tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42135161821416728242024-03-13T11:28:04.149-04:00Quiet Riot (In The Library)The novel life of a dreaded librarianMolly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-76677390211027087192011-12-13T21:10:00.000-05:002011-12-13T21:10:24.904-05:00The Past Five Months: A Children's Story<div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">Once upon a time there was a great, big library with great, big bookshelves filled with great big books, and lots of librarians working to serve the great big population of people who used the library. In one corner of the library was a great big office with a big, metal desk covered in big piles of paperwork, and behind those piles of paperwork was a quiet, small girl called the Dreaded Librarian. She worked hard to help great big groups of teenagers who used the library, and smiled as much as she could, even when she was having a bad day.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">She smiled when the teenagers tore books apart and shoved them under the reading chairs.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">She smiled when people complained about the noisy kids, and explained that they had a right to use the library just like everyone else.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">She smiled at all the people who used the computers, and kept smiling even when they said inappropriate things to her that made pieces of her die inside.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">She kept smiling even through sad things, because she knew happy things were soon to follow.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">For example, she smiled when teenagers from Maine and New York joined together to paint a beautiful mural of a peaceful and diverse global community on the great, big front windows of the library. </div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">She smiled when teenagers brought her tasty ethnic food and invited her to their homes for dinner.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">She smiled when her teenagers created lovely drawings in art club and gave them to her to hang in her office.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">And she smiled when her teens graduated from high school and moved on to do bigger and better things.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">But one day, the great, big library told her that they didn't want her anymore. There was someone better than her. They told her they "didn't just want to hire their friends," and that they had picked another girl from a faraway place who did not know the kids or the community. The new girl would work at the great big library now, but not the Dreaded Librarian.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">The Dreaded Librarian tried very hard to smile...but she could not.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">She thought of all her teenagers, and how much she loved each of them. She thought of all they had taught her, and all she had taught them. She thought of all the great, big plans she had to fill the library with great, big programs for great, big groups of kids. But mostly she thought about how the kids would think she had abandoned them.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">And then the Dreaded Librarian's smile began to quiver...and she cried.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">Several sad weeks passed when she had to say goodbye to all of her teenagers. People in the community were very upset, and some of her coworkers were very upset too. Everyone felt a bit betrayed by the great, big library.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">Some days later, there was a teeny, tiny library that met the Dreaded Librarian and were really impressed by her. Even though her smile was hidden behind a sad mask, they could tell that she was really kind. They asked her to join their library, to work with teeny, tiny children in their Youth Services department. The Dreaded Librarian had a great, big hole in her heart, but when the little library offered her the job she saw a teeny, tiny glimmer of light...and so she said YES and accepted the job!</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">The teeny, tiny library had a teeny, tiny Children's Department filled with books spilling out of the teeny, tiny shelves. There were teeny, tiny tables and chairs crammed into teeny, tiny nooks and crannies. The other librarians were kind and welcoming, and taught the Dreaded Librarian all about children's books in their teeny, tiny department. There were warm colors, cluttered posters, happily used chairs, and tousled toys everywhere, which made the teeny, tiny light in the Dreaded Librarian's heart grow just a teeny, tiny bit.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">In this place there were also a few small, sad plants in teeny, tiny pots with very little sunlight. They seemed to droop in awkward places and shed little brown leaves like tears. At first, they were overlooked since everything else was so new and exciting, but after a few weeks the Dreaded Librarian noticed the sad little plants. She saw their drooping limbs and chlorophyll deprived leaves and felt a pang in her chest--a knowing connection with these plants, an understanding of the pain they were going through. She took an interest in them right away. She began by giving them teeny, tiny drops of water to quench their thirst without drowning them, and soon was bringing in scissors for little haircuts--small brown leaves and little dead twigs got quietly snipped away. And, oh! What a miracle! After a few short weeks, those teeny, tiny, sad plants...began to grow! New leaves unfurled bursting with deep green colors, and little stems soon grew into strong, healthy vines and branches reaching towards the light with determination. With a little love, these plants decided to LIVE, and by jove, that's what they did.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">It was one day as the Dreaded Librarian was watering these plants that a small girl walked up to her and, with a tilt of her head and a Mona Lisa smile, asked in a wee little voice, "May I hug you?" Such a teeny, tiny gesture, such a teeny, tiny sign of care, like the few drops of water the Dreaded Librarian first gave to the thirsty plants! But it was a gesture big enough to make the Dreaded Librarian's heart unfurl with a new strength, one that said with determination, "LIVE, by jove! Celebrate with joy and know that you are strong!" It was as though a new branch of inner life was formed in that very moment, in those few small words, and that branch was determined to grow into a great, big branch full of great, big life and great, big opportunities.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #660000;">It takes time, but all that goes around will surely come around. The incident with that darling little girl reminded the Dreaded Librarian of the Aesop Fable, "The Lion and the Mouse." And as the Dreaded Librarian finished watering the lively plants, the phantom of the little girl's embrace still clinging to her heart, she knew that everything would work out. The great, big hole in her heart seemed to retreat and become a teeny, tiny scar, a gentle reminder of the blow that made her stronger, and of the mouse that helped her in her time of need.</span></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-41265650666316739902011-11-22T19:51:00.000-05:002011-11-22T19:51:26.443-05:00Being a Children's Librarian Rocks<div style="color: #783f04; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>During my thus-short stint as a children's librarian (as opposed to my time working with teens), I have had several noteworthy experiences that have "warmed the cockles of my heart," as an old friend of mine used to say. Two in particular during the last few weeks have brought a much-needed smile to my face. After all, even Dreaded Librarians get the blues.</b></span></div><div style="color: #783f04; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The first was an older lady who visits the youth services department every few weeks with her caseworker. I don't know much about her, except that she is a very devout Christian who always bids us librarians adieu with the afterthought, "And I'll pray for you tonight!" She mostly fixates on the other more seasoned and familiar librarians, since I am a relative new-be (my predecessor is greatly missed by staff and patrons alike). However, just last week she came up to me and said in her sing-song voice, "Why hello, don't you look pretty today. You look just like a bologna sandwich and a glass of cold lemonade on a hot day! So preeetty, yes." Undoubtedly the single-most strange compliment I've ever had, but it created a certain delight that I can't quite explain. Sometimes those off-beat comments are the most honest and sincere, and subsequently the most heart felt by their receiver.</b></span></div><div style="color: #783f04; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="color: #783f04; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>And secondly, just today a little girl I've never met before came in with her older sister and mum. They all spent some time looking around in the bookstacks, and asked me about the status of a few books they had ordered through interlibrary loan. Finally, they came to the desk and the older sister checked out her conservative stack of books, followed by the youngest child with her equally small (but carefully selected) pile. She smiled shyly up at me as I stamped each book and scanned her card, and as I handed the books back to her with a great great big grin and a "There you go! Enjoy your books," she quietly said, "Thank you" and turned to leave. Before she even completed one step she whipped back around, and despite having never seen me before in her life very politely asked, "May I hug you?" Well, my weary heart just about melted and I gave that little girl a nice little hug that hopefully made her half as happy as it made me. Such a small gesture, but it made my day. I wonder how she knew I needed that hug?</b></span></div><div style="color: #783f04; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: small;"><b>On an unrelated note, I finally (after 24 years) read "The Lorax" by Dr. Seuss! It was just as excellent as everyone told me it would be. I may just have to use it as a read-aloud for the kids ecology program I'm scheming up!</b></span></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-11075982661516660032011-11-04T18:04:00.000-04:002011-11-04T18:04:32.005-04:00Dreaded Librarians: Good at Kicking Ass, Awkward at Making Friends<div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and erase those annoying, mortifying moments that make me want to crawl into the depths of a dusty closet and stay there until my eyes turn white from lack of lighting. Today was certainly one of those days.</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>For a few weeks now, I have been venturing out from my post at a new library, scoping out the neighborhood for friendly community places, and in particular looking for spots within walking distance to grab a cup of coffee or a juice on my lunch break. Unfortunately, this place lacks a sense of community as much as George W. Bush lacks a grasp of the English language. However, one day I made an unlikely acquaintance at a local Cumberland Farms while I was fueling my gas-guzzling-environment-destroying-car-contraption. He complimented my dreadedness and gave me a warm, non-creepy smile that I saw as "potential friend material." He thus became none other than Cumberland Farms Boy, or CFB for short.</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>Answer me this: how does a young, badass lady make friends in a city where she knows no one? I pondered and queried until I could barely sleep for all the thoughts floating in my head, then decided, <i>heck, I'll never make friends unless I got out on a limb. What's the worst that could happen?</i> </b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>Fast forward to today: I walk to Cumberland Farms under the guise of getting a coffee, but really to try and convince CFB to be my friend. I enter the door and he shouts, "hey Molly!" and flashes me a grin, and I shout "hey!" back with a smile, pour myself some coffee, and hit up the register. Thus begins the awkward conversation, that went something like this:</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>Dreaded Librarian (DL): So, can I ask you a question?</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>CFB: Shoot</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>DL: Wanna grab a beer sometime?</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>CFB: (Starts shaking) Uhh, well, uh yeah. Uh, I get out of work around, like, 3...but maybe not today, hm...</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>DL: Yeah, cool. Well, um, whenever. </b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>(Awkward silence)</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>DL: So, I have a boyfriend...</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>CFB: I have a girlfriend!</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>DL: Cool!</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>CFB: Yeah, wow. I was starting to freak out for a minute</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>DL: Nah, don't worry, I'm not creepy. I just don't have any, uh, friends.</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>CFB: Yeah, cool. I mean, not cool that you don't have friends. Um.... so, are you new in town?</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>DL: Yeah. Kinda. I mean, I went to high school here, but it was a while ago. I just moved back to work at L-- Library.</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>CFB: Oh really? Where's that?</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>DL: Um...it's... the library? Two blocks from here?</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>CFB: Oh.</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>DL: Yeah. </b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>(Awkward silence)</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>CFB: Well uh, let me..</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>DL: Sure, yeah...</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>CFB: Here's a...yeah, here's some paper.</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>(hands me a ripped up receipt)</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>DL: Cool. (Writes phone number). There.</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>CFB: So... I'll, yeah, let you know if something happens.</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>DL: Thanks, I appreciate it. I want to meet people. You know, cool people. In the area. (Mentally kicks self in the face)</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>(Awkward silence)</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>DL: Well, thanks again. Uh, have a nice day!</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>CFB: Uh yeah, you too.