Just when I got complacent about the lazy afternoon I was spending at work, two kids walked up to me. The first was looking for information on the Banaue Rice Terraces, which is obscure enough not to have entries in any encyclopedia we own or databases we subscribe to, so I resorted to the evil and distrusted internet for this boy’s research. If his teacher has something against Wikipedia or a few dot-coms, then this boy is going to get a big, fat F on his assignment.
Yet, on the plus side, I learned about the Banaue Rice Terraces, which are fucking fascinating, and I’d love to see them before they are destroyed.
Put the Phillippines on my list, Jeeves. And stop by a gas station so I can pick up some lottery tickets, too, please.
The other boy, who waited semi-patiently, was looking for a recommendation for a good movie. That’s all he gave me to go on. I thought about telling him to watch the DVD I recently watched and loved, Earth: the Biography, but I didn’t figure he’d appreciate that. Finally I got him to share that he was looking for old, scary movies, you know, like Halloween.
Ah, yes. All those old movies are kept in a special vault in the back, where we control the temperature and pH of the environment so that they don’t turn to instant dust in the sunlight. I gave him a list of recommendations and sent him on his way.
In the meantime, the phone had been ringing and I let it go to voice mail. Once the boys were served, I checked the message and wished for some more wild goose chases by pre-teen boys to keep me busy rather than the request from this patron.
“Hi. Um, I need some information about how to get electricity to a building outside my home. Like, how do I run the wiring? Do I have to use plastic or [mumble, mumble]… so if you could just call me back and let me know how to do this, I’d appreciate it. My number is [whatever].”
No name. Just do all my electrical research for me and give me a call back when you have it.
So I called the number.
“Hi, I’m calling from the library, returning…someone’s phone call from a few minutes ago.”
The woman who answered said, “Oh, hello. Let me just put you on hold for a minute and get the person who called you.”
Oooooh, big identity secret! I get it. No names please. I don’t want to be subpoenaed when you blow up your shed!
He finally got on the phone and said, “Hi, I’m the one who called.”
What the hell is with the anonymity? Don’t they know I’m a librarian? Don’t they know I can just look them up by phone number and find out who they are? Don’t they know I have already researched their public records and know how much their house is worth, what their criminal record shows, and I’m currently trying to hack into their medical records? Don’t they know I have LexisNexis connections and I know their life story? Don’t they know that I have already stolen their identity and am currently booking a flight to Indonesia so I can see these Rice Terraces close up?????
Ahem. Anyway.
I started explaining to the caller that we have some older books on electrical codes, some do-it-yourself manuals, and a few other things that will likely cover most his questions, but for local ordinances I have no current information.
I could hear the disappointment in his voice. He was expecting a phone call with step-by-step instructions on how to electrify his backyard porn studio without him having to get up off his recliner. For something this important, particularly when there are wires, codes, laws, and electrical currents involved, you probably shouldn’t rely on a book-y librarian to give you all the information you need on this subject. It always amazes me when a man wants to do things himself, but he wants someone else to do all the digging, prepping and legwork for the projects. Glory whore.
Which is much different from a glory hole, but not by too much, so suddenly I was envisioning him constructing his porn studio with multiple rooms to accommodate all the pervy minions he serves as their Big Daddy.
Without missing a beat, I encouraged him to come into the library and do some of the research in the books I was recommending, and also to call the local village to find out about local ordinances for building
He sighed and said, “I was hoping to avoid having to make a trip over there.”
I apologized and told him I simply couldn’t research his building project for him, but the books were on the shelf if he wanted me to set them aside for him.
He signed deeply again and said not to bother.
I guess building a den of sin takes more work than he anticipated. Involving the local library in this construction was an interesting thought, though. Namelessly, I should add. Perhaps if I’d been extended an invite to the grand opening, I might have been more generous. Alas, it’s in his hands now. Unless it’s somewhere else… nevermind.
About twenty minutes later, I was helping someone with a printing problem and in walks a regular patron of ours, looking quite intense.
He’s one of those holy-rolling, preachy men, who only will watch movies rated G, because PG-ratings these days let downright obscene content and language pass. Once he asked me if there was anything disgusting in the movie Big, with Tom Hanks, and I remembered enjoying that movie immensely (despite the fact that Tom Hanks was the star) and I said it was a sweet, funny movie. Later he came in and scolded me for recommending it, saying it was so offensive and sexual in content that he could not finish the entire movie. This is the man who called about the electrical wiring, who I had, without knowing it was him (because no, I hadn’t researched him and stolen his identity, which I’m starting to think I should have) assumed he was building a smokehouse for a neighborhood sausage-fest. Somehow, it all made sense.
Sunday.
To some this day means something.
To me, it’s just a day when I have to deal with the lunatics all by myself.
1 comment:
wow... so glad I don't work on Sundays :D
Your preachy man has a counterpart or two over here. We had a mother complain about Harry Potter not for the witchcraft, but for the snogging! She wouldn't let her teen daughter read it.
Post a Comment