okay.”

I hand her my boss’s business card and give my name and my coworker’s name. The old lady leaves. 

Thankfully, my boss is in the building hosting a program. She comes back to her office as I’m in the back staff area trying to calm down. I tell her that she’s probably going to get a complaint about my coworker and me.

Boss: “Well, it sounds like you did everything you could. I’ll deal with it.”

A few minutes later, the old lady returns, this time with a cane.

Older Lady: “I went all the way to my car and got cash to send my fax.” 

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but our fax machine doesn’t take cash.”

Older Lady: “Oh, so now you’re discriminating against me because I’m paying with cash and I’m disabled!” 

Me: “No, ma’am, our machine just isn’t able to accept cash. It’s just the way it’s set up. I’m not discriminating against you.”

Older Lady: “Ugh!”

Me: “Let me get my boss for you.”

Older Lady: “You do that!”

She angrily sits down in a chair at a table not too far away. I call my boss on the phone and ask her to come to the reference desk. I explain the situation to her quietly.

Boss: “Is this the same woman?” 

I nodded slowly. My boss went to calm her down while I went in the back to calm myself down again. This woman made me so mad by accusing me of not wanting to help her. I did want to help her; she just almost actively made it so I couldn’t.

My boss found a free online faxing service — who knew those were a thing?! — and the lady walked out slightly less grumpy.

What was she faxing? A discrimination claim to the EEOC.

I was shaking for the rest of my shift. I should have said, “Ma’am, if you can type $1.00 into the fax machine, I will give you a dollar.”

Related:
Taxing Faxing, Part 40
Taxing Faxing, Part 39
Taxing Faxing, Part 38
Taxing Faxing, Part 37
Taxing Faxing, Part 36

CONTENT WARNING: Dead Animal
 

My mom works at a library. After noticing a bad smell, she calls maintenance.

My Mom: “I need you to come check out a bad smell. I think there might be a dead animal in the ceiling.”

Maintenance turns up and investigates the bad smell.

Maintenance: “Well, we found the source of the smell.”

My Mom: “What was it? Where in the ceiling was it?”

Maintenance: “It was a dead bird… and it wasn’t in the ceiling.” 

Someone had put a dead bird… in a book.