"I would be really concerned if I came in here one day and you were bald." I wasn't sure what this patron had said to me. "If I were what?" "Bald." There followed a longish silence during which I opened and closed my mouth a couple times, like a fish on a riverbank that's stopped flopping, having given up on finding the water again. I checked out her book, the new Jonathan Kellerman. "But maybe by then they'll have found a cure," she said as she turned away.
Mr. Peeps was back today after an absence of at least three weeks. He wasn't missed, but no one had forgotten his red mustachioed face and the pastel polo shirt draped over the beer belly like a hanky over a balloon. Perhaps I least welcomed his return, but for different reasons than my coworkers: He was horning in on my territory. Oh, the tits I see every day! Oh, but the teenage girls I'm not allowed to even think about in the way their clothing wants me to! Do they have any idea, or are they just wearing what Cosmo Girl tells them to? Does Cosmo Girl tell them that it's not love boys (and men) are thinking of when they see cleavage and coin slots? I saw a girl in there yesterday, who couldn't have been but ten--eleven, tops--wearing lipstick and blue eyeshadow. Her breasts were just buds; you don't know how glad I was that she wasn't trying to showcase them in a halter or scooped neckline. What was scariest was how expertly the makeup had been applied; this was a mother's touch.
But I have no qualms looking at the moms, though it's all I can do to make eye contact. When they're fishing for their cards, looking down their cavernous purses, I scan their chests for cleavage and incorrigible nipples and sneak a peek under their raised elbows for underarm stubble. A hit on any of these is liable to make my sphincter drop to make way for the blood flood. It's only been luck that I haven't bonered on the desk. I'm grateful for the walk in the woods after work, but my poor dick has been practically grated in the name of sexual relief. Yesterday, I'd just left my bike in the woods and started down the ped path, not feeling like stumbling over roots and swatting gnats from my face just yet, when I felt the puddle in my pants. My underwear had tightened around my crotch during the ride and pretty much roasted my nuts. I reached in there to squeegee the sweat off and peel them from my thighs as I turned a bend. About fifty feet away was a woman coming in my direction. Reflexively, I yanked my hand from my pants but didn't break stride. I knew immediately that the best way to play this was with no embarassment, which was easy, since the stronger emotion was sexual. I smiled, looked her in the eye (after glancing unashamedly at her very large tits), and said, "Hi!" She did the same (except for the tits part), though her smile seemed a bit higher on one side than the other, counterbalancing the tilt of her head. Our looks didn't linger beyond the greetings, nor did our strides slow. It wasn't until I nearly walked into the fat chocolate lab stumping along faithfully that I realized we'd exchanged greetings the day before as I was locking my bike. The dog looked up at me with eyes that seemed to have its owner's glint. I took one more peek behind me to assess her ass when she turned to call the dog, "C'mon, Brodie," and caught me. I did not glance away but met her eye. She smiled. I smiled back. Her ass was worth the look. I definitely had to go in the woods now. I was in my pants as soon as I was off the paved path. Imagining that ass rippling as I pounded it, my fists full of it, tits slapping her face, I shot a wad-and-a-half into the strawberry bushes. Ah, poor dick.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Friday, July 14, 2006
Neither Complaining Nor Doing a Damned Thing About It
The weather's been torrid and just getting torrider. We had a storm that flooded The Ditch into the street last Wednesday, then three days of perfect, clear-blue, breezy, cool days. Now everything's in the 90's and next week the temperature's supposed to take the lead over the humidity by Tuesday. And I have yet to crank the A/C. I'm not going to, either. I've got the windows wide, the blinds down, and the tower fan continually blowing against me. The thermostat says it's over eighty in here, but I'm not concerned or bemused. On the contrary, I feel it's doing me an immense good. It may be hot outside, but not so much so as if I were stepping out of dry cool aire into it. Tina upstairs can take up my slack for the power company's sake, but they're not getting it out of me. Now I'm wondering if a couple of space heaters might do the corresponding trick in the winter. Hmm.