</b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"> <b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="color: #4c1130;">Maybe next time I should just stick to buying coffee.</b></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-5216909886864629692011-09-19T12:26:00.000-04:002011-09-19T12:26:54.380-04:00Sexual Harrassment is Serious...So Seriously, Knock It Off<div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">Today is a beautiful September day, crisp enough to want to wear leggings with my skirt and sport a modest, long-sleeve shirt. I'm sure I look nice, but am conservatively dressed, not that it should matter. It's true, I probably care about my appearance more than I should. I was, after all, a bit of a plump kid and was made fun of a lot all through grade school, which left me with poor self esteem in high school and college. My story is, however, in no way unique, but it may explain why I enjoy looking nice sometimes. I like to think that I've grown out of my awkward stages and into a mature, caring, lovely, and professional woman who no longer needs to care what other people think because she knows that how she feels about <i>herself</i> is infinitely more important. So I like to look nice, for myself. I like to wear what I want, whether it is trendy or not, simply because I feel like it. I have a choice.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">I don't feel like I dress particularly provocatively, and in fact would feel very uncomfortable doing so, but I do enjoy wearing feminine clothing-- skirts, blouses, and my red leather Danskos at least once a week. Red shoes are kind of a family tradition. Sure, maybe I try to look nice. But that's no excuse for the insulting, demeaning, derogatory comments I'm subjected to on a daily basis. I am not the cause; I am the victim.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">It took me a long time to realize how severely the sexual harassment was impacting me. The men always act so suave, making passing comments that they never get called out on, or saying "sweet" things in public places where I feel awkward bitching them out. But after working for two years around dozens of men who hit on me persistently and occasionally cornered me in my office, I realize that it was, in fact, affecting my ability to work. Fortunately, my workplace took my complaint very seriously and made some rapid changes that helped make it more difficult for patrons to harass me: my office was rearranged to provide me with two emergency "escape" routes, and I was given a "code word" so that if I felt threatened I could call another staff member and they would show up at my office to bring me to the front desk, away from the persistent men.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">Unfortunately, this could not be repeated outside of the work place, and although I managed to escape the negative comments at work, I continue to be haunted by them in my daily life. Just today, on this crisp, beautiful day, I walked the three blocks to my lovely community garden plot to harvest the rest of my tomatoes before they got frosted, and not ten steps from my front door the comments began. In that short walk there and back, a mere six blocks total, I was catcalled by ten or more men. These are a selection of different comments I heard from complete strangers hollering from porches and street corners:</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">"Look at that ass! You gonna say hi, girl?"</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">"Hey librarian, where you goin'? You look nice today."</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">"Mmm, hey beautiful."</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">"Hey gorgeous, come here."</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">"Damn, girl! You're so sexy with them glasses!"</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">"How are you doing today, beautiful? Lookin' fine, lookin fine."</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">Plus, even though I was obviously on the phone having a conversation with someone, a man who passed me on the street turned around and started following me, hollering inappropriate and aggressive comments (they went something like, "hey beautiful, mmm you have some sexy dreads! How long you had them? Hey, you're not gonna talk to me? What's the matter gorgeous? Come on bitch, let me introduce myself! You just gonna walk away?" etc, etc for two blocks) while I completely ignored him and tried to finish my conversation. As soon as I was off the phone the man physically obstructed my path by jumping in front of me, and began harassing me persistently. The first words out of my mouth were, "I have a boyfriend, I'm not interested," so he continued in a manner which made me instantly feel guilty: "What, a guy can't make friends? Why can't I just be your friend?" to which I tried my best to reply firmly, "I don't even know you, how can we be friends?" The conversation continued, with him smoothly talking around my every reply, dodging my questions but asking a million questions of me, and mixing in harassing comments (ex: "Where do you work, beautiful?" to which I replied, "Where do *you* work?" to which he replied, "hey, give me a break, I'm new here. We could go smoke some bud sometime, how 'bout you give me your number?" to which I replied, "I don't do that, I'm just trying to go to my garden," to which he replied, "well I like to do other things too, like watch movies. You wanna go see a movie? How 'bout you give me your number? I can't wait to see those sexy dreads of yours again." Etc. Etc. Et fucking cetera.). </div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">I somehow managed to finally walk around him (it took me several tries, with him repeatedly stepping in my path) and I dashed to the Pine Street garden and locked myself in (thank goodness I have a plot in a locked garden!), heart racing, blood boiling. I kept playing the episode over in my head, growing angrier and angrier, and trying to dissect it. Want to know what the fucked up part is? My first thought was, "I shouldn't have worn this skirt today." My second thought: "Was I too mean?" </div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">And then I realized... fuck! I have EVERY right to wear that skirt!! I have every right to walk down the street wearing whatever I want! I have every right to be firm and bitchy to a guy who is only pretending he wants to be friends. What he really wants is obvious, and it's degrading to myself and to other victims to allow that kind of behavior and those kinds of comments to continue. In fact, I wish I had been ten times as mean and aggressive! I wish the badass Dreaded Librarian side of me had reared up and come up with something witty and pointed to say, something that would show him what a strong, intelligent and professional woman I am. Something that would intimidate him in the same way he intimidated me. I wish I had pulled some Lisbeth Salander-style move on him. </div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;">But mostly I just wish that I could walk the three blocks to my garden in peace, relishing the sunshine and autumn air. I was raised in the sunshine and crave it, yet too many days are spent inside in our tiny apartment by myself merely because I, Molly Ladd, am afraid to walk out the door. To clarify, I'm not afraid that anyone will physically hurt me. Sure, it could happen, but I'm pretty sure I could kick the shit out of someone just enough to get away if I needed to. I feel physically safe in Lewiston. But what most people don't seem to understand, but what I assume 99% of victims know in their subconscious, is that sexual harassment is terrifying. It instantly makes you feel diminutive, objectified, and worthless. It can turn your bright, September day into a dreary, cold, dark day in March. It makes you feel worthless, and no one wants to feel worthless. So, all too many times, I stay inside.</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000;">So I'm writing this to get some of these feelings out. And I'm asking, begging, for two things. First of all, I'm asking for those being subjected to sexual abuse to stand up for themselves. Don't let the abuse continue. Report it, and support each other. Secondly, I'm begging everyone to pay attention and stand up for people who are being subjected to harassment. If you see someone on the street catcalling or following someone, speak up! Tell them to knock it off, and offer to walk with the victim. Call the police. Do whatever you feel comfortable with given the situation, but don't let it just slide by unnoticed. Sexual harassment it serious, and I'm seriously sick of it.</div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-23951600107341402582011-07-01T12:07:00.000-04:002011-07-01T12:07:36.716-04:00Librarians<div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>Excellent quote from a patron, relayed by a fellow Librarian: </b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>"Librarians are like Bartenders for people who don't drink!"</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b> It's so true, and is one of the (many) fantastic aspects of working in a library. Libraries are not only houses of endless, free, accessible information, but are also community centers where patrons may feel at ease to discuss their every whim, issue, dream, and desire with the lovely librarians behind the desk. It builds connections and friendships, and strengthens the whole community. </b></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-80847429902519369212011-05-29T09:57:00.001-04:002011-05-29T10:02:39.140-04:00Case of the Missing Moonbeam: Part 2<div id="internal-source-marker_0.1663370317512669" style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I was sitting anxiously across from a petite woman with short, brown hair and an easy smile, cradling a cup of black spiced tea with milk. A sitar droned through the speakers at the back of the restaurant. We had ordered drinks together awkwardly, like a couple on a first date trying to feel out the preferences of the other person:</span></div><div id="internal-source-marker_0.1663370317512669" style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Black tea or green?</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">How many lumps of sugar?</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Yes or no to milk? </span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And so on until we were both sipping our tea in silence, glancing across the table at each other with mixed expressions. </span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Sy seemed like an unlikely candidate to have secret information about there whereabouts of my bike, Luna Pisces Moonbeam. For a few moments I flirted with the thought that she had simply called in the hopes of getting the reward money in exchange for leading information, but the thought passed quickly when, after nearly 20 minutes of small talk, she hadn’t brought up the reward money once. However, we hadn’t actually talked about my bike at all since we met at the Indian restaurant, and instead continued to engage in a choreographed verbal dance, skirting from topic to topic with general ease and broad, stylish spins and dips. I was anxious, bored, and starting to feel like this was a waste of time when suddenly she lifted her chin and spoke. She preceded her words with a dimpled, nearly apologetic smile.</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“So I know this meeting may seem kind of random...” She paused, and smiled again. “The thing is, I’ve heard a lot about you and couldn’t help but be surprised at the fact that your bike got stolen. It was even more surprising when I found out that I think I know the guy who took it.” She looked at me with slightly narrower eyes than before, almost as though she was lost in thought.</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When she didn’t continue, I chimed in. “Yes, I was surprised and admittedly quite upset when Luna was stolen. I’ve searched high and low in this city, but I can’t seem to find her anywhere. I figured, with spring here, people would be out riding bikes every day and if I just kept my eyes open I might spot someone riding a lavender 1987 Nishiki Prestige.” I knew I was babbling, but couldn’t seem to stop. For some strange reason, I felt safe telling this complete stranger all about my sad life and even sadder thief tracking ineptitude. “I’ve looked all over, but haven’t even found the tiniest lead. If you know who took my bike, I’d love to work something out with you to get it back. As much as I want to nab them, I can control the need for revenge and try to...forgive and forget.” Just saying those words made the milky tea sour in my mouth, but I knew that it was true. If there was a way to get Luna back, even if the thief never got properly reprimanded, I would find a way to forgive and forget in order to have my bike back safe and sound.</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Surprisingly, Sy chuckled at my speech, a lilting laugh that drifted through the air and blended with the sitar music.</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“I think you misunderstood me,” she said. “I know who took your bike, but I’m not friends with him. In fact, I’m hoping you might be able to help me... in seeking revenge.”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I blinked and unconsciously raised my eyebrow in curiosity. “I’m listening.”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“You see, I’m a mindful, community gardening type of gal. I teach people how to garden, how to eat nutritiously, and how to make delicious meals out of the vegetables that they grow. I help maintain a number of gardens throughout the area, and also grow my own food in my backyard using what I like to call ‘extreme gardening methods.’” She paused for effect, practically begging me to ask her more. </span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I found myself, surprisingly, on the edge of my seat. Thus, I abided her silent plea and asked, “What to you mean by ‘extreme gardening methods?”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She flashed another crinkly smile and her face lit up. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Bingo,</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I thought. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This ought to be good.</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Well,” she began eagerly, “I developed a technique that allows me to plant my garden without ever having to leave my apartment! Wait, that makes me sound really antisocial. For the record, I do leave my apartment, quite frequently, and enjoy doing so...” </span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“It’s ok, I understand what you mean,” I replied, politely overlooking her own lapse into awkward babble, just as she had overlooked mine. Besides, I was still curious as to her gardening methods. “Go on.”