As a follow-up to an eariler post, where I implied that people seem to think I hold the key to the knowledge of the universe in my hot little librarian hand, let me introduce you to the other end of the spectrum: people who think I'm an idiot with some kind of brain damage. Also, polio.
This type of patron is exemplified by the guy who came to the desk a few weeks ago, wanting to pick up a book his wife had put on hold. Which means I will need to digress into yet another dichotomy among the fine people who visit this desk: people who have actually been in a library at some point in their lives, and people who pronounce it "liberry." It is painfully easy to tell who knows the basic system all libraries have in common, such as: "checking out books," "checking in books," "overdue books have fines," and "you can't check out a book if we still have a search warrant out for the last one you checked out." There are some things that never change no matter what library you're at, and one of them brings me back full circle to the guy trying to pick up his wife's book: you do not have access to anyone's account but your own. No library ANYWHERE allows ANYONE to have ANY kind of access to another person's account except in rare, individual cases, such as, police with a warrant, or a really angry mother. (I jest, of course, for the sake of hyperbole. Not even the police can look at your records.) (I further jest. In all seriousness, not even we, the librarians, are allowed to look at your account. Which is why self-checkout machines will someday rule the world.) (Ha! No they won't...)
In any case, it was painfully obvious that this guy simply did not get the whole privacy policy thing. Not even spouses can have access to their partner's account, and there are some very good reasons for this, but all people can think about is their situation and the inconvenience it causes them. This privacy policy (which, again, for the sake of clarity, is in force at EVERY SINGLE FREAKING LIBRARY IN AMERICA) has kept pregnant wives safe from abusive husbands, pregnant teenagers safe from abusive fathers, and pregnant... cats? Safe from abusive... owners? And the National Pipe Bomb Society safe from the abusive U.S. government. (The... pregnant NPBS?)
So, anyway, back to this guy who is getting increasingly frustrated (and frustrating). He was first helped by a clerk, who told him that he couldn't pick up his wife's book. He then demanded to talk to someone else (which turned out to be me). I calmly explained to him the policy, and when I was done, he gave me a look of condescending arrogance and said in a tone usually reserved for savants and mentally ill children, "Why don't you go get your supervisor?"
I'll tell you why I'm not going to go get my supervisor, Mr. Poopyhead- and I'll use small words so you'll be sure to understand:
1. She is a busy woman who does not have time for the likes of you.
2. She will tell you the EXACT SAME THING that I just told you, and she won't do it as nicely.
3. You're rude, and you've just insulted my intelligence AND my ability to do my job, thereby making it as difficult as it possibly could be for me to work up any motivation to do as you ask.
4. By calling you Mr. Poopyhead I have reverted back to my three-year-old state of mind and am no longer coherent enough to even talk to you, much less my supervisor.
But, of course I can say and do none of this. I must get my supervisor, who is in a meeting with her boss, and tell her I wasn't good enough at screening the idiots and she has to come deal this one personally. My poor supervisor (who is a sweet, sweet lady and who treats all her employees like they are her own children) then proceeds to tell this guy the EXACT SAME THING (see above) that I just finished telling him. He argues with her for a bit, and then demands to see a higher authority, who, since she had the bad fortune to be here at the time, is then brought to meet the idiot. I stick around to watch the show, because as straightforward as my supervisor can be, she still believes in being nice. Her boss, on the other hand, is positively acidic. She tells the guy off in wonderful fashion, giving me a guilty sense of vindication, and he then leaves, humiliated, hopefully having learned his lesson.
But probably not.
I'll tell you why I'm not going to go get my supervisor, Mr. Poopyhead- and I'll use small words so you'll be sure to understand:
1. She is a busy woman who does not have time for the likes of you.
2. She will tell you the EXACT SAME THING that I just told you, and she won't do it as nicely.
3. You're rude, and you've just insulted my intelligence AND my ability to do my job, thereby making it as difficult as it possibly could be for me to work up any motivation to do as you ask.
4. By calling you Mr. Poopyhead I have reverted back to my three-year-old state of mind and am no longer coherent enough to even talk to you, much less my supervisor.
But, of course I can say and do none of this. I must get my supervisor, who is in a meeting with her boss, and tell her I wasn't good enough at screening the idiots and she has to come deal this one personally. My poor supervisor (who is a sweet, sweet lady and who treats all her employees like they are her own children) then proceeds to tell this guy the EXACT SAME THING (see above) that I just finished telling him. He argues with her for a bit, and then demands to see a higher authority, who, since she had the bad fortune to be here at the time, is then brought to meet the idiot. I stick around to watch the show, because as straightforward as my supervisor can be, she still believes in being nice. Her boss, on the other hand, is positively acidic. She tells the guy off in wonderful fashion, giving me a guilty sense of vindication, and he then leaves, humiliated, hopefully having learned his lesson.
But probably not.
Oh, if you could only see me laughing out loud! These kinds of people have a special place in my disregard. They aren't just rude, they are downright insulting. Thank goodness there aren't more patrons like this. Also, (and hesitent as I usually am to say something like this) thank goodness for a corporate-esque set-up that makes exceptions to the rules more or less impossible. Rules are rules are rules. No excpetions. jk, very funny Amy!
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