Friday, July 7, 2006
Hoop Nightmare
Got the job--of course--finally--but only after some excruciating weeks of pas de deux masquerade with Tara. I was feeling resentful that I had to interview for a job promised me, but I couldn't confide that to Tara and poison my reputation as an even-keel kind of guy, yet she felt free to needle me. A minor mistake from me might elicit a "That's going to cost you" or a "I thought you wanted to work here." Of course it was good-natured and I smiled and laughed on cue, but I was seething with inflamed pride over this bureaucratic circus and its whip stinging my ass to force me through another hoop. By the time I finally got The Call the catharsis I'd hoped for had dissipated in a slow burn.
The interview was as awkward as it could have been. I still had to dress up, and I was no less nervous, because Tara had been so good at not letting on to anyone else that the job was already mine that I began to doubt it myself.
Tara assigned the interviewees a writing assignment, to come up with an idea for improving customer service, and I wasn't exempt from that, either. Mine here probably shows some of my anger, but I tried to channel that into a passionate sincerity regarding the subject (i.e, it ain't lip service).
She hasn't told me what she thought of it, but I'm betting it's a bit outside her expectations, for better or worse.
The interview was as awkward as it could have been. I still had to dress up, and I was no less nervous, because Tara had been so good at not letting on to anyone else that the job was already mine that I began to doubt it myself.
Tara assigned the interviewees a writing assignment, to come up with an idea for improving customer service, and I wasn't exempt from that, either. Mine here probably shows some of my anger, but I tried to channel that into a passionate sincerity regarding the subject (i.e, it ain't lip service).
The best thing we can do for our patrons is to demonstrate a good attitude toward serving them. Our service is not a privilege extended to our patrons; their patronage is the privilege extended to us. We work for them; we're paid by them; we wouldn't have these jobs without them. Every aspect of our work should be performed with the patrons' best interest at heart. Every service the library provides should be given without hesitation, complaint, or expectation of gratitude.
It's not the patrons' duty to continue patronage; it's the library's duty to make them welcome. A job worth doing is a job worth caring about. When we care, we aren't discharging just to clear the bookdrops, shelving just to clear the carts, or checking out just to get the patron out the door. We are doing these things to bring the patron back.
She hasn't told me what she thought of it, but I'm betting it's a bit outside her expectations, for better or worse.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Spunkprint
I found the Northwest Passage through the park woods--several, in fact--but it wasn't long before I began having reservations about the footprint I was leaving in the woods. Someone else was concerned, too. In various places along the trail obstacles had been placed: logs pulled from their trailside beds of leaves to cross the path; a small dead tree uprooted for the same purpose; even a live maple cat-skinned across the trail for the apparent purpose of dismounting a rider. I cursed this "activist" as I cleared the way, kicking away the debris and straightening the tree as best I could, but I began to worry what my pedals were shredding pathside and my tires crushing where I might veer off the trail, going to fast to steer adequately around sharp bends.
There is a bike rack in the park at the back end of the trail. One day, coming from work, I locked my bike up there and walked to the car. It rained the next two days, and I felt I'd abandoned the bike to the elements. It might have been the first night in its twenty years that it had been left out in the rain. But I did finally get back on it, arriving at work with a wet ass, and have not abandoned it since without covering the seat and handlebars with plastic bags. I'm enjoying my walks in the woods. I've met a couple of box turtles and a toad along the way that I might have run over if I'd been pedaling through. Often, during the walk to the car I stop in a secluded spot and masturbate. It must be the freedom to do it that excites me--out in the open air yet unseen. I like to think I'm giving a little something back to nature, too: Who knows how many mouthparts a little spunk will feed.
