The Showdown And The Finale

I toss books at people's heads. I work behind the circulation desk at my local library. And all day long I take pieces of the fiction section and wing them at old people.

Violently too.

Sometimes I throw them with an additional howl or grunt as I'm doing it, just for my own dramatic effect. There was this one time today where I actually got so excited watching those patron suckers drop that I jumped up onto the desk and actually karate kicked the new James Frey novel into this little bratty seven-year-old's tiny little pebbles, by that I mean his undeveloped balls. Oh did the kid wail. And his mother wasn't even around to attend to the whimpering shit. Typical.

SO I didn't really do any of those awful things. But I surely should have. Well, at least in my head some times. But don't we all look at our jobs like that once in-a-frequent-while? I did today.

I didn't want to be at work at all today.

I mean, I like a couple of my co-workers enough, and some of the patrons that wander in daily can be pretty cool as well. But for the most part, what the fuck am I still doing checking out books to these people? It can be such a mindfuck dealing with these Connecticut suburbanites and their complete lack of common fucking library etiquette. When did class forget how to be classy? Shut your FUCKING child up woman!!

We don't want to hear your three-year-old yelping like a hyena while you print out Broadway tickets on a computer that's located on the other side of the facility, completely unaware of where you forgot your child anyway.

These are my most common patrons, in all their stereotypical splendor.

The parking lot is a sea of Saab, a pallet of BMW, a crayon box of magnificent automobiles. Sparkly and large. Forty-five percent in luxury sedans, fifty percent in family-vans and SUVs, and the measly five percent left over, for shitty cars that only a librarian could possibly drive. The dusty ones in the corner with the Harry Potter bumper stickers.


Then he walked up to the desk to check out some old Ken Follet novel, something I suspect I've seen him take out before. He's pretty frail this guy before me. Late eighties. I remember him telling me about the War before. Double-You-Two. About his buddies from the War. And how they all had died. And he pulls out his wallet. A shiny new black leather bi-fold. Only a few cards, and a driver's license, are tucked inside. It looks sparse. He paws at it.

He tells me that his wallet had recently been stolen. "I'm sorry to hear that." I say. "I even lost my med cards too." He mumbles angrily while staring at me, wide-eyed. He's fumbling again, pawing at his wallet. He obviously can't find his library card. "I'll look you up today Mr. Farmer. Don't worry about it." I scan the book. Beep.

I slide the book across the desk.

He says. "Sorry I'm all out of sorts lately." Takes a breath, sniffs. "My wife just passed." He shuffles away. Adjusting his overly large baseball cap. His pants too large, the belt missing a loop. His blue button-up shirt tucked-in, except for one bunched spot that is pinned beneath his visible underwear line. "I'm sorry" As my heartfelt words chase him meekly out the door.

So I grabbed a sticky Curious George and chucked it across the room in the direction of an eight-year-old boy throwing a tantrum because "Mommy" won't take him to Blockbuster to get a DVD we didn't carry.

"I'm not wasting Gas!" She yells.

The book hits him square across the face.

She smiles.

All is well at this local Connecticut library.