This happened some years ago when I was in my early twenties, living and studying in Iceland. I once had to do a Uni assignment on heavy metal music. I went to borrow the only book in the city library about the history of heavy metal music.

I couldn’t find it, so I asked a librarian for help. Next to her was another patron who had been chit-chatting with her. As soon as I mentioned the book, he jumped up.

Patron: “I know that book!”

And he went to find it for me — all the while sort of complaining that it’s the devil’s music and so on (both in a joking but also serious tone).

He only pointed the book out for me but refused to touch it. As soon as I picked it up, the guy seriously made the cross with his fingers against the book!

The librarian and I talked a bit about this type of music, while the guy rambled on and on about it being bad and associated with the devil.

Then, he made the assumption of the year for me.

Patron: “Since you’re such a big fan of metal music, you must be covered in tattoos! And you probably smoke and drink and party all the time!”

None of that was true in any sense.

In his (tiny) defense, I was covered up in bicycling gear due to a fairly cold spring day, so he could only see my very plain face.

And then, he gave me the best offer ever: a promise to introduce me to the world of classical music. The joke’s on him, though.

Me: “Actually, I’ve been playing the flute since I was eleven, played in a harmony orchestra for many years, and am an avid fan of classical music, operas, and many others.”

The look on his face when I revealed that none of his assumptions and heavy metal stereotypes were true to me was absolutely priceless.

I work in a library. We used to have a young teenager who would walk to our facility in the summers with her five much younger brothers and sisters. They would spend all day, from 9:00 am to 5:00 pm, terrorizing the staff and other patrons. Their parents didn’t send them with any food, drinks, or diapers.

On multiple occasions, I had to make them get down from the top of bookcases as they ran along them and even tried to jump the five feet between rows!

I was a subject librarian at a university. I received an email from a professor who had recently retired from another school and moved to our city. He wanted to donate decades worth of books and journals to the library.

This sort of thing is often a LOT more trouble than it is worth since much of the material will be old, duplicate, or online, but some of the stuff he described sounded good, and frankly, he might be someone willing to donate money to the university in the future if we built a relationship. Also, he understood and didn’t mind that much of the material would end up being discarded, so it seemed like it would be worth the trouble of a few months of sorting through the material.

Being a cautious soul, I checked all of this with the collection management librarian, the dean, and probably half a dozen others. Everyone agreed that it seemed like a reasonable decision and gave me the go-ahead.

I contacted the professor.

Me: “I have the approval to accept the gift. Where are the materials?”

Professor: “In my old house in [State halfway across the country].”

None of us had thought to ask that. The library had to pay for shipping.

I work for a public library. My branch is closed to the public for a few weeks for renovations. We have announced this for weeks on our website, on social media, through local newspapers and news channels, and on signs on every conceivable surface inside and outside the library itself, basically doing everything short of a giant neon sign and screaming the closing dates on the hour like church bells.

We can’t completely shut the building down, though, because the construction crews need to get in, and we have a skeleton crew of library staff taking care of tasks like manning the phones, the book dropoff, and deliveries. No members of the public are allowed in, but we can’t lock the building. I’m sure you can see where this is going. 

On the very first day of renovation, about twenty minutes into our work day, a patron came barging in, demanding assistance. They ignored not only every sign, the obvious construction crew and noise, and our empty bookshelves and boxed-up computers, but the fact that on a normal day, we would not even be open to the public for nearly an hour.

Our security guard, who was part of our skeleton crew for the renovation, hadn’t even arrived yet, since we anticipated we’d have to turn away oblivious patrons but naively thought it would be only during normal business hours.

To his credit, the patron left politely, but it’s going to be a long couple of weeks.

I work in a library with meeting rooms to rent. Walk-in rooms are only guaranteed for the first two hours; after that, patrons may be asked to leave if the space is requested by someone else. We also have certain rooms that are available to be booked online. Online booking has priority over walk-ins because online booking is limited to once a month.

I have a group asking for a room when we are pretty full. I notice one room that has gone long past its two hours, and I sign it out to the new group. I walk over to the meeting room in question and knock on the door.

Me: “Sorry to bother you, but the room is requested by someone else.”

Patron #1: “Okay. Can we move next door to that other room?”

Me: “I think there are other people in there. The room is signed out.”

Patron #1: “No, I think it’s empty.”

Me: “Let me check.”

I walk over to the meeting room next door. It is indeed empty. 

Me: “You’re right; it is available. Just so you know, that room is available for online booking, so it’s possible someone could book it, and they’d have priority. I do think it’s unlikely this time of night, though.”

Patron #1: “Okay.”

Me: “I’ll sign you up for this other meeting room, then. Thanks.”

I leave and do just that. I’m at the desk for a couple of minutes before a member of the group I have been speaking with approaches me — not the woman I was directly interacting with, but a different group member who watched silently. 

Me: “Hi, how can I help?”

Patron #2: “What’s your name?”

I tell her.

Patron #2: “Are you new here?”

Me: *Baffled* “No…?”

Patron #2: “You were incredibly rude just now.”

Me: “…”

The patron starts walking away. I’m speechless.

Me: *Stammering* “I’m sorry about that.”

It annoys me that I apologized for doing absolutely nothing wrong, but what else do you say to that? Not just rude, but INCREDIBLY so? 

I’ve worked in customer service for about twenty years, and I’ve never had a customer complain about me. Customer service is my strength. This wasn’t my best customer interaction of all time or anything, but it was perfectly normal to me — quite mundane, in fact.