There is a bike rack in the park at the back end of the trail. One day, coming from work, I locked my bike up there and walked to the car. It rained the next two days, and I felt I'd abandoned the bike to the elements. It might have been the first night in its twenty years that it had been left out in the rain. But I did finally get back on it, arriving at work with a wet ass, and have not abandoned it since without covering the seat and handlebars with plastic bags. I'm enjoying my walks in the woods. I've met a couple of box turtles and a toad along the way that I might have run over if I'd been pedaling through. Often, during the walk to the car I stop in a secluded spot and masturbate. It must be the freedom to do it that excites me--out in the open air yet unseen. I like to think I'm giving a little something back to nature, too: Who knows how many mouthparts a little spunk will feed.
Tuesday, June 6, 2006
Pump Rock
Mr. Peeps hasn't been in in a few weeks. He's missed a lot. The weather, per usual, skipped the rest of spring and leapt right into the hot, humid summer, and the skin-to-clothing ratio has flipped decidedly to the skin side. It's all I can do to not chase the skin around the library Harpo-style, reaching through the stacks to unknot a halter. God, Tara wore a cute, flouncy dress with a low, square-cut neckline last week, and a few times I worried about the integrity of my zipper. She'd bend over the bookbin while she talked to me, looking up now and then to make eye contact (being one of those people that has to do that), and of course it was all I could do to not look, or be discrete when I did. It was like firing a machine gun through a whirring propeller: If my timing was off just a bit I was a dead man.
I can't wait till I can date again. Only money has stopped me. The job hasn't posted yet, so it'll be late July before I see a boost in pay. I don't know how I'll do it, but I have to get laid soon. It's been over a year since I had any, and that was just luck. It was when I wasn't getting as many hours as I am now and leaving around two most days. I'd gone out the back door, of course. At the bookdrop was one of those cars Crocodile Dundee used to advertise, only it was several feet across from the drop. Somebody called, "Excuse me," from the car. I was already walking that way toward my car; I stopped at the window the voice had come out of. In comparative age, she was a girl, and probably wouldn't have minded being referred to that way--mid-twenties, I guess--with straight dark brown hair. Ample breasts, too, which I could see most of down a t-shirt whose collar was torn into a v-neck. She had two CD's, and held them out toward me. "Do you guys take donations?" "Yeah, but not CD's, I'm afraid." Her eyes were almost white-blue, whatever that is, and the left one, the one I looked into, had a tiny black dot near the outside edge of the iris.
She was disappointed. "It's my ex-boyfriend's stuff. I won't listen to it. Besides, it's his." Her short jean skirt didn't cover much of her lap. The sun slanting across her thigh lit up fine, never-shaved fuzz.
"What is it? I might like it." She handed me Punk-O-Rama 8 and Warped Tour 2003. "Never heard it, but I'm game." I grinned and looked at her. She was smiling. I guess she could have just driven off, but she let me say, "I hope you dumped him, not the other way around."
"No."
"Oh, what an idiot! He must've felt inadequate or something. You have to be better off."
"Oh, I am. No big loss." We were just looking at each other when she said, "You doing anything? You wanna do something?"
When I said, "Sure," I tried to sound like a cup of coffee meant a cup of coffee. I got in her car.
Her place was right around the corner, in one of those singles complexes. It wasn't messy so much as lived in, comfortable. She didn't apologize for the blanket on the sofa or the dishes in the sink. I didn't see a book, much less a bookcase. I expected a cat, but couldn't even smell one and didn't see any fur on the carpet or furniture.
"Would you like a beer? I don't want it. It's his, too."
"I will help you erase his memory in any way I can. It is my duty to drink his beer. It's what any knight would do for his lady." It was a bit thick, but she laughed, thank God, a sharp explosion from her diaphragm. I was afraid I'd told her I'd rescue her.
From that point there wasn't much talk between us. We skipped the life stories and kissed. Instant erection. It had been much, much longer than a year for me. The rest of my body relaxed until I couldn't tell where I left off and she began. I rubbed her arms lightly and slowly; she slipped her hands under my shirt where they crawled over my stomach. I did the same for her. I expected a little pooch of a belly, but there was little to grab--until I dislodged her bra and her breasts spilled over my hands, her nipples catching on the callouses at the bottom of my fingers.
