The Bookmaster
By BloodBrother
I work at the local library, a two-minute drive from my house in Crofton. After two years, I’m the most veteran “page,” (that’s the job title) since my friend and co-worker left for college. I’m on a first-name basis with the full and part-time staff, and I’ve become jaded towards the patrons who ask inane questions. Here are some of the common inquiries I receive each day:
“Do you work here?” (I wear a very noticeable badge that hangs around from my neck with the word “STAFF” on it.)
“How long can you check DVD’s out for?” (There are multiple signs in the DVD section that say “five-day rental.”)
“Where is the bathroom?” (Oh I don’t know, try the big sign in the lobby that says “BATHROOM.”)
(Insert rather complex question about specific author)
I’m not sure what it is about people. It doesn’t matter what race or creed they are, but many patrons of the library seem to be obsessed with asking very difficult questions that require either a computer or some sort of research device, to TEENAGERS who are standing in the middle of rows and rows of children’s books.
I thought the teenage stereotype was that we were full of angst and didn’t care about reading. When I’m shelving novels by Leon Uris or vegetarian cookbooks by some hag named “Crescent Dragonwagon,” I don’t want people bothering me.
Now, I know the concept of annoying people can be associated with countless jobs ranging from retail to secretarial work, but when people enter a library, well, they change. Maybe it’s the atmosphere or something. But whatever it is, they feel compelled to do stupid things.
When a young child or their mother (who is ignorant of the library system about ninety-five percent of the time) walks into the children’s section of the library, they usually do one of two things: Either dump their children at the computers without signing up for one then proceed to go somewhere else (Many times it is the romance section for paperbacks, which features some quality reading material like “Daddy M.D.” or “The Billionaire’s Bride”. Romance paperbacks can be separated into four categories: Rich guys and lonely housewives, Cowboys and lonely housewives, Doctors and lonely housewives, and Native Americans and lonely housewives. Throw in the occasional newlywed couple where ninety-six percent of the book will be smut, rather then the usual ninety-one percent, and you have it. If you’re having trouble computing some of the math in the essay, I don’t blame you. I’m just making it up as I go along, although I predict my estimates will be horrifically accurate.
Now, while these mothers are busy leaving their children alone to frolic and ruin my or a co-worker’s countless hours of shelf-reading and shifting to make sure the books are in their correct dwelling, the kids (ages range from two to seven most of the time) will get an impulse. I do not know what causes these impulses, nor will I ever know. But the kids feel compelled to get a dumbfounded look on their face and print an infinite amount of papers out, which usually only have a small picture of Scooby-Doo and a caption underneath. They will also converse with their peers sitting across the table, and talk about grown-up things they know nothing about, like professional wrestling or cars. Granted, I don’t know about these things either, but that’s beside the point. Their voices will be obnoxiously loud and their sneezes will not go covered, they will instead spatter against the monitor. I once watched a young girl, probably four or five, just let loose a wet one onto the monitor. Her gunk was over most parts of the front of the computer, and she panicked. I can picture what was going through her head:
Maybe if I wipe the stuff off with my sleeve, then run back to Mom and not inform her of the incident, no one will notice!
I’m a good Samaritan, really. I informed a staff member, and they just shook their heads and took care of it. That was a while back, but I fear the day that child comes into the library again. I will be ready to defend myself against her wayward mucus.
I’m going to go back to the parents of these little angels for a second. Well, adults in general. There are always quite a few of seem to be afraid of the Information Desk. That’s right, afraid of speaking to the ogres who inhabit the depths of the large semi-circle. But in reality, the people (at least the ones at where I work) who do that work are some of the nicest people you could ever meet. Most have smiles on their faces, eager to help patrons in any way possible. Yeah, that was sarcasm. But they are pleasant and try to stay upbeat, something I could never do. But it still baffles me to no end. The patrons will creep up to me or some other page, ask their question in a humble fashion, and when I tell them to go to the information desk in a polite, courteous manner, they’ll whisper “O.k.!” And continue browsing aimlessly, fearing the wrath and torture that awaits them if they admit to another adult that the Dewey decimal system (or the alphabet) has stumped them. Hey, nothing to be ashamed of. Most of the sheep nowadays that wander into the magical land of books (A.K.A. public library) don’t even want to read. They just want their movies! Our collection of classics and children’s movies is slowly becoming equal to Blockbuster, and you don’t even have to pay to get a five-day rental with us. But that won’t stop the usual patron who will complain and whine after they return their DVD ten days late, and refuse to pay their fine. “I didn’t see any sign! I don’t remember you telling me that it was due five days from now! What’s a book?” Hey, you should have asked me, I’m on the trolley when it comes to DVD rental knowledge.
My co-workers (most of them) are pleasant folk. Most of the time, we will discuss why do not like this job, why we aren’t paid enough, and better jobs we could obtain elsewhere, yet never really bother to. Inside jokes are the only things that save me. The best is where myself and a co-worker stumbled upon a children’s book by Leo Lionni, entitled “Let’s Make Rabbits!” It has a colorful picture of a rabbit on the front. Now, this book is actually about making rabbits out of paper or something like that, but we continually use it as sexual innuendo, where the “making rabbits” would be an act that shouldn’t exactly be spoken in the children’s section of a library, if you catch my drift.
The only real gripe I have is when people ask me where I work. When I tell them, they either ask how much I make, (I’ll lie and speak in an unnatural high toned voice: “More then six dollars and thirty-four cents, that’s for sure!”) why I work at a library when better money is to be made wearing a goofy uniform and sweeping up floors with fifteen year-olds at Wendy’s, or if they’re hiring right now. It’s easy to tell whether these people will work out as library pages, but most of the time I just chuckle and say: “Don’t bother,” since I’m the veteran page and would have to train these idiots who waited until their senior year in high school to obtain a job.
So if you ever come to the library, just remember the golden rule: Don’t be stupid.