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Well, I only garden organically so I don’t use artificial fertilizers or anything, but I developed a way to extract pure nitrogen from organic compost to make small explosives. You know, mini pipe-bomb type experiments. Anyway, after a few years of practice, I invented a mechanical arm that can drop the small explosives out the window with extreme precision, allowing me to arrange them in intricate patterns or simple grids. Since the garden is right outside my window, I use the arm to arrange the bombs in rows, then detonate the explosives and fire seedlings into the smoldering holes with a specially crafted bow and arrow set I designed myself! It’s a very efficient process-- I can plant the entire garden in less than an hour! Besides, it’s exceptionally fun.” She immediately took a sip of tea following her monologue and glanced at me with raised eyebrows over the rim of the cup, trying to determine if I thought she was crazy or not. Obviously, I did. But more than anything, I felt admiration, and possibly even jealousy. </span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Brilliant! </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I thought, trying to keep my face from showing any signs of interest. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Why didn’t I think of that idea?? </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My mind kept fluctuating between blurting out a string of wildly embarrassing praises, and wondering how this had anything to do with the theft of my bicycle.</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’ve got to admit,” I said, raising my eyebrows across the table and smirking slightly, “that sounds like one hell of a good time!” </span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Sy laughed, then said, “I’m sure you’re wondering what on earth this has to do with your bicycle!”</span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Damn. She’s like a mindreader!</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“The thought may have crossed my mind.”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Well, several weeks ago I was preparing the garden for planting. I had all my explosives made, seedlings started, and had finished fine-tuning my mechanical arm, when I realized my bow and arrow set was missing. I knew I had seen it just the previous day, because I had to check the alignment of the arrows to ensure accuracy, but that day it was nowhere to be found!”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Are you suggesting that you think the same person who stole my bike snuck into your apartment to steal your bow and arrows?” I asked doubtfully. “It seems a little far fetched. This is a big town we live in!”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“I know, I know. But there’s more. You see, the very same day your bike was stolen, I noticed an advertisement in the classifieds section.” Here, she started fumbling through her pockets and pulled out a carefully clipped and laminated section of the newspaper. She handed it to me across the table. I read the few sentences slowly.</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Wanted: Archery equipment. Call 777-3445.”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I was starting to doubt the legitimacy of the story Sy was crafting. “Sy, this really doesn’t imply anything about my bicycle being connected with the theft of your bow.”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“No, not yet. But look, here is a clipping from the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">previous</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> day’s newspaper, day before your bike was stolen, and the day after my bow was stolen.” She handed me another small newspaper clipping that read,</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Wanted: Functional road bicycle. Call 777-3445.”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Sy was starting at me for signs of emotion. I think she could tell that I wasn’t buying into her hap-hazard clues. “Before you dismiss me as crazy, just think about it for a minute. Both of these advertisements have the same phone number listed, and appeared in the newspaper the day </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">before</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> our items matching the ads were stolen.”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah, but this could just be some crazy coincidence! Why would someone list items they want in the newspaper if they’re just going to steal them anyway?” My tea was growing cold, and I was growing tired of this conversation.</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“You’ve got it all wrong!” Sy exclaimed. “It’s not the person listing the items who is the thief! Rather, I suspect that the thief saw the ads and thought they could make some quick cash along the way by obtaining the wanted items and selling them </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">both</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> to the same buyer, who could then later be blamed for the theft of the items when the actual thief calls you about the whereabouts of your bike in response to your reward posters!”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She was talking fast and making connections that my still-sleepy brain was striving to keep up with. At that moment I felt my cell phone begin to vibrate in my pocket and pulled it out to inspect the number: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Restricted.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Sy eyed me glancing at my phone. “You don’t believe me, do you? Well I think you should answer that.”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“No, no, it’s alright. That would be terribly rude of me, I apologize for even looking.” </span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I was beginning to place my phone back into my pocket when Sy abruptly snatched it from my hands, snapped it open and answered with a clipped but polite, “Good afternoon!” Her expression of determined curiosity changed to one of near excitement. The conversation was brief and confusing for a listener like myself only getting half of the dialog, and ended just as abruptly as it had begun, with Sy snapping the phone closed, launching into a standing position with fist raised over her head, and triumphantly yelling, “Yes! We’ve got him!!”</span><br />
</div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">...To be continued.....</span></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-73709749191197009162011-05-16T22:08:00.001-04:002011-05-16T22:09:27.275-04:00The Case of the Missing Moonbeam<div id="internal-source-marker_0.3980034107490652" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I found myself falling out of sleep and into wakefulness. The digital clock glowed menacingly through the dim light of early morning, but my bleary eyes could not make out more than angry red fuzz no matter how hard I squinted. I rolled over and shuffled through last week’s reading--a few books, a tattered art journal, and multiple harassing bills stacked one on top of another-- until my fingers fumbled across my glasses. A second glance at the clock, this time in full focus, revealed the numbers 8:57.</span></div><div id="internal-source-marker_0.3980034107490652" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Fuck.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It had been a late night. I was tired and knew I looked like hell, but had approximately three minutes to get to work. I started throwing clothes around hastily while simultaneously searching for my keys. I slipped on some sandals and started rushing out the door, caught myself, and reversed the mad dash until I was in the bathroom clutching my toothbrush and scrubbing my teeth into a feral froth. Then spit, rinse, and the final dash out the door, toothbrush still in hand. I tucked it into the inner pocket of my coat, ready and waiting to combat the next attack of halitosis or stubbornly lodged food particles.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The library was quiet when I arrived fashionably late at 9:03, and I managed to slip unnoticed into my office. It felt like ants were crawling around in my brain, slowly picking up neglected neurons and putting them into their proper firing positions. Waking up was usually not an issue, but I was trying to function on barely three hours of shuteye. The thinking machine was running a bit slow, yes, but I couldn't help shaking the vague memory of a dream. I could see it rising to the surface, but just as it came into vision it would seep away into the depths, just a blue-grey shadow sinking in the darkness. It annoyed me because it seemed important. I wanted to remember it, but it wouldn’t stay lodged in view for more than a few microseconds, just long enough to distract me but not long enough to catch it in my memory net. </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There was a knock at the door, three soft taps and then silence.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah,” I said distractedly. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Leave me the fuck alone. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“HEY, MOLLY!” It was Ron, the man who wanted so desperately to take me on a date that he continued to stop by every single morning, disregarding my every attempt to shut him down. “I had to stop by to see your smiling face!” I hate it when he says that. It makes me feel obligated to smile, when what I really want to do is wallow in the misery of having to explain on a daily basis why I am not interested in him.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Hi, Ron.” I didn’t even look up from the e-mail I was typing. Call it rude if you will, but after two years of being visited by him I had little patience. I blamed it on being especially tired that day.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“You know, you still haven’t called me,” he replied with a wink.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I sighed. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Here we go.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yes, Ron. I know.” I looked him directly in the eye, folding my hands together in front of me. “We’ve been over this. I refused to take your number, which makes it impossible for me to call you.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah, but you could look it up in the phone book! Or I can give it to you now.” He flashed me a notecard, already prepared with his name and number, and stepped forward to put it on my desk.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Ron, you can keep that. I’m not going to call you because I have a boyfriend. You can’t keep doing this, Ron. I need to get back to work.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He looked at me with hurt eyes walked away. I felt bad-- always do-- but was too tired to respond more delicately, and too impatient with his persistence to care. </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Besides, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I told myself, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I’m grieving.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Grief is a funny thing. You know on some level that you’ve experienced a loss, and something or someone irreplaceable has disappeared forever. Yet you keep hoping that there must have been a mistake, that they'll just show up on your doorstep one day and everything will return to normal. Except it never happens. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Her name is--was-- Moonbeam. Luna Pisces Moonbeam, to be exact. With a name like that you know she must have deserved every savory syllable of it. Such a pale beauty, lavender veined and slim through the shoulders. When I gratefully came to call her mine, I knew that I had never seen anything as quietly majestic or gracefully swift as her before. </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Luna is--was-- freedom. She was movement and life, a vast road through breezy hay fields baking in the sun. She was a placid lake surface washed with dancing raindrops. She was all this, all this and much more. And then she was gone, and I found myself left with only the ghost-memory of her figure haunting me at every turn. What could I do? Alone, desolate, I walked. I had been walking for weeks now, through our favorite neighborhoods, parks and parking lots, up hills, into shops. I walked aimlessly, looking longingly down every street and alley, behind every building, through every window and porch railing, hoping desperately to catch a glimpse of her slender figure hiding just out of view. I couldn’t stop walking, which explained why I was so bone-tired all the time.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I sighed. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Luna. Best damn bike I’ve ever had. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I was still scowling at my computer screen when the phone rang.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Ladd here.” I waited for a few seconds in silence, then said, “Hello?” Just as I was pulling the receiver away from my ear to hang up, I heard a voice at the other end of the line. For a second time I mustered up enough energy to say, “Hello?”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Hello,” said the female voice, followed by more silence. Then, “I have information about </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Luna</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">.”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My throat tightened. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Don’t get emotional, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I told myself. I took a deep breath to remove the shake from my voice before responding. “What the hell did you do with her, you thief?! I’m going to track you down and smother your mother with manure, douse your house with hexes, harrass your ass with....”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Woah, woah, easy!” The voice interrupted, following with a lyrical chuckle. I was breathing furiously hard into the receiver, mouth still ajar mid-sentence. A million thoughts were swirling through my head, words were putting themselves into threats and materializing into complete sentences so quickly that her interruption felt like mentally getting flipped over the handlebars of a bike. “Look, I didn’t steal her, but I may have information as to where she is.” </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I paused, embarrassed now. I mustered enough humility to say, “Oh.”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There was a slight pause on the other end, although I’m certain I heard a muffled chuckle. “Hey, my name’s Sy. I saw one of your missing bike posters stapled to a tree in the park and thought I’d give you a call.” </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Feeling completely deflated, I said quietly, “Oh. I see.” Fortunately my awkward silence did not dissuade the caller from continuing the conversation. </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah, anyway, I have some information but I’d rather deliver it in person. You see, it’s a bit complicated...”