She found my penis and released it from my pants. I lifted her shirt and bra off her. Her eyes glinted through slits. I wanted to kiss her but her head dropped into my lap. I hardly needed it, yet all she did was kiss it, on the very tip. It jumped and she giggled. She tried to squeeze it in her fist, but, "You're so hard!" She kissed it again and slid it into her mouth. Boy, if I didn't blow right then and cleft her palate.... I grabbed a buttock, slid a finger slowly down the cleft, and rimmed her anus. She moaned and distended it. I leaned toward it, saw it shining purple, gorged with blood. I pressed down on it and it opened like a flower and swallowed the tip of my finger. She shoved back on it, sending it deeper, meanwhile still tickling her uvula with my dick. In my fascination with her eating anus, I hardly felt what she was doing on my end beyond the throbbing against her toungue.
She came up off my penis dripping saliva, grabbed the back of my head and shot her tongue down my throat. I swallowed the spit and grabbed back. Hair was everywhere. I wanted to eat her, kiss her netherlips, slap her clitoris, but she'd already straddled me. She shoved her groin against mine kissing my shaft with her outer labia. My finger was still gladly trapped in her asshole. Clutching the back of the sofa on each side of my head, she pulled her lips to the top of my penis. My dick sprung outward on contact, and her pussy pounced on it. She did the work in that position, and I was in no position to complain, with a nipple in my mouth and two handfuls of ass.
Finally, I wrapped my arms around her and laid her down. I pulled away to lean on my hands and grinned in her grinning face. I teased her with a couple short slow strokes, then pulled out altogether. My penis glistened. She blew on it and it jumped. With my hand I found where it'd been and slid a couple fingers in and out, pulled upwards from the inside to spread her lips and ran my tongue from my fingers to her clit, exposing the little pearl and blowing on it. Her hips bucked but I didn't let up, rubbing, licking, kissing, sucking, blowing, till she clawed at my back trying to pull me into her. But I pulled away and gently turned her over. Then I went back inside. It couldn't have been wetter. She pushed her ass to the sky. I leaned over her back and bit her neck as I pounded several hard strokes. She tightened around me so hard I could barely pull back to shove in again. She shrieked softly into the cushion. I leaned away, shoved a finger in with my penis to get it wet, then slid it into her anus as far as it could go. She bucked and moaned. I began thrusting and thrusting with both rods. She grew tighter and louder, my groin began to glow with warmth, spreading into my thighs and abs, and I just exploded with a trembling roar over her screams.
For a long time afterwards we just laid together, spooned. We haven't seen each other again, though I know where she lives and she knows where I work. But we don't know each other's names. The CD's are good, though the punk's not really my thing.
I can't wait till I can date again. Only money has stopped me. The job hasn't posted yet, so it'll be late July before I see a boost in pay. I don't know how I'll do it, but I have to get laid soon. It's been over a year since I had any, and that was just luck. It was when I wasn't getting as many hours as I am now and leaving around two most days. I'd gone out the back door, of course. At the bookdrop was one of those cars Crocodile Dundee used to advertise, only it was several feet across from the drop. Somebody called, "Excuse me," from the car. I was already walking that way toward my car; I stopped at the window the voice had come out of. In comparative age, she was a girl, and probably wouldn't have minded being referred to that way--mid-twenties, I guess--with straight dark brown hair. Ample breasts, too, which I could see most of down a t-shirt whose collar was torn into a v-neck. She had two CD's, and held them out toward me. "Do you guys take donations?" "Yeah, but not CD's, I'm afraid." Her eyes were almost white-blue, whatever that is, and the left one, the one I looked into, had a tiny black dot near the outside edge of the iris.
She was disappointed. "It's my ex-boyfriend's stuff. I won't listen to it. Besides, it's his." Her short jean skirt didn't cover much of her lap. The sun slanting across her thigh lit up fine, never-shaved fuzz.
"What is it? I might like it." She handed me Punk-O-Rama 8 and Warped Tour 2003. "Never heard it, but I'm game." I grinned and looked at her. She was smiling. I guess she could have just driven off, but she let me say, "I hope you dumped him, not the other way around."
