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Last Minute Tax Tip

If you gather a bunch of tax forms at the library and then later decide that you don't want them for whatever reason (losing interest in the whole taxpaying thing, distracted by small, shiny object and/or DVD cover, etc.) just toss them on the floor. Don't worry, some deskslave or other will be more than happy to pick them up.

If Only We Carried Time Machines at the Library

Patron comes in on Friday for a program at 2pm. The only problem is, there IS NO program at 2pm. Patron insists. Patron says the information is online. She got it from a friend. My colleague and I show that we are doing everything humanly possible to track down some information and magically generate a program. It's supposed to be for the storytelling festival. I rack my brain. Do I know stories? Can I tell stories? Panic! It's an event for grown-ups and all I can do is a puppet presentation of The Very Hungry Caterpillar!

Patron makes an off-hand comment which is supposed to sound like it's not a big deal, but really it intends to make us feel guilty and ashamed: "Well, I didn't have to come too far, because I live nearby, but my friend who was going to join me here would have been driving clear from the other side of town, except for that she just called me 5 minutes ago to say she isn't coming." First, I'm thinking that the friend was kind of a jerk to stand up her friend at the last minute. Second I'm coaching myself, "Don't...take...on...guilt. Not...your...fault." It's the Protestant in me that wants to feel guilty I guess.

So my colleague shows me the online advertisement for the event, and sure enough, 2pm at the Tualatin Library. We continue to stutter and stall and wonder aloud for a few minutes, feeling frustrated at how stupid we look. Then I catch one important detail, typed at the top of the webpage. It's a press release, and you got it! It's dated April 10, 2007. So I laughed and pointed at the patron and said, "HA HA, YOU WERE WRONG! IT WASN'T US, HA HA! NO MISTAKE ON OUR PART! THE MISTAKE IS YOURS, MADAME!" Well, not really. In reality, we all lightly chuckled about it, and I kind of cringed for her, and then she slipped away as quickly as she could. If I were her, I'd dump her friend, for sending her old event info AND standing her up. But what do I know.

It was a waiting game

But I won. The subject was an older gent, resistant to newfangled technology like online catalogs and soap, so when he wants his movies, we have to look them up for him. Which is fine, except for the old guy funk he exudes. (When I am an old man--in about 3 months--and I have old guy funk, for God's sake, please let me know. I suspect that the sniffer slowly goes and there are all these old guys walking around thining they smell like roses.)Typically, what he wants is too new, so he goes on the holds list. I plowed through the first 4 on his long list, and then the unlikely happened. One of his films was on the shelf. I told him that it "should be over there, on the shelf."
"I'd like it if I could have it," he said. I was suspicious that he wanted me to go play fetch, something I am reluctant to do. My expensive MLS only gets used for real professional activities, like ejecting surly teens for swearing, so I ignored his remark. I mean, I'd like it if everybody who walked in gave me a 10 dollar bill, but I wouldn't expect anybody to take action if I was silly enough to vocalize the thought.
"Anything else today?" I asked brightly.
There was. Several more requests, one or two of which were on the shelf. I put holds on the missing, but for the ones that were in, he said something like, "I'd like that one, too."
When our transaction was complete, at least in my mind, I gave him a rough estimate of how long some of his holds would take, ranging from "soon" to "when DVD players are obsolete." I then reminded him of where he could find the DVDs that were presumably in, which is to say I pointed to the shelf 7 feet away.
"So I'm supposed to get them myself?" he asked, all astonished, like I'd just told him he'd have to perform his own appendectomy.
"Uh huh." I nodded, smiling. "They're in alphabetical order by title."
"What if I can't find them?"
"Let me know and I'll take a look."
For a moment he stood there looking like a monument to indecision. I began typing in earnest, suddenly absorbed in returning an email. And then he shoved off to find his own damn videos. A petty victory, to be sure dear reader, but we take 'em where we can get 'em.

Concept

Inebriated, housing challenged man of indeterminate age walks up with a reference question. " I want a book on concept."
Me: "Concept of what?"
He: "Concept--you know--concept."
Me: (not wanting to appear stupid): "I understand. Concepts are ideas. So what do you want the concept to be of."
He: (clearly getting frustrated and weaving) "You know, just concept."
Me: (trying to placate) "Okay, let me see what I can find"
I search the fantastic catalog for the keyword, "concept".
Me: "Sir, just as I thought when I search for concept, many books come up, but they are all about the concept of something--cars, airplanes, shapes, etc.--not just a book on concept. Tell me more about what you are looking for." (And for the love of God, step back at least 6 feet so I don't have to smell you.)
He: Okay, try delusion. The delusion of concept. The concept of delusion.
Me: Huh. Okay....... Yep. Not finding anything on that either. Keep talking.
He: You know --self concept and delusion.
Me: (thinking general psychology might fit the bill), well let's walk over to this section and you can look and see if these answer your questions.
Together we gaily walk through the stacks acknowledging our delusions--me that I can answer his questions. He is deluded to think there is a book on concept.
Me: Lookeee here--some books that might have the answers.
He: (Seeing the "self help" marker) Oh no. I don't want self help. I want concept. I want books on concept.
Me: Again, sir. I can't locate books just on concept or idea. If there is a subject you want, I'm happy to help you find it.
He: Oh I get it. These here books are arranged by subject.
Me: yes.
He: I want the subject of concept.
Me: (Oh hell no-no-no-no) I'll leave you to look through these and if they don't answer your questions, you can come find me (I'll be hiding on another dimension) and we'll keep looking.
I step back onto the pathway to the desk. He follows and yells behind me, "Concept. I just want a book on concept."

Yeah, good luck with that.

*** PUBLIC HEALTH ALERT ***

Please do not use today's edition of the local paper (Deskslave Tribune). That guy over at the comfy chairs just sneezed a very wet spray of nastiness thereupon. Thank you. That is all.

Well-dressed and quite possibly female

A (female)patron called asking about the book "The Well-Dressed Woman." Search, no dice. We had a lot of "dress for success" sorts of things, but nothing with exactly that title. After this impasse, she took a moment to think about it. Then she remembered the real title: "The Well-Dressed Ape."

A relatively quiet night at the desk

Wherein we are again reminded that, contrary to lore, vodka leaves a pronounced odor on the breath of the drinker.

And Lead Me Not Into Temptation

Longtime readers (all none of you) may remember a man who used to come in frequently who wanted us to pretty much do everything for him. But he wouldn't come out and ask us. He wanted us to come rescue him of our own accord. He would tap ineffectually at the catalog computer briefly and then say aloud things like, "Oh dear," and "Oh no," and "This is terrible." After the first 8,000 times or so, I deceided I was going to do anything unless he actually acknowledged me and asked a question. He hasn't been around a while, but an elderly woman who is extraordinarily nasty most of the time is chanelling him right now. There she is, tap tap tappin1 and occasionally saying things like, "Hmmm!" and "That's strange."

But if you want the deskslave, you have to summon him rudely, like a decent person.

All odors are particulate

That's what crossed my mind as an infamously whiffy patron came up to the desk. (At least I'm lucky I'm not female; he likes the ladies and will sometimes try to hug them.) But today he was particularly malodorous sending out an olfactory assault that radiated loathsomely from his unwashed body and clothes. I'm probably being really prissy here, but the thought of little particles of stank wafting off him, getting caught in the HVAC swirl and propelled directly onto the olfactory receptors on the dendrites of my olfactory sensory neurons makes me feel queasy and offended. I don't even want the image of this guy projected, however fleetingly, on my retina, so I sure don't want any bits of him in my sinus.