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And before I knew it I was scheduled to meet her for lunch at the very same Indian restaurant from which my bike got stolen. I was incredibly nervous, wondering who this mysterious caller was and what information she had about Luna, but I tried to maintain the well-practiced calm of the infamous Dreaded Librarian. Usually my stints against criminal activities are less personal. It boils down to me obtaining justice on behalf of someone else: defending right and punishing wrongdoings, but always for </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">someone else</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">. I had long forgotten what an emotional occurrence it was to feel personally violated, robbed, threatened and defeated. For the first time in many years, I was having to seek </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">help</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">, and from a complete stranger no less! </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I shook my head. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Some Dreaded Librarian I’ve turned into. I can’t even find a missing bicycle.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> It was then that I realized I was totally, undeniably, utterly and completely down in the dumps. I hung my head in depressed shame and started methodically moving towards the restaurant.</span></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-67325593119153891962011-05-10T09:45:00.002-04:002011-05-10T12:40:40.740-04:00The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears<div style="color: #ffe599; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The Dreaded Librarian recently had the great privilege of having dinner with author Dinaw Mengestu following a reading he did at the local liberal arts college. He is an Ethiopian-American writer who has been listed as one of "the top 20 authors under 40." His two books, "The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears," and "How to Read the Air," have received plenty of praise for their prose and captivating stories. </b></span></div><div style="color: #ffe599; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="color: #ffe599; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Despite working at a library, there are very few authors who I have met. I remember being in 5th grade and realizing that I wanted to be a writer, and that dream stuck with me through all of high school and even into college. My aspirations, though unrealistic, involved being a published novelist by age 16, writing and illustrating a childrens' book, and majoring in creative writing in college. Alas, none of these dreams have reached maturation, and yet my dream of some day meeting and talking with a <i>real live author</i> has been blissfully achieved.</b></span></div><div style="color: #ffe599; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="color: #ffe599; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Mr. Mengestu lead an informal writing discussion with several teenage aspiring writers, and his words were both motivational and inspirational. What I liked most about him is that he lacked the pretentious air that I expected to come with fame, and rather spoke with calm strength and down-to-earth wisdom. He was intrigued by our community and the incredibly unexpected diversity found within such a small and run-down city. My library kids were very excited to ask him about his life and his books, trying to find commonalities between their African refugee background and his Ethiopian immigration stories.</b></span></div><div style="color: #ffe599; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T7M578uXLdA/Tck_tA03RkI/AAAAAAAAAH0/SBFJ6NxnYK4/s1600/DSCN3846.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T7M578uXLdA/Tck_tA03RkI/AAAAAAAAAH0/SBFJ6NxnYK4/s320/DSCN3846.JPG" width="320" /></a><b> </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: #ffe599;"> Overall, the visit was an incredible experience (for both the youth and myself!), and now that I am in the midst of one of his books (rather belated, I know) I can also highly recommend picking one up and reading it. I am currently wrapping up "The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears" and have found his writing beautifully lyrical, with strong imagery and a slow, relaxed sense of melancholia. Get to your local library and check it out-- literally! </span></b></span></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-43103173833095408962011-04-20T18:39:00.000-04:002011-04-20T18:39:34.583-04:00Tandem Troubles<div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>Sometimes trouble just finds you regardless of how hard you try to avoid it. It's like dank, oppressive humidity, enveloping and suffocating you after you smile at the sunshine on a lovely day. It hits out of nowhere and leaves you splayed on the sidewalk, gasping with heat stroke like a hooked trout in the day's fresh catch basket.</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>Trouble. I needed it yesterday as much as I needed a plume of tobacco smoke blown in my face from some sucker puffing on a cancer stick. I needed it like appendicitis. Heck, I needed it like a cliche punch in the face! But despite my plans for a quiet day at the library, I found myself faced with a face-smashing bowl of trouble.</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>It all started when a late night turned into an early weekend morning with a sore throat that could only have been sent by someone as sinister as Shakespear's Iago. Clawing my throat out would have seemed like a mere insect bite in comparison to the endless flaming pain of this latest enemy of my immune system. Yet I tried desperately to ignore it, to pretend it was a slight case of "dehydration" or "seasonal allergies" even though I've never experienced an allergic reaction in my life. I tried to tell myself that dreaded librarians don't get sick-- they just don't. But on those little bacteria marched, destroying my throat, progressing to my lungs within 24 hours, and leaving me coughing until my ribs ached.</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"> <b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>Now, any normal person would probably stay home and just wait it out. However, my work ethic is like an iron bar, and the only reason I could legitimize for taking a sick day was that I didn't want to infect others with this bacterial culture brewing in the petri dishes of my inflamed alveoli. I did contemplate staying home sick, but since it is school vacation week and I knew that I would be spending the entirety of the day behind a closed door in the privacy of my office with limited exposure to other individuals, I decided to muck through some paperwork and catch up on all the office duties I've been so negligent about. Thus, my troubles began.</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>After a few hours, I left my office to meet a friend for lunch. We were to meet at 1:15 at the Indian restaurant down the street, but as I was leaving my office at 1:12 I realized with mortification that I had forgotten my debit card in the pocket of my other pair of pants (where I had tucked it the night before while attending an Iron & Wine concert), and living up to my notorious habit of never having cash on hand, I was faced with a dilemma: I could either go to the restaurant and be on time, but ashamedly ask my friend to cover my lunch with a promised I-owe-you, or I could run back to my apartment to get my debit card to relieve myself from being a mooch, but continue to develop a bad habit of being late. I opted for the latter and started running up the street.</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>I arrived at my apartment at approximately 1:15, found the card within thirty seconds, and was dashing out the door by 1:16, at which point I spotted by bicycle waiting, beckoning for me on the landing outside the door. Without a second thought, I threw it over my shoulder and carried it out the door where I proceeded to hop onto it and speed towards the Indian restaurant. I arrived barely three minutes late, praising myself for being smart enough to avoid being a mooch or being terribly tardy. I placed by bike against a tree by the side window of the restaurant and then BAM! I realized with horror that I had forgotten my bike lock. But again, the desire to save my reputation outweighed my thoughts of returning home to retrieve my bike lock, and I thought to myself, "Well, we won't be inside long, and my bike will be in full view of our table the whole time. I'm sure it will be fine." I'm sure you see where this is going. Obviously my bike got stolen and my reputation became that of a careless dolt, which is far worse than that of being a tardy mooch. Thus, my tandem troubles of horrendous illness and bike theft rolled together into one of the worst days of the past year.</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>I'm fairly convinced that I won't see my lavender road bike (named Luna Pisces Moonbeam) again, unless the dreaded librarian rears her crime-fighting head once more in a serious case of revenge-seeking investigative work. Firstly, she must wait in frustration for this cold to leave her lungs, and then...</b></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7jDT4qKVewk/Ta9ekRQvh5I/AAAAAAAAAHw/ijPv-yZw5y0/s1600/bike+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7jDT4qKVewk/Ta9ekRQvh5I/AAAAAAAAAHw/ijPv-yZw5y0/s320/bike+1.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #cccccc;">Luna Pisces Moonbeam</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="color: #660000;">TO BE CONTINUED...</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-8139093014129624992011-04-01T08:01:00.001-04:002011-04-01T08:27:14.056-04:00The Mad Crapper<div id="internal-source-marker_0.882259904662985" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Public bathrooms have long been my cold, dark, nemesis. They seep with discomfort, some more reminiscent of a Dark Ages torture chamber anything else.There are the usual misdemeanors: derogatory graffiti written in stolen Sharpie marker; phone numbers, names and dates etched into walls in pointy lettering; soggy toilet paper littering the corners waiting to get stuck to unsuspecting shoes; and of course the odd smells and stains that beg the question, “What </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">happened </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">here?”</span></div><div id="internal-source-marker_0.882259904662985" style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Ah yes, the joys of public bathrooms, with all their lurking shadows, drips and creaks. Yet, surprisingly, none of these offenses have anything to do with my dislike and outright horror towards public restrooms: Until I went to college and discovered a few dorms and buildings with single-stall, unisex facilities, I thought all public restrooms were highly gendered and uncomfortable places wrought with hard feelings. From childhood to adulthood, exploring the intricacies of public restroom norms has been an exercise in tolerance, terror, and courage. In many ways, working in a public library has furthered my education of restroom etiquette (or lack thereof) in ways that are so grotesque you’ll probably think I’m making them up. If only that were the case...</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">As a child, I was terrified of the rest stop bathrooms on highways. Just think about it-- you’re 6 years old, 3 feet tall, and you walk into a giant maze of stalls with your adult monitor (aka parent or other legal guardian). It’s overwhelming! Inside the stall, there are rolls of toilet paper bigger than your head set inside giant plastic dispensers with jagged teeth that never tear the paper off correctly. On the opposite wall a little bit of tissue paper peaks out of the bottom of another strange-shaped dispenser (“That’s the seat cover,” mom later explains. You decide not to mention that you thought it was toilet paper). Plus, in the women’s bathrooms there are those darn metal boxes for disposing of feminine items, which as a child pose yet another mystery. When you ask about them, the best answer you get is, “You’ll find out when you’re older. Let’s go!” </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">everything</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> runs on sensors. </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There you are, sitting on that cold seat in a mustard-yellow stall covered in phone numbers and obscene messages trying to squeeze your bladder dry before another three hours on the road. From beneath the door you catch a glimpse of what appear to be hundreds of feet right outside, waiting for you to finish. It takes a while for you to get over your ‘stage fright,’ but when you finally do and the satisfying sound of water-on-water begins, you shift your weight the slightest bit to get more comfortable and suddenly--</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">WHOORSSSHHHHHHHH GLUG GLUG GLUG SHHHHHHHHHHH</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">--so deafening that it sounds like a whirlpool has opened beneath you and you’re going to get sucked down into the depths of the sewer forever to live in the company of the alligators you heard about from the other kids at school! After the terror subsides (and after you’ve lurched off the toilet in an attempt to save yourself from the sewers), you realize that the whirlpool was, surprisingly, just the toilet flushing itself. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But you didn’t even touch the handle!</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Ah, those pesky sensors that you are now beginning to be enlightened about. Such a strange, terrifying place! You continue to be amazed after you exit the stall and head over to the sinks where your public bathroom sensor education is fulfilled. The electronic sinks, soap and towel dispensers seem to possess a miraculous ability to wash and dry your hands with almost no personal effort. What a strange, terrifying place indeed!</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Obviously I am no longer afraid of public bathrooms for the same reasons as a child. Unfortunately, with age bathrooms became even more horrific. There was middle school, when every girl would cram in front of the mirrors before school to apply make-up, and then cram in again at the end of the day to wash it off before going home. An innocent bystander like myself could get trampled to death in the stampede if they weren’t careful. And it was around those middle school years when kids first began finding it humorous to write scrawled messages like “there’s a BOMB in the TOILET” on the walls for the custodians to find, causing an immediate forced evacuation of the school. This would only become a more frequent event as school progressed.