"No."
"Oh, what an idiot! He must've felt inadequate or something. You have to be better off."
"Oh, I am. No big loss." We were just looking at each other when she said, "You doing anything? You wanna do something?"
When I said, "Sure," I tried to sound like a cup of coffee meant a cup of coffee. I got in her car.
Her place was right around the corner, in one of those singles complexes. It wasn't messy so much as lived in, comfortable. She didn't apologize for the blanket on the sofa or the dishes in the sink. I didn't see a book, much less a bookcase. I expected a cat, but couldn't even smell one and didn't see any fur on the carpet or furniture.
"Would you like a beer? I don't want it. It's his, too."
"I will help you erase his memory in any way I can. It is my duty to drink his beer. It's what any knight would do for his lady." It was a bit thick, but she laughed, thank God, a sharp explosion from her diaphragm. I was afraid I'd told her I'd rescue her.
From that point there wasn't much talk between us. We skipped the life stories and kissed. Instant erection. It had been much, much longer than a year for me. The rest of my body relaxed until I couldn't tell where I left off and she began. I rubbed her arms lightly and slowly; she slipped her hands under my shirt where they crawled over my stomach. I did the same for her. I expected a little pooch of a belly, but there was little to grab--until I dislodged her bra and her breasts spilled over my hands, her nipples catching on the callouses at the bottom of my fingers.
She found my penis and released it from my pants. I lifted her shirt and bra off her. Her eyes glinted through slits. I wanted to kiss her but her head dropped into my lap. I hardly needed it, yet all she did was kiss it, on the very tip. It jumped and she giggled. She tried to squeeze it in her fist, but, "You're so hard!" She kissed it again and slid it into her mouth. Boy, if I didn't blow right then and cleft her palate.... I grabbed a buttock, slid a finger slowly down the cleft, and rimmed her anus. She moaned and distended it. I leaned toward it, saw it shining purple, gorged with blood. I pressed down on it and it opened like a flower and swallowed the tip of my finger. She shoved back on it, sending it deeper, meanwhile still tickling her uvula with my dick. In my fascination with her eating anus, I hardly felt what she was doing on my end beyond the throbbing against her toungue.
She came up off my penis dripping saliva, grabbed the back of my head and shot her tongue down my throat. I swallowed the spit and grabbed back. Hair was everywhere. I wanted to eat her, kiss her netherlips, slap her clitoris, but she'd already straddled me. She shoved her groin against mine kissing my shaft with her outer labia. My finger was still gladly trapped in her asshole. Clutching the back of the sofa on each side of my head, she pulled her lips to the top of my penis. My dick sprung outward on contact, and her pussy pounced on it. She did the work in that position, and I was in no position to complain, with a nipple in my mouth and two handfuls of ass.
Finally, I wrapped my arms around her and laid her down. I pulled away to lean on my hands and grinned in her grinning face. I teased her with a couple short slow strokes, then pulled out altogether. My penis glistened. She blew on it and it jumped. With my hand I found where it'd been and slid a couple fingers in and out, pulled upwards from the inside to spread her lips and ran my tongue from my fingers to her clit, exposing the little pearl and blowing on it. Her hips bucked but I didn't let up, rubbing, licking, kissing, sucking, blowing, till she clawed at my back trying to pull me into her. But I pulled away and gently turned her over. Then I went back inside. It couldn't have been wetter. She pushed her ass to the sky. I leaned over her back and bit her neck as I pounded several hard strokes. She tightened around me so hard I could barely pull back to shove in again. She shrieked softly into the cushion. I leaned away, shoved a finger in with my penis to get it wet, then slid it into her anus as far as it could go. She bucked and moaned. I began thrusting and thrusting with both rods. She grew tighter and louder, my groin began to glow with warmth, spreading into my thighs and abs, and I just exploded with a trembling roar over her screams.
