I work in a library. We had a patron who refused to let an exchange go forward until we called a study room he wanted to book by its full name. It would go something like:

Me: “You’d like to book the Lincoln room for what time?”

Patron: “Don’t you mean the President Abraham Lincoln National Memorial Study Room?”

And he would not. Let. It. Go. He would try to scold us for not using the entire name of the d*** room. I just stared at him one day until he finally went away.

I’m the author of this story.

I’m in a meeting with a guy from the IT department, trying to sort out a security program for our public computers. The IT guy, being a professional IT guy who mostly works with other professional IT guys, is having problems understanding the average patron’s IT skills.

In the middle of my meeting, one of my coworkers knocks on my door.

Coworker: “Hey, [My Name], one of the public computers won’t connect to the Internet. You need to come and fix it.”

Me: “Did you check that all the cables are connected?”

Coworker: “Yes.”

Me: “Did you try to reboot it?”

Coworker: “Yes.”

Me: “Well, we’re in luck today because [IT Guy] is here. I’m sure he’ll be able to figure out this emergency.”

We all march out to look at the computer. I immediately spot the problem. 

Me: “Well, would you look at that? The network cable has been disconnected. Didn’t you say you checked them?”

Coworker: “Well, I can’t be expected to know how to do that!”

She wanders off. The IT guy turns to gape at me.

IT Guy: “Wow.”

Me: “Yep. And she’s supposed to be an information specialist. I rest my case.”

Related:
How Do These People Operate Their Cars To Get To Work?!

The library where I work is also an early voting station. In the last election, the staff were volunt-ordered to act as election workers alongside our usual duties. That meant that in the three weeks leading up to election day, we had to explain how voting works to many, many people who were doing it for the first time, either because they had just turned eighteen or because they had just become citizens. Most of them were happy and polite.

Then, there are always people who just want to cause trouble.

A voter comes up to my desk and hands me a folded ballot.

Voter: “Here, I’m voting for [Party]!”

Me: “Your ballot needs to be in a sealed envelope, and you’re not allowed to fold it. There are envelopes in the voting booths over there. Just take a new ballot, put it in an envelope, and seal it, and then I can accept it.”

Voter: *Very loudly* “Are you saying you’re not letting me vote?”

Me: “You can vote to your heart’s delight, but your ballot needs to be turned in correctly. Even if I put your folded ballot in the urn, it’s still not going to be counted on election day.”

The voter is now loud to the point where other voters and library patrons are beginning to stop what they’re doing and stare at us.

Voter: “My vote won’t be counted?! It’s because I’m voting for [Party], isn’t it? You won’t accept my vote for [Party]! This is election fraud! I’m going to report you to the election committee!”

Me: “Please quiet down; you’re disturbing the other visitors. You’re welcome to vote for whatever party you want, as long as your ballot is unfolded and in a sealed envelope.”

Voter: “No! You’re going to accept my vote for [Party] here and now! I want to watch you put that in the urn, right now, or I’m reporting you!”

Me: “Okay. I just need you to understand that if I put your ballot in the urn as it is, it will not be a valid vote and it will not be counted on election day.”

Voter: “Put it in! I want to watch you put it in!”

Me: *Completely fed up at this point* “All right, I’m putting your invalid ballot in the urn. I need you to be aware that this vote will not be counted. If you want to cast a proper vote, you can do so at any early voting station in the country until election day or at your assigned voting station on election day. NEXT!”

Voter: *Smugly* “People like you are all going to lose their jobs when [Party] wins!”

Undiagnosed ADHD and mild autism in a generally apathetic environment made me a very socially awkward child. In middle school, I would often spend my fifteen-minute morning break curling up in a beanbag in the library, engrossed in a book as big as I was. As such, the school librarian was one of my closest adult allies, partly because she loved to see a kid enjoying reading, and partly because I didn’t feel bad talking to her a little about the books I read, since she was paid to be there, unlike friends and family members who received no benefit from putting up with me.

One year, the librarian gave me special permission to check out books from the back room, where students were technically not supposed to be. There were no illicit materials or anything similar; it was just a storage space for seldom-used tech equipment and less popular books. The only books from the back room I was interested in were a long novel series that was nearly impossible to find anywhere else, so I couldn’t believe my luck.

Enter the school’s technology teacher. She was the principal’s wife, which I suspect is the only reason she was able to keep her job despite being generally disliked by everyone in the school. Her husband was a great principal and I have great respect for him, but she was the embodiment of every old church busybody stereotype.

One fateful morning, she saw me exiting the storage room with a new book.

Tech Teacher: “What are you doing? Students aren’t allowed back there!”

Me: “I got special permission from the librarian.”

Tech Teacher: “You can’t be back there!”

Me: “The librarian said I could.”

Tech Teacher: “But students aren’t allowed in the storage room!”

Me: *Holding up the book* “I’m trying to read this whole series, and it’s impossible to find it anywhere else. No one else reads it, so I got special permission to check it out.”

Tech Teacher: “But you can’t be back there!”

She continued in this vein as I scanned barcodes to check the book out and promptly fled the library, praying she wouldn’t follow me. She didn’t. I wonder what she’d think of me now, getting a degree in English and writing to work in the fiction publishing field.

Patron: “I’d like to check out this book.”

Me: “Sure! Just need your library card.”

Patron: “I have one with [Other Branch in our library system].”

Me: “Great, we’re both parts of the same system, so that card will work here, too.”

Patron: “I don’t have it with me, but I have the number written down.”

Me: “Okay, so what is your card number?”

Patron: *Getting annoyed* “I have it written down at home.”

Me: *Internally screaming*

I eventually pulled up her account with her photo ID, but it took everything in me to not blurt out, “Well, having it written down at home doesn’t help me much here, now does it?”