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Then there was high school when navigating the bathrooms required a degree in high school hierarchy systems: the potheads owned the second floor bathroom, the cheerleaders claimed the one by the front stairwell, the drama geeks used the cafeteria stalls to rehearse during lunch, and the one in the science wing always smelled like a noxious perfume of formaldehyde, lighter fluid and rotting potatoes. As an unsuspecting and rather unpopular “outsider,” I had the unpleasant experience of walking in on girly gossip in the “wrong bathroom,” and being given the angry eye until I left. On several occasions, I’d push open an unlocked stall door in the lady’s room and find a popular couple (the type waiting to be nominated “Prom King and Queen”) making out with such fierce passion you’d think the world was about to end. Add to that the fact that our school was so old that most of the stalls were missing their doors, and it just made infinitely more sense to hold it until school was out.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And then college changed everything.. Suddenly alcohol was a readily available addition to the public bathroom horrors. Girls would vomit their guts out while sobbing hysterically over the porcelain god about some boy and/or sociology paper due the next day; socially active students surveyed all bathrooms on campus and determined that handicap accessible and gender neutral bathrooms were discriminately few and far between; and bathrooms housed the perfect “hook-up” location for couples seeking solitude from their roommates. When I studied abroad I also had my first peek at pub and bar restrooms, and while I found the drunken mob of female strangers surprisingly supportive of one another, I still couldn’t help but notice that all of the gossip centered exclusively around boy troubles-- jealousy, resentment, cheating, lying. The supportive circle of female restroom users was a necessity to counter the excessive negative vibes loosened by liquor!</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When I finally joined the working world, having experienced and dealt with many of my public bathroom demons, I suddenly found myself exposed to “the other side” of the restroom story: the side that deals with the complaints and maintenance of said restrooms. People frequently come up to the Reference Desk and make remarks about the condition of the bathroom:</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Just thought you might like to know that there’s some really offensive graffiti in there.”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“That bathroom’s flooded, someone stuffed paper towels down the sink and left the water on.”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“The </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">smell</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> in there is </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">unreal</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">! That bathroom should be out of order until you guys get some air freshener! I coulda passed out and hit my head on the sink, man.”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And so a maintenance report is filed and the offensive graffiti is painted over </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">again,</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> the young person who flooded the bathroom is suspended because of the extensive damage to books caused by the water leaking through the floor to the bookstacks below, and a canister of air freshener is replaced only to be stolen the following day. These acts become the routine.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What scares me most is when the routine is broken.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We’ve had some scandalous and almost unbelievable things happen in the restroom on the Reference Floor. Reverting back to one of the examples above, when the bathroom was flooded, I almost didn’t understand how such an incident could happen. Why would anyone plug the sink with paper towels, turn the water on and leave? Sure, maybe it gets a laugh from a few friends, but is it really worth the 6 month library suspension? Unfortunately, it is for many of our patrons. It’s also a routine occurrence for the elevator to be used as a urinal by mischievous youth looking for a laugh.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There was even one day when I was working on the Teen Banner project (described in a previous post) when an older youth tipped me off to the fact that amateur nose piercing was raging through the high school like wildfire. I didn’t think much of it until I looked around and realized that several girls who had just been working on the banner had disappeared rather suddenly, and after a quick sweep of the Reference floor they were nowhere to be found. It was about at that moment that I noticed </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">several</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> voices emanating from the public restroom and approached the door. I knocked and the voices fell silent instantaneously. </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Anyone in there?” I hollered, knocking again. “I’m coming in!” </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">At which point a young girl, only 12, opened the door and exited, turning the light off behind her. “Sorry, I was just washing my hands,” she said innocently. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t fool me for a second. I switched the light back on to find 5 teenage girls all huddled by the sink holding needles they had stolen from the sewing project they had been working on in the Teen Room. Two sported small gems in their reddened noses, painfully obvious new additions to their faces. </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Being the teen-savvy librarian I am, I refrained from harsh scolding and instead focused on safety.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Ladies, this really isn’t the place to be doing this, but since I caught you... are you disinfecting your needles? If you took them from the Teen Room--”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“No, we didn’t steal them!”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“--then they’re probably covered in germs from all the kids who have been touching them. I definitely saw someone’s little brother sneeze into his hands and then use some of those needles.”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Ewwwwww, oh my god did you make sure you burned that before shoving it through my nose??</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Who has the lighter??” </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">A flurry of worried voices chimes in and some girl mutters something like, “I forgot the lighter, but I’m sure it’s ok. We wiped it off first...”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“And I don’t want you to get in trouble with your parents. If you’re reverting to piercing each other in the public library bathroom, I assume your family doesn’t know you are doing this. I’m not going to tell on you, don’t worry, you guys should think about this, ok? I know I’m not one to talk [since my nose is pierced] but I waited until I was 18 to get mine done, and did it at a piercing parlor where everything was sanitized.” I paused a second for effect while looking around the bathroom sketchily before continuing. “I’m sure you realize this already, but this is definitely </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">not</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> a sanitary place.” The girls glanced around too, and the young 12 year old mumbled, “Eww, is that poop on the wall??”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Mind you, we do have a fantastic cleaning crew that scrubs the place down thoroughly, but everyday wear-and-tear seems to be particularly rough. Just yesterday an older gentleman suffering from incontinence literally </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">ran</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> up to the desk and started shouting rather incoherently that he needed the bathroom </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">NOW, GOD DAMN IT! </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">and the poor librarian at the desk had to essentially evacuate the person who was in there to make way for this man, who was already peeing himself by the time he entered the restroom. In the afternoons, the bathroom gets particularly messy and slippery because many of the youth who attend homework help are Muslim, and they must wash their hands and feet in the sink (which is quite messy as you can imagine, leaving puddles of water on the floor) before the afternoon prayer. Yes, the everyday wear-and-tear is quite extensive!</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There is one final anecdote that must be shared in order for you to fully understand my disgust of public restrooms, but which also merits a good amount of humor just in time for April Fool’s day. While I was not ‘blessed’ with the opportunity to see this first-hand, I heard a detailed description from my coworker who described it, laughingly, as “the most disgusting thing [he’d] ever seen.” It took a while to figure out who the culprit was, but thanks to our security cameras we managed to fill in many of the missing details. Here’s how events played out:</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">A patron approached the desk with a horrified look of shock on his face. He simply stated, “You need you place that bathroom out of order. It’s definitely unusable.”</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My coworker thanked the patron and said to me, “I’ll go check it out before we put up the sign. A lot of the time it just needs to be plunged a bit.” </span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Less than a minute later, he emerged from the bathroom with a bemused but disgusted look on his face and remarked, “That’s the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">most</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life.” He then proceeded to describe the state of the toilet-- a paperback book had been spread open in the toilet, cover-side up, so that all of the pages became saturated with toilet water. The culprit had then proceeded to take a shit (“the biggest dump I’ve ever seen!!” he said) on top of the book, and had flushed the toilet several times so that the saturated pages dissolved a bit and swirled around in the nearly-overflowing toilet bowl. The whole mess had completely blocked up the system and musked the air with a thick stench that rendered the bathroom unusable for the next two days.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The librarians colloquially referred to the culprit as “The Mad Crapper,” and set off on a mission to identify him. After reviewing several hours of video footage, we finally noticed a suspicious patron who entered the bathroom holding what appeared to be a book. When he exited, the item was no longer in his hands, and he had a maniacal grin on his face. A police report was filed for destruction of library property (the book) and a suspension put in place in response to the poor behavior.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The episode definitely solidified my negative opinion of public bathrooms; they abound with mischievous misdemeanors, poor etiquette, and repulsive acts. Yet I found myself realizing that I no longer was afraid of them. Sure, they are uncomfortable places that I try to avoid at all times, but I now have a new respect for the endless humor they provide to this unsuspecting, public-bathroom-hating librarian.</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div style="color: #0c343d; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Yes, as sick as it was, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the Mad Crapper. His seemingly senseless behavior led to the disgusting and horrific destruction of a book, but he had a sense of humor (albeit a twisted one).</span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Su8MQorq3mE/TZXEiC1H9lI/AAAAAAAAAG8/gZu70n3ewWY/s1600/IMG_20101209_182404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Su8MQorq3mE/TZXEiC1H9lI/AAAAAAAAAG8/gZu70n3ewWY/s320/IMG_20101209_182404.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Admittedly, this was one of the most creative book reviews I’d ever heard of. </span></span><br />
</div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-28705728635348947772011-03-27T15:23:00.000-04:002011-03-27T15:23:56.334-04:00MJ Returns!<div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>No, I'm not talking about Michael Jackson. Rather, I realized it's been over a week since my last post (gasp!) and although I have several longer pieces in the works, none are ready to be posted yet. Thus, I racked and racked my brain for the most exciting thing to have happened this week. It was as I was thus straining my brain during a maple sugar induced coma (hey, it's Maple Sunday and we visited two sugar shacks!) I realized that something quite out of the ordinary DID occur, as mundane as it may seem! </b></div><div style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8-x8ZIPWwgQ/TY-Nhv8sLDI/AAAAAAAAAG4/nvF9XArjoEg/s1600/Kite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8-x8ZIPWwgQ/TY-Nhv8sLDI/AAAAAAAAAG4/nvF9XArjoEg/s320/Kite.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flying high--kite season is upon us!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #4c1130;">Perhaps you have already guessed, but when I say "MJ Returns" I am, indeed, speaking of the the "holy marijuana" lady from my previous post!!! It has been nearly a year since the holy marijuana episode occurred, and just recently I was speaking with someone about how I have not seen the woman since. She must have sensed my thoughts because </span><i style="color: #4c1130;">the very next day</i><span style="color: #4c1130;"> I walked out of the Teen Room and there she was, waiting at the Reference Desk for someone to help her find books on Wicca spells and Paganism. I wish I could report that she was hollering and having a fit like last year, but she was shockingly calm (though perhaps a bit vacant, as before), and once she received the books she needed she sat down quietly in a chair and began reading through them. The only thing slightly out-of-the-ordinary was when I noticed her quietly chanting to herself while rubbing a tattoo on her forearm. For a brief moment my imagination turned her into the vacant, stumbling zombie of last year, sitting in a chair clawing at her arm amidst a screen of murky fog and scowling with reddened eyes at the book in her lap. Her hair became gnarled and patchy, her teeth yellowed, and a greenish tinge seeped into the coloration of her face. And just as quickly, the vision was gone-- replaced once again by the quiet, chanting woman by a window in the library. Such an anticlimactic, mundane and unfulfilling incident, yet such a chance encounter! </span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #4c1130;">Little does this woman know that she is infamous amongst my circle of friends...</span></b></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-76289416754820376552011-03-19T07:43:00.000-04:002011-03-19T07:43:42.013-04:00Repeat Offenders: Put That Away!