For a long time afterwards we just laid together, spooned. We haven't seen each other again, though I know where she lives and she knows where I work. But we don't know each other's names. The CD's are good, though the punk's not really my thing.
Friday, May 26, 2006
The Latest Improvement to the Quality of My Life in Hauwekan County
I've been pedaling to work the past few weeks. I couldn't afford to fill my tank last time at the pump, so I decided to just make it last. I car up to Cabin Run Park--about halfway--and cycle up through the woods to the Clover Hunt subdivision and connect up with Knotts Road where it widens to four lanes. From there it's probably only a couple miles to work. Somehow, I get there in the same time it takes to drive the whole way.
It's on a bike that I'm most comfortable and assertive. I take the road I need and cars be damned. Front and center in the right lane at the red light at Knotts and Broad yesterday the car behind me sounded his horn, just a little toot. I ignored it. Another toot. Ignored it. Then, a protracted blast. Resisting the strong impulse to signal upwards with a long finger, I compromised with my pride and half turned my head--enough to recognize a dark blue Bimmer--and said, not loudly, but with clear and readable lip formation, "Fuck off!" I braced for a nudge. What I got was, "I'd like to make a right turn," almost entreating. Despite the apparent politeness, my hackles remained bristling, and I replied, with much less comparative civility, "I'm a car, idiot!" When the light turned I half expected (and hoped) to be followed, but was disappointed (and relieved).
My trip up through the woods is pleasant but too short. All of the parking is on the north side of the park, and just a sliver of the park remains on the north side of the only road in. North is the direction to work from here, so I'm in the woods for only a few minutes. Lately, though, I've tried to lenghten my stay there by parking in a closer lot (across the road from the new "recreation center," billing itself as "THE LATEST IMPROVEMENT TO THE QUALITY OF LIFE IN HAUWEKAN COUNTY"--an ironic claim at best, considering it's a wildlife graveyard of blacktop and metal covering several acres) and meeting the trail at an earlier point, but the only thing that ever lengthened my stay in the woods and mitigated my pleasure amidst its beauty was increased along with the distance: Pedestrians. The asphalt trail, about six feet wide, is, understandably, a favorite exercise venue for the folks living around there, and morning apparently the favorite time to be on it. That's just the way it is, of course, but polite philosophy does not temper my annoyance at having to slow down and announce my presence upon my approach from behind in order to pass, or make me feel any friendlier toward the walkers facing me who respond to my "Good morning!" with a tight mouth and squinting glare, as to an interloper or an unwanted new technology.
So I took to the dirt trails that web the park, rutty, rooty, meandering paths never more than a foot wide, rarlely in a straight line and searched for my Northwest Passage. I haven't found it yet. Stottering over roots, twisting around trees, always somehow going too fast and braking too much, I haven't emerged onto the asphalt in the same place twice, coming or going, likely because the immediate object of my attention seems always to be just a few feet in front of my wheel. I've added five minutes to my ride, and haven't had to excuse myself or expose myself to snobbery. I love it.
It's on a bike that I'm most comfortable and assertive. I take the road I need and cars be damned. Front and center in the right lane at the red light at Knotts and Broad yesterday the car behind me sounded his horn, just a little toot. I ignored it. Another toot. Ignored it. Then, a protracted blast. Resisting the strong impulse to signal upwards with a long finger, I compromised with my pride and half turned my head--enough to recognize a dark blue Bimmer--and said, not loudly, but with clear and readable lip formation, "Fuck off!" I braced for a nudge. What I got was, "I'd like to make a right turn," almost entreating. Despite the apparent politeness, my hackles remained bristling, and I replied, with much less comparative civility, "I'm a car, idiot!" When the light turned I half expected (and hoped) to be followed, but was disappointed (and relieved).
