I try not to stereotype people, but this time I have no choice. My librarian is a bitch. I spend a lot of time at the library. Not because I choose to, but because the Internet connection in my home is essentially non-existent. That means that all signals from towers or satellites get sucked into a big, gaping abyss that exists somewhere in or around my house. It’s true.
Consequently, I end up at the library to write on a pretty regular basis. If a reading room is available, I grab it. They’re small, cozy and soundproof. You’d be surprised at all the noise in libraries these days. If I haul in my big purse, I can also sneak in a water bottle and a few snacks.
Most of the women at my library fit the bill of the typical librarian: female, middle-aged, gray hair and personalities that are a mix of strictness, excess fastidiousness, and a punitive, slightly eccentric nature. One in particular takes this description to the extreme. She’s always sitting sternly at the information desk where I need to sign into a three-ringed binder to gain access to the reading room. I’ve never seen her at the circulation desk, most likely because even her colleagues feel the need to stay away from her.
She never lets me enter my own information in the sign-in book. She has to enter it and, of course, I have to spell my name each time although I’m certain she knows it by now. Once she was on a phone call and, to expedite matters, I thought I’d just sign in myself. She slammed her hand down on the book and yanked it in front of her before I could put pen to paper. After she hung up the phone, she reprimanded me and said I was never to sign myself in as I might report the wrong time. Does she think I can’t tell time? There’s a huge round clock perched above her desk. I pointed to it and said, “Well, that’s one big clock there that tells me the library time.” She scowled. It’s gotten to the point where I like to do things just to see her squirm.
Anyway, we walked over to reading room Number One. She unlocked the door and then must have spied the water bottle in my open purse. I suddenly realized my mistake when she said “Oh, if you want to use this room, your water bottle must be taken out of the library.”
I lied and said. “I’m not going to drink it.” “All water bottles must be taken out of the library. They’re a hazard,” she warned. I hate her scowling face. I just want to slap it but she might actually like that. Sick, I know. I hate her sensible black shoes and long dark skirts. I hate that she regards me as an annoyance. I’m certain she’s only there because she loves books not people.
If the kids have a day off from school, she’s in her glory. She lives to scold children and the teenagers don’t stand a chance. I’m sure this bespectacled woman has her good attributes but I’ve yet to find a single one. Until then, I’ll just continue to find ways to annoy her.