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04; margin-bottom: 12pt;">Time to play a little game. Imagine it’s a weekday morning, a bit brisk but the sun is warm. Spring is in the air and as you walk to work (at the public library) you can’t help but look up at the blue sky and smile at the city doves overhead. In the distance you hear the faint sound of laughter and smile as a warm breeze combs through your hair. <i>Ahhh,</i> you think, <i>what a delightful morning.</i></div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">Yes indeed, what a delightful morning it is! There’s a spring to your step as you turn the lock to the back door and bounce up the steps to the Reference floor. You smile at your coworkers and exchange sincere, “Good morning!” messages before passing through the public computer lab to your office. You sit down, open your computer and set to work catching up on correspondences, tracking program participation, and updating the monthly program stats. You begin to hear a quiet, steady flow of people entering the library, the beeping of the computer reservation station, and the soothing <i>clickety-click-clack-click</i> of keys typing away next door. Occasionally a cell phone will ring or the muffled sound of music through headphones can be heard coming from the lab, but for the most part all is calm.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">Around mid-morning, you decide to take a short tea break. You grab your mug, put your computer into “sleep” mode, stand up and walk out of your office. Out of habit, you glance around at the faces in the public computer lab with a friendly smile-- </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">And then you see it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">Any semblance of a smile disappears when you notice the screen filled with close-up images of amateur hardcore pornography: a grainy video maximized across the entire monitor displaying a side view of some overly-busty woman’s gyrating butt cheeks slapping together to the rhythm of some paunch-bellied dude’s vigorous thrusts. It’s a ‘deer in the headlights’ moment where you freeze, confused, and can’t seem to tear your eyes away even though your brain is churning a million miles per hour trying to process and respond to what is taking place. You notice a baby in a stroller beside the offensive computer user; it coos a little bit and spits up on itself. You follow suit and vomit a little in your mouth. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">At my library, we do not have any filters in place (except for in the Children’s Department) because they sometimes will filter out the ‘wrong’ websites. For example, if someone is trying to research the long-term psychological effects of, say, child sex slavery (a recent homework assignment for some of the high school health students), the combination of “child” and “sex” search terms may bring up some academic articles, but presumably many inappropriate websites as well. A filter may not accurately tell the difference between the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ sites and could block them all. Thus, in order to give the public the best access to any and all mind-enriching information, we function almost exclusively on an honor system. Each computer user has to accept the computer policy prior to beginning any computer session, and it is then their responsibility to use the computers appropriately. For the most part, staff do not ‘spy’ on computer users, but on occasion when we do notice illegal computer activity on the screen we will boot the offending user off with a warning. A second offence warrants a temporary (30 day) computer ban, and following offences may receive heftier reprimands.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">The challenge, of course, is that libraries are built around free access to information-- and personal privacy. Thus, records of ‘repeat offenders’ on the computers are not kept except mentally by staff. If we are aware that someone has looked at pornography two or three times, then we can act accordingly, but with hundreds of people passing through and using the computers each day it gets increasingly complicated to remember who has had one warning versus five.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">So what do you do? There you are, gaping at a disgusting and demeaning video trying to figure out how to confront the offender. Maybe half a second passes, maybe less, but it feels like an hour. Then all of a sudden the offender seems to notice you and quickly minimizes the video to reveal another window--Facebook--as an innocent cover. You think to yourself, <i>Do you really believe that I didn’t just see that? I </i>know<i> you weren’t looking at Facebook!</i> <i>How dumb do you think I am?</i> And at that moment the offender catches your eye in an attempt to tell if you saw their little video or not. Apparently your face is very revealing because they quickly avert their eyes and slump lower in their chair like a guilty 15-year-old.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">It’s always so awkward to approach these individuals and reprimand them publicly because they often protest and sometimes revert to using derogatory language. It’s especially awkward to approach them if they are in the midst of some personal ‘heavy petting’ because, well, that’s just awkward in general! On a few occasions I’ve slipped back into my office and written brief notes that say:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><i>Do you know it’s against library policy to look at pornography on the public computers? Not only that, but you can lose your library privileges. Please do not do it again.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">I fold the note in half and drop it next to the offender’s keyboard as I walk past. I feel like making a personal connection like that-- the whole ‘I know you know that I know’ thing-- may be intimidating enough to at least make them take a break for a while. But the frustrating thing is that often people just don’t care. They’ll be back the next day watching their grainy videos and rubbing themselves ‘discretely’ in the public computer lab, no matter how many times staff talk to them, suspend their cards, or otherwise reprimand them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">There was one noteworthy incident where I was in my office when all of a sudden a loud commotion broke out in the computer lab. Some woman with an incredibly shrill voice started laying into a guy that she obviously observed engaged in inappropriate conduct:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">“That’s fucking disgusting, this is a public library! I don’t want to come in here and see that shit every time I want to send an e-mail! You fucking lowlife, go hide in an ally and do that shit, don’t do it here!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">“What, I’m not doing anything,” was the man’s mumbled reply. It only sent the woman further into a frenzy.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">“You most certainly are doing something! Every time I come in here you’re watching nasty ass pornography and rubbing your penis. I have my daughter with me, and she’s got to sit next to some pervert rubbing himself while I’m trying to print off my taxes. Fuckin’ sick, that’s what it is! You’ve got to be sick to be doing that shit here, fucking sick in the head.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">By this time, everyone in the computer lab had stopped typing and were obviously watching the antics. I wondered why no one at the Reference Desk had stepped in to mediate the situation, or at least get the two to quiet down. Then I realized that a fellow patron laying into this guy was probably more effective at embarrassing him than any of us librarians (who have probably warned him multiple times already) would have been. Thus, despite my natural impulse to step out of my office and quiet things down, I decided to let it run its course.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">“Shut up, bitch, I’m not doing anything!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">“This is a LIBRARY! It’s posted in the rules that you can’t watch pornography in here! It’s a public place, pervert! There are kids in here, and I can’t sit by quietly while you’re grunting and rubbing yourself in front of not only my daughter, but all the people in this room!” Her voice was getting louder (if that was possible) and I could hear the man push back his chair and start putting his jacket on. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">“Yeah that’s right, walk away, pretend nothing happened. I know you’ll be back in here tomorrow doing the same nasty ass shit. Fucking sick, this is a LIBRARY!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">The man mumbled something that sounded a lot like, “Fuck you, bitch,” as he exited the computer lab. The woman hollered after him, “Don’t forget to zip your fly!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">This whole incident was <i>exceptionally</i> loud, and after the man left it felt like a shocked quiet was suffocating the room. I almost expected everyone to start clapping after a brief pause, but no one did. Generally I get tense around direct confrontations, but this time I found myself almost ecstatic! I wanted to shout, “You go, girl! Thank you!” I knew exactly who she had been yelling at, and apparently her aggressive tone and public humiliation stint did a number on the guy, because he hasn’t been back to the library since. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">So there you are, burning holes in the back of the offender’s head and contemplating your next move. Do you confront them verbally right then and there? Do you end their computer session immediately? Do you give them a warning? If I was a fellow public computer lab user, I’d probably follow the lead of the woman above (to a lesser extent) and firmly ask the offender to put that shit away! </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #783f04; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">What would you do?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-27181669995085832162011-03-19T07:30:00.000-04:002011-03-19T07:30:15.372-04:00The Banner Project<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-jAXkUNDTc6o/TYSQcGaNEVI/AAAAAAAAAG0/2rFLvqZSpPk/s1600/CITbannerSAP031611.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-jAXkUNDTc6o/TYSQcGaNEVI/AAAAAAAAAG0/2rFLvqZSpPk/s400/CITbannerSAP031611.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><b style="color: #7f6000;">This is the fabulous fabric banner that my kids are creating for permanent display at the library! This image was taken by a photographer from the local newspaper, and is just too splendid not to share. Each youth picks their own fabric background square and can add a collage of cloth words, shapes, textures and embellishments that they feel relates to their self identity. After a few more weeks of work, all of the pieces will be sewn together into a double-sided banner that will eventually be hung on display in the library. Fantastic work by a fantastic group of students! Reason number 5,395,350 why I love my job.</b></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-120840089968241432011-03-15T17:53:00.000-04:002011-03-15T17:53:34.870-04:00A Thanks to "My Kids"<div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>They're not really mine, but I've come to affectionately refer to any teenage user of the library as one of "my kids." They come from all backgrounds, but the majority of them are from low socioeconomic statuses and many are recent immigrants to America. Some are homeless. Most fit in multiple minority and marginalized groups. All of them are priceless.</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>Each day I struggle to engage them, to find ways to relate to them, to find activities they enjoy. Each day they test my patience, push boundaries, act out, bounce up, stand strong. Each day they frustrate me and enlighten me.</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>Yesterday was my birthday, and when one of my friends at the library told a few individual students in the homework help lab, the kids apparently went into a frenzy. Several of them took the lead and decorated a poster board with a giant "Happy Birthday Molly!" message and proceeded to take the larger-than-life sized card around to everyone in homework help. I was oblivious, and was helping an English language learner stumble through some complicated passages of Barbara Kingsolver's "The Bean Trees" when a group of my kids snuck up behind me in a semi-circle. They were (shockingly!) quiet for once and the only thing that gave them away was a slight giggle from one of the younger girls. As I turned around, expecting to deliver a soft "hushhh" to the giggler, my eyes popped with surprise as 20 kids shouted "HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOLLY!" with the absolute sunniest smiles on their faces, collaboratively holding the large card out in front. </b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>I could not stop smiling. My day turned from a lovely day to an extraordinarily perfect day. I gave them all hugs and thanked them individually for making the card and surprising me, but I couldn't even begin to express the happiness in my heart. The only reason the tears didn't run down my face is because the sunshine bursting from within caused the tears to evaporate before they could fully form, and left a rainbow in their place. </b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>What I wish I had said to them:</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b><i>Thank you for giving me the privilege to be part of your lives. You have all taught me so much. Thank you. Thank you. </i></b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><i style="color: #0c343d;">Thank you. </i></b> </div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-17353201138742885372011-03-14T11:31:00.000-04:002011-03-14T11:31:26.978-04:00Librarians: Check It Out<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>Sometimes I wish I were a sassier librarian.</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>Being the youngest on staff and also being female seems to imply that every lonely guy wandering through thinks he's being original by hitting on me. To be honest, sometimes it's funny— the best 'pick-up' line recently was this guy who gave me the eye-over and then asked with a laugh, "Hey, are you Mother Nature or sumptin?" I wasn't sure how to take it so I looked him in the eye and gave a curt, "No." Unphased, he laughed again and remarked, "Aw man, I was hopin' I'd get to ask you about the weather!" </b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b><i>Screeeeeet.</i> Wait a second, back that up. You were hoping you'd get to ask me about the <i>weather?</i></b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>...What?</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>I can't even begin to describe the seemingly countless men who have sauntered up to the desk and asked me, "Where can I find this book?" only for me to lead them into the isolation of the stacks where they proceed to get increasingly sketch. Sometimes they'll start off with what I like to call the <i>availability questions</i>:</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>"How long you worked here, beautiful?"