As part of her wonderful and nurturing nature, Nikki often takes the kids to the library to get some books and foster some good old reading time. This well meaning pastime is something the kids really enjoy, and they often come home with a huge bag full of books for snuggle up story time. As anyone who has been to our house knows, our lives are busy and sometimes, through no fault of our own (well ok it’s technically ALL our fault) the books are misplaced and don’t quite make it back to the library on time, even though you can renew them online, which is a great idea. Anyway, for whatever reason we have at times forgotten to return a book or two.
Let’s keep in mind this is the public library, where kindly bespectacled cat-owning ladies meekly tend the stacks, shushing where appropriate, but in general these ladies are about as assertive as cooked spaghetti. Well all that goes out the window when you might have misplaced one of their charges, they drop the facade and become hardassed book mobsters, busting kneecaps with glee. The first hint is a strangely insistent letter listing the missing book, and ending with a chilling warning to return the book, or face greater consequences.
If you are new to this dangerous world of militant librarians, you might even ignore that letter. That would be a mistake. The very next thing they do, the very next thing, is to send a collection agency after you. A collection agency. For a $12 Robert Munsch book. Over-react much?
It’s the equivalent of a nuclear strike in response to a forgotten thank you.
Talk about touchy.
So, when I read this story about a lady who made the mistake of not returning a book and ending up in jail, I was not surprised at all….
She should count herself lucky, she could have been sporting a concrete cardigan at the bottom of the river.
When I was buying my car a few years ago, I had to go to the library and pay a $30 fine before I could get the car. Everything had gone through, then I received a call from the dealership that the bank wouldn’t approve the loan because I was in collections!!! I had to run to the collection agency, pay the loan, then go to Nepean City Hall, show proof that I had paid it, then back to the dealership to show them and they had to fax it to the bank!! The library is EVIL!
Here I go again, stalking your catalogue of blogs. I’m not even concerned about the fact that I’m awake, wasting time, and screwing around on facebook at nearly 1:00 a.m. I managed to get 10 hours of sleep last night; I’m good for a while now. I’m like a camel when it comes to sleep. Plus I’m struggling with a poem about mothers teaching their daughters to bake . . . there’s a lot of underlying Catholic guilt and sexual repression, the usual stuff. In any case, I don’t know where you find these stories. I swear I read the paper every day and yet I knew nothing of the grandmother who tried to sell her grandchild or the 62-foot Jesus statue. That’s freakin’ hilarious even without the part about the smiting.
Yet another of your blog entries (this one, in fact) has triggered a bizarre memory. I love libraries, always have. Rows of aging, dusty books are simply delicious to me. I have so many fond memories of libraries. While others were busy developing problem drinking during their university years, I was establishing and furnishing a favourite nook in the stacks. Poor air circulation, buzzing fluorescent lights, the quiet snoring of my nerdy compatriots . . . sweet nostalgia. I have, however, never liked librarians. I don’t like the seemingly sweet old ladies who get all snarky and self-righteous if you quite accidentally flout one of the borrowing regulations. I don’t like the doughy, condescending computer geek variety. I don’t like the middle-aged snooty ladies with British accents. Given my aversion to these social derelicts, the process of checking out books has often been a mildly unpleasant experience for me. The librarians always have one eye on the borrower, watching with suspicion as they scan those barcodes. Is this necessary; do a lot of hardened criminals strike at the library?
One day several years ago I approached the circulation desk with a stack of 10 or so books on literary criticism and post-colonial Canadian literature (already a clue that I’m just the kind of miscreant these library sharks are hired to capture . . . ). The scanner began beeping frantically. I assumed there was a problem with the equipment, as did the new, not-yet-crusty librarian. Puzzled by the message on the computer screen, we both waited for assistance, which came in the form of the aforementioned bespectacled Brit. She asked me to please follow her to the security office. Stunned, I gathered my books and made my way to a tiny, dimly lit room that contained two men in security uniforms. This is, after all, an institution filled with worn-out books that you’re allowed to take free of charge . . . I can see why such hard-ass fortification is necessary . . . Anyway, I was drilled by the proverbial bad cop: What was my maiden name? How long had I lived in Winnipeg? Had I ever held a library account in any other Canadian city?
The inquisition went on for several minutes before it was finally revealed that a letter had arrived from Ottawa indicating that I (when I was Paula Morphy) had borrowed and not returned a book from the Ottawa Public Library (apparently there is a lot of inter-provincial underground espionage going on). Just to underscore the gravity of the situation, the good cop let me know the staggering fee that would be levied against me were they to enforce the daily overdue rate. Becoming mildly concerned, I asked whether I did in fact owe $1,086 (or something close to that amount); no, it turns out they charge the price of the book if your fee is more than $20. Oh. So I forked over the $21.95 and was free to go. But I suspect that pinned on the wall of every security office in every Canadian library branch is a mug shot of me as well as a list of my former residences and aliases. The entire event was delightfully absurd.
The most embarrassing part of the whole sordid story is the name of the book in question: Guerilla Dating Tactics. I swear I did not take out this book. Jason and I had been dating for about a year at this point, so I didn’t even require new knowledge of any dating tactics whatsoever, especially the guerilla variety. I’ve never done anything remotely guerilla-style in my entire life. No, this book was borrowed and then lost by my former roommate who had apparently used my card, which acted as a community card since not one of them seemed to be capable of obtaining her own; or maybe they had such questionable histories that none of them qualified for such an esteemed privilege.
I promise to stop posting these ridiculously long responses to your ramblings. It’s late. I should attempt sleep.
cheers.
My god Paula. Don’t stop. I’m going highlight these gems on the front page, because the tragedy will be if nobody finds these comments on old posts. Your comments are better than my blog posts, by far.
Oh, man, you guys should take your act on the road! What a team you make!