</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>"You married? No? A'ight!"</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>"How old are you?" </b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>Other times they'll jump straight to the point:</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>"Can I get your number, girl? Forget about the book, I just needed an excuse to get you alone!"</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>“You wanna, you know, go somewhere?”</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>Or, one of my all-time favorites: "Roses are red, violets are blue, angels are perfect and so are you. How ‘bout a hug, dear?"</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>The directness can either result in extreme awkwardness or immediate shutdown, depending on how confident or patient I'm feeling on any given day. My inner voice is shouting, "I'm working here, and not a street corner, so get the hell out of my bubble!" But I am too introverted to give in to the temptations of these outbursts, and would probably find myself blushing with embarrassment and tripping over my words if I even tried. Besides, anger only spreads anger, and I'm sure that if I negatively shut down some hopeful guy there’s a good chance he’d spread that negativity to the next lady he came across. Yes, my feminist side dies a little every time I have to ignore a crude comment. Fortunately, I have a very active imagination which I use to pretend I’m a taser-wielding, crotch-kicking, badass dreaded librarian who rides around on a motorcycle tracking down perverted men to obtain revenge for their womanizing deeds. Ok, yes: basically I imagine myself as a dreadlocked version of Lisbeth Salander from the Steig Larson trilogy. <span> </span>Hey, a girl can dream.</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>I know the whole “sexy librarian” fetish may be an explanation for some of this behavior, but I honestly don’t understand how a gnarly headed girl in corduroy pants and lumpy wool sweaters can act as a magnet for so many men. There are a number of guys who visit on a near daily basis just so they can “see my smiling face.”<span> </span>There are others who stare at me and try to start conversations and then awkwardly stumble away mumbling to themselves.<span> And then there are the guys who are interested, but will vocalize aspects of myself that should change to better fit their fantasies or preferences. </span>I find one visitor particularly entertaining—he’s a big biker dude with tattoos crawling up his neck from below the collar of his t-shirt, with a pitted nose that looks like it’s taken a few too many punches. Not necessarily a bad looking guy, but he definitely has a good 30 years of age on me.<span> </span>Anyway, he comes in regularly to read the paper and look at hot biker chicks on the internet, and about once a week he’ll make the same comment to me:</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>“I don’t get that hair of yours. I have this girl, looks just like you but without that hair. She could be a model if she wanted to. But with that hair… I just don’t get it.” Then he’ll launch into some variation of the same lecture about what makes a woman beautiful and how a woman should look and act if they want a guy to pick them up. Somewhere, a ‘subtle’ hint will be dropped that I should get rid of the hideous deformity covering my scalp or I’ll end up an ugly spinster.</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>Thanks, buddy. Unfortunately for you, I’m not interested in what supposedly makes a woman beautiful in your perspective.<span> </span>I can do whatever I want to my hair and no amount of influence from you will convince me otherwise. Besides, it's presumptuous on many levels to assume I'm looking for male attention.</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>Then there’s the guy who comes in several times a week and will loiter around my office or the Reference Desk waiting to tell me his latest stories. He always manages to slip in some comment about me ‘being his girlfriend,’ and I’ve given up trying to correct these delusions because it only launches him into a frenzied monologue about how he wants to take my boyfriend into the wrestling ring and fight for my undying love. That might be considered chivalrous to some damsels in distress, but not this dreaded librarian.</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>Working at a public library has forced me into some exceptionally awkward situations, but over the past 18 months I’ve learned a lot of life lessons that explain a lot of classic “stern librarian” behavior:</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span>1.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Don’t smile very often—it only encourages romantic delusions.</b></div><div style="color: #660000; margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span>2.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Do not engage in ‘normal’ conversation. This means asking no questions other than those related to library services, maintaining persistent and (hopefully) intimidating eye contact to dissuade creepy behavior<span> </span>(the whole “I’m watching you sternly over the top of my spectacles” thing), and attempting to “shush” people into silence when they start awkwardly asking personal questions (<i>Excuse me sir, you’re being too loud. Sorry, but this is a library</i>).</b></div><div style="color: #660000; margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span>3.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Wear lumpy, shapeless sweaters even in the summer time to hide any suggestion of feminine form. </b></div><div style="color: #660000; margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>Yes, sometimes I wish I was a sassier librarian, one who would stand my ground and shut down interested individuals in a Lisbeth Salander kind of way. However, doing so would probably result in the loss of my job. For now, I’ll just have to make due with lumpy sweaters and stern glances over my plastic-rimmed glasses.</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>Despite the potential judgmental (and overly stereotypically heterosexual) nature of this blog entry, I intend it to be humorous and hopefully non-offensive. Additionally, I would like to conclude with a giant kudos to all these gentlemen who, of all places, choose the public library to try and pick up girls. To me, it implies that they are seeking intelligence and potential nerdiness above superficial characteristics, which is rather flattering. Perhaps that is a personal delusion of sorts, but I like to occasionally give in to the benefits of doubt. </b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #660000; text-align: justify;"><b>So to all of my gentlemen admirers-- stay classy, and best of luck finding a nerdy partner. Now please leave me alone!</b></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-37211257439385161642011-03-07T11:41:00.001-05:002011-03-07T11:42:20.547-05:00Spring Spirits<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>No dreaded librarian’s life is complete without a constant thirst for self-education. I spend all day surrounded by thousands of books housing infinite answers to the obscurest reference inquiries imaginable. I love it.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>About a year ago my partner stumbled across a fabulous find: a book by the name of “Wild Fermentation,” which both of us had been eying enviously for quite some time. My partner liked the idea of doing some home brewing, and I like the idea of using wild edibles as the basis of these creations. Spring was bursting through the urban seams of this derelict city, so we took a stroll through the neighborhood collecting fresh dandelion blooms from cracked parking lots, newly turned community gardens, sidewalks, and tenant building yards. Following a recipe from the book, we assembled the makings of a fruity dandelion, apricot and honey wine and set it to rest in our closet. It was an easy wine with a 3 month fermentation period followed by 6 months of aging; quick results that we looked forward to enjoying in the depths of winter as a hopeful reminder of spring! </b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>Life at the library continued for nearly a year, with a very snowy winter pounding us with <i>real Maine storms </i><span style="color: #4c1130;">every week until the snowbanks I walk by each morning were taller than my shoulder. I frequently thought of Ray Bradbury’s story in which he refers to dandelion wine as </span></b><b style="color: #4c1130;"><i>liquid sunshine.</i> After a long, cold day at work, a little liquid sunshine sounded like the perfect stress remedy. I imagined opening the fermentation bucket and smelling aromas of fresh grass and nectar. Over and over I tried to imagine what that first sip would be like—would the apricots burst across my palette? Would it taste like dandelions blossoming on my tongue? </b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>And then one night it happened, quite by chance. We had invited some friends over to help us with our second brewing experiment (beer this time), and as we went to place the second fermentation bucket in the closet, we saw the intentionally neglected, dusty top of the dandelion wine. It had been in there for quite some time (we never siphoned it into bottles because during the fermentation period the closet got too hot and the yeast died, so we had to add more). Our frustrations over our first fermentation experiment had grown: no matter what we did or how long we waited, the hydrometer reading never changed, suggesting that the little yeast babies were not converting all that delicious honey into alcohol. However, with a kitchen full of friends excited about our success with the beer making, we decided to open the dandelion wine barrel and see what we had created.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>The lid was pried off and we all leaned a little closer to catch that first aroma—I closed my eyes in anticipation of pleasant perfumes, and imagined tiny green spikes of grass pushing through brown earth in raw sunshine. Suddenly, my friend jumped back from the bucket, sputtering with watery eyes. Everyone else groaned a little or emitted shocked expressions. I soon understood. It smelled like we had made moonshine. Rather, it smelled like we had mixed moonshine with decomposing fruit and stirred in a hefty helping of bread dough. We dished out small portions to everyone and took the first taste with mixed reactions. I knew for certain that the hydrometer reading was meaningless, because regardless of what this was, it was <i>definitely</i></b> <b>alcoholic!</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>No wine is complete without a ridiculous description to accompany it. I am a huge fan of wine bottle descriptions: the more ridiculous, the more likely I am to buy it. I know that my personal palette will not be able to tell the difference between “subtle tobacco flavors” and “oak barrel tannins,” so my judgment of the descriptions is based loosely on my warped sense of humor. I must say, even though our wine tasted particularly awful, I felt ever so much more inclined to drink it after finishing the draft of our description:</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b><i>"Imagine a crisp autumn day in New England picking Granny Smith apples from the orchard. The afternoon sun shines through and BAM, you’re suddenly drinking LIQUID SUNSHINE. Fresh plucked dandelions from Blake Street Garden form the foundation of this crisp wine, with aromas of apples and warm compost. The flavors of fruity bourbon squeezed from the utters of God are best enjoyed in ill-lit kitchens with friends. If the taste doesn’t entice you, the practicality will: you can disinfect a wound with this shit.”</i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; text-align: justify;"><b>Who isn't enticed by the idea of sipping fruity bourbon squeezed from the utters of God? Ok, ok, perhaps our first fermentation experiment was a failure, but above all it was a learning experience: what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. </b></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-83835638169696304232011-03-04T11:57:00.004-05:002011-05-16T22:10:40.718-04:00Knotty Behavior<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The town I work and live in is a mess of mysteries. Industry has blossomed and vanished, leaving an empty feeling around the ghostly remains of the abandoned textile mills. Downtown businesses enjoyed a period of steady growth, but started closing their doors and skipping out once the money stopped rolling in. Enormous brick buildings, once filled with a cacophony of whirling machinery powered by the river through a series of canals, now loom as a depressing backdrop. Broken windows stand out like missing teeth in the skeletal remains. </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Every few decades a mill will go up in flames, and the whole city will gather to watch it burn, saddened by the disappearance of another part of their past. Yet after the smoke clears they still see the building standing there amidst the rubble, a phantom memory that haunts them eternally. Nothing ever truly vanishes.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>A ghost town</i>, you might say. </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>A ghost town is what I was looking for. </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>I am, after all, the Dreaded Librarian. It’s informally written into my title to seek out crime and stop it dread—I mean <i>dead</i>—in its tracks, and there’s no better place to hunt for such <i>dreadful</i> behavior than ghost towns. It’s easy for crime to disappear into the shadows, but at some point or another most everyone is going to pass through the public library. People need their public computer porn, tax forms, bathrooms, and books on topics ranging from hand gun sales to backyard barbecue. No right-minded criminal is going to jump into action without doing their research first. So in my unassuming role as Teen Librarian, I have the ultimate cover: not only do I have access to free, unlimited books and databases for my crime-fighting research, but I can also keep an eye out for the lawless characters attempting to blend in with the masses. If I had my way, I’d get them all <i>locked</i> <i>up</i> for good. </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Enough with the dreadlock puns. It’s just hard to resist when they become such a permanent feature and integral asset to my dual personality: the edgy but innocent librarian versus the focused bloodhound. One time while pursuing a complicated drug trafficking scandal I managed to fly undercover as the “Rasta,” gaining entry into increasingly smaller concentric circles of the PSDC (Pine Street Drug Chain) until I found myself in the same room as the infamous Rad, a well known pimp and ringleader among the group. That’s one case I shouldn’t have been involved with. The rest of the gang had gone out for a beer run when he found the false lens in my eyeglasses that transmitted video footage via secure wireless connection to my vamped up laptop. Shit hit the fan, hard. Rad picked up a vodka bottle by the neck (Orloff, I believe) and smashed it against the doorframe. The bottom half of the bottle dissolved into glass splinters that sparked through the room in snowy incandescence. The jagged neck remained firmly in his grasp as he descended upon me. </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>I’ve had dreadlocks for over 3 years now, and by this point they reach more than halfway down my back. I ran into trouble back when I got into swing dance and I ended up smacking my partner in the face with a heavy load of hair every time he gave me a spin. That was back when I had baby dreads—they barely reached my shoulders. These days, my 60 dreadlocks are more deadly, loaded with a combination of wooden and glass beads, copper wire, and even a twisted silver spoon handle. If someone were to spin me now without allowing me to first adequately restrain my hair in a series of complicated knots that even Boy Scouts would be proud of, then they’d be in for one hell of a knock-out experience.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>As Rad lurched towards me, ragged bottle neck extended, I launched into action. Years of chopping wood on my family’s rural Maine farm have bulked up my arms enough that I can usually fend for myself against moderately sized felons. However, Rad was well over 6 feet tall and incredibly angry. I could practically see the adrenaline seeping from his skin. I knew I couldn’t by any means get out of there alive using mere brute force, so I switched tactics and went into defense mode. I needed him to get a bit closer before I reacted, so I began retreating until my back was eight inches from the wall. </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The bottle neck was three feet from my face, two feet, and then Rad swept his arm out to the right in anticipation of the delivery of a grizzly blow and stepped in closer. I took the tiny opening he provided while the bottle neck was extended to the side and quickly spun on my heel. My heavy hair arched in a swirling circle and made impact across the lower portion of Rad’s face. The move had the desired effect—he recoiled in pain, having just been whipped forcefully in the face by 60 dreadlocks and losing a tooth thanks to the silver spoon handle. He began dropping to his knees as I completed my circuit, and a few rogue dreads found themselves tangled in the jaws of the bottle still held in his hand. I felt a tug and then realized that one of them had been sliced clean through. I followed my spin with a quick kick to his right hand that sent the remainder of the bottle flying until it crashed and splintered upon impact with the floor, then circled back with a side kick that hit Rad at the shoulder with enough force to knock him sideways, but not seriously injure him. I grabbed the severed dreadlock from where it lay on the floor and used it to tie his hands behind his back before picking up my ancient flip-phone and dialing my friends at the Police Department. </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“You’re <i>where</i>?” Officer Labreck asked.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“You heard me. I’m at the PSDC Headquarters with video footage of their latest operations from the last 6 months, and I’ve got Rad. He’s tied up, but you should send back-up before his crew gets back from their beer run.” My cell phone was started to beep at me. I quickly looked at the screen. The library was calling. <i>Shit, it’s already 3pm</i>.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“Copy that. Ladd, you’ve got a lot to explain. Once again, I have no idea how you did it.”</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“I’ll tell you the whole story later, Labreck, but I’ve got to get back to the library. The kids will be arriving soon for afterschool. We can grab a brew at the Blue Moose after I get off work, say 8pm?”</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“I’ll be there.”</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“Oh yeah, one more thing,” I added quickly. “Rad is tied up with a personal belonging. I’d like to make sure I get it back.”</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“A personal belonging? Like your belt?”</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“Not exactly. You’ll see. Just make sure I get it back, ok?” As I spoke, I reached up to finger the stubby remains of the severed dreadlock. <i>I’ll try to sew it back on tomorrow. </i></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“Copy that. See you at 8.” </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Rad stared up at me from his place on the floor with such contempt that I almost felt sorry for him. The shattered remains of the vodka bottle looked like snow on the hardwood floor. </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>I found a book at the library once that said human hair is one of the strongest natural fibers in the world, and I don’t doubt it. In this case, it proved stronger than my muscles would have been, so I’m not exaggerating when I say that my dreadlocks are one of my strongest assets in my role as the Dreaded Librarian. I remember walking out of the ragged headquarters on Pine Street, stepping over Rad, now in handcuffs, and having a final, entertaining thought to conclude my day’s adventure:</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>I could beat Willow Smith in a hair whipping competition any day.</i></b></span></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-55414478391583681042011-03-03T11:34:00.004-05:002011-03-07T11:46:24.811-05:00Holy Marijuana!<div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>While working on the Reference Desk, I have come to accept and even look forward to offbeat and outlandish requests. In college, I worked for a time as a bank teller, and the repetitive nature of basic transactions became monotonous-- deposits, withdrawals, and account balances were about the extent of my day, with the exception of one or two "Cruella de Vil" customers who raised a ruckus about identification or money swindling on every possible occasion. In contrast, working at the Reference Desk has provided me with ample opportunities to learn about the most random trivia through varied research for individuals. One of my favorite patrons is a middle age gentlemen who sports pink miniskirts and long, frazzled hair and always dishes out fashion compliments with his research requests.</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>"Don't you look nice today! Can you tell me what the biggest tree in the world is, and where I can find it? That's such a lovely scarf you're wearing. Hey, what's the longest scarf that's ever been made? What was it made out of? Was it knitted or woven?"</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>And off I go on research quests pertaining to the longest bridge or limousine, the heaviest pumpkin or tallest tree (I even learned, to my surprise, that a tiny town in New Zealand boasts the "World's Largest Sweater." Apparently it took a man 25 years to invent a machine specifically designed to knit a sweater the size of a wall in a large warehouse. Who knew?).</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>But the strangest request of all came from a rather unassuming woman in her late 30's wearing a beige sweater with enough pills and cat hair on it to almost be chic in a hipster sort of way. She had a vacant look about her that reminded me of those grainy photographs from the 1960's portraying groups of swaying hippies at folk festivals, with dark moons under her eyes and a few extra pounds around her middle. She shuffled through the bookstacks for a good thirty minutes, then sat staring at a blank computer screen for another thirty minutes before creeping up to the Reference Desk with a sudden and maniacal glint in her otherwise expressionless eyes. She stared at me with ferocity. </b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>My "Good afternoon, how may I help you?" was met with a blank stare. <i>Ok</i>, I thought as she stared, unblinking, into my eyes.<i> This is a bit strange</i>. <i>Still, nothing I haven't dealt with before.</i> "Did you want to use a computer?" I asked with a smile. Again, nothing but an unblinking stare, and then a hushed, "<i>No,</i>" quiet as a whisper. "Can I help you find a book?" Without breaking her eerie eye contact she again replied, "<i>No.</i>" I decided to try one last approach and asked, "Is there anything else I can help you with, ma'am? Anything at all?" But for a third time I received a simple, "<i>No,</i>" before she turned on her heel and began walking away, finally breaking her relentless stare and retreating like a zombie from a low-budget horror film. I turned to my coworker on the desk who raised her eyebrows in sympathy before both of us set back to work.</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>To my surprise, I suddenly heard an enthusiastic, "<i>YES!</i>" from across the room and glanced up to see the expressionless woman with the beige sweater marching back to the desk, eyes wide. "Yes, you must help me. I need your help!" I silently put my index finger to my lips to imply she was being too loud before calmly asking, "How may I help you?" I was expecting either a request to use a public computer, or maybe an odd personal research request for tattoos or witchcraft books. Heck, I wouldn't have been surprised if she had asked for an application to Hogwarts to meet Harry Potter. Instead, the request she blurted out (none too quietly, I might add) caused our roles to reverse in terms of vacant stares. I could not help put gape in awkward confusion when she launched into her story. Our conversation went something like this:</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>"You need to help me! I need your help! It's essential that we get it back-- the police <i>stole</i> it from us!"</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>"Sorry, I don't understand."</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>"They stole it from us, the police! It was in the church, and we need it back or else we're all going to suffer! Satan will know it's gone and he'll come for us if we don't get it back. I need you to help me. I need you to call the police and tell them to give it back!"</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>"I'm not sure I understand. Get <i>what</i> back?"</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>"THE HOLY MARIJUANA! The police STOLE IT FROM THE CHURCH! We need to GET THE HOLY MARIJUANA BACK! You need to help me! If the holy marijuana is gone from the church then Satan will know where to find us. He MIGHT BE COMING ALREADY!"</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b>I must have been in shock because I forgot to do my librarian "<i>shush</i>" thing despite the fact that she was yelling about "holy marijuana" in a public library and causing lots of perturbed stares from other patrons. Fortunately, my boss heard the hubbub, noticed my vacantly shocked expression, and came to the rescue. Between the two of us, it took at least another five minutes to convince the screaming woman with the beige sweater that we knew nothing about her holy marijuana, nor could we call the police and demand that they return it. She did not relinquish any more details, and eventually retreated back into her (presumably) drug-induced glaze without any further requests. I could not help but imagine a low-budget zombie character limping off through the bookstacks into an illusion of graveyard fog on a personal crusade for the holy marijuana, never to be seen or heard from again.</b></div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="color: #0c343d;">By far the strangest request I have experienced yet. </b></div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4213516182141672824.post-11417622752620231222011-03-02T14:27:00.001-05:002011-03-02T17:49:23.594-05:00How Things Came to Be This Way<div style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="background-color: transparent;">Having recently been given a copy of the book "Ishmael" by Daniel Quinn, I have since been pondering the reiterating philosophy explored in the book questioning </span><i style="background-color: transparent;">how things came to be this way.</i><span style="background-color: transparent;"> Of course, Ishmael is speaking about the entirety of our planet Earth and the contrasting ideologies of the Leavers versus the Takers, and while this topic is fascinating it is far too expansive to explore today. Rather, I am contemplating </span><i style="background-color: transparent;">how things came to be this way</i><span style="background-color: transparent;"> in my own diminutive life. Here I am, a 23-soon-to-be-24-year-old Teen Services Coordinator at a fantastic and rather non-traditional library in a depressed Maine mill town. I have never taken an education or library class, barely know the difference between the 540's and the 720's of my pal Dewey's Decimal System, and despite being the teen librarian have never read "Catcher in the Rye," "The Chocolate War," or "Holes." </span></b></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; text-align: justify;"><b style="background-color: transparent;">On the surface, <i>how things came to be this way</i> is relatively simple: I graduated from a small New England liberal arts college with a degree in Environmental Studies and needed to pay off a bunch of student loans. The large public library in my college city was hiring a VISTA (Volunteers In Service To America) to help coordinate their teen programs in the absence of a tried and true teen librarian. I had a fairly solid knowledge of the community and had done both service learning and community work study with youth while in college and rather enjoyed it. I applied for the position despite fears that an "indoor job" would drive me mentally insane, was hired, and quickly became welcomed into the fantastic staff circle at the public library.</b><br />
<br />
<b style="background-color: transparent;">Despite the apparent simplicity in this explanation for <i>how things came to be this way,</i> there are always underlying stories. Stories of humor, stories of hardship; some are stories we come to believe as truths over time when reality becomes too surreal. Libraries are full of stories that I hope to explore through this online journal- and I'm not just talking about books! During the last 18 months I have been witness to some of the most unbelievable requests, found myself in the midst of full on fist-fights, tutored the most inspirational youth, started a range of programs for teens, and learned from subsequent failures and successes. With the end of my position quickly approaching in front of my very eyes, I decided that it would benefit my mental health (and hopefully create a few laughs along the way!) to start a blog of my experiences as the infamous Dreaded Librarian!</b> </div>Molly & Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10668856364624232608noreply@blogger.com0