My trip up through the woods is pleasant but too short. All of the parking is on the north side of the park, and just a sliver of the park remains on the north side of the only road in. North is the direction to work from here, so I'm in the woods for only a few minutes. Lately, though, I've tried to lenghten my stay there by parking in a closer lot (across the road from the new "recreation center," billing itself as "THE LATEST IMPROVEMENT TO THE QUALITY OF LIFE IN HAUWEKAN COUNTY"--an ironic claim at best, considering it's a wildlife graveyard of blacktop and metal covering several acres) and meeting the trail at an earlier point, but the only thing that ever lengthened my stay in the woods and mitigated my pleasure amidst its beauty was increased along with the distance: Pedestrians. The asphalt trail, about six feet wide, is, understandably, a favorite exercise venue for the folks living around there, and morning apparently the favorite time to be on it. That's just the way it is, of course, but polite philosophy does not temper my annoyance at having to slow down and announce my presence upon my approach from behind in order to pass, or make me feel any friendlier toward the walkers facing me who respond to my "Good morning!" with a tight mouth and squinting glare, as to an interloper or an unwanted new technology.
So I took to the dirt trails that web the park, rutty, rooty, meandering paths never more than a foot wide, rarlely in a straight line and searched for my Northwest Passage. I haven't found it yet. Stottering over roots, twisting around trees, always somehow going too fast and braking too much, I haven't emerged onto the asphalt in the same place twice, coming or going, likely because the immediate object of my attention seems always to be just a few feet in front of my wheel. I've added five minutes to my ride, and haven't had to excuse myself or expose myself to snobbery. I love it.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Take It, It's Mine
I have a problem: With this new position I don't how well I'll be able to maintain my lifestyle. For four years I've made do with no more than 15K a year, but it's because I've had to. I'm naturally thrifty and very good at not buying things I don't need, and without the money to spend I've raised thrift to an art form. I've simplified my life, but simplicity was thrust upon me. Divorce chased sudden unemployment, and I was soon paying rent to the tune of twice what I'd been paying on a mortgage of which I was only half responsible. Forced though it was, simplicity was a desirable state. I'd been trying for years, probably all my life when I think about it. Thrift, I've found, is relative. I made two-and-a-half times the amount of money I make now. I ate out maybe once a week, bought about a book a month, and rented a couple movies each week. I didn't think about the bills, because I didn't write the checks. I knew we had the money--it's all I needed to know. That's extravagance now.
It's been exciting to not know how I'd make the month's bills, and more exciting to pull it off. It's survival. That will soon no longer be a challenge, and I will honestly welcome it, but where will I find the challenge? For I find I need it. I think of the things I'll be able to do again and fear they'll be too easy to take for granted. When I need something at the store will I hop on the bike or in the car? Will I always buy my toothpaste, soap and shave cream from the dollar store? or will I think, "Oh, it's only a couple of bucks"? How close am I to getting a cell phone, a computer less than eight years old, broadband and HDTV? But to ask those questions is to acknowledge my commitment to this lifestyle. The money is simply a freedom, a freedom to live this way without the stress. Yet without the stress what is the quality of my survival? I don't want what everyone else has. I want what I need. If it's too easy to get what I need, how do I make my life worth something? Comfort--how much comfort can I stand before I roar and shred it to useless bits? How I've always hated security! How I've always craved it. Am I pushing away what I deserve? Am I just the animal I say I am?
It's been exciting to not know how I'd make the month's bills, and more exciting to pull it off. It's survival. That will soon no longer be a challenge, and I will honestly welcome it, but where will I find the challenge? For I find I need it. I think of the things I'll be able to do again and fear they'll be too easy to take for granted. When I need something at the store will I hop on the bike or in the car? Will I always buy my toothpaste, soap and shave cream from the dollar store? or will I think, "Oh, it's only a couple of bucks"? How close am I to getting a cell phone, a computer less than eight years old, broadband and HDTV? But to ask those questions is to acknowledge my commitment to this lifestyle. The money is simply a freedom, a freedom to live this way without the stress. Yet without the stress what is the quality of my survival? I don't want what everyone else has. I want what I need. If it's too easy to get what I need, how do I make my life worth something? Comfort--how much comfort can I stand before I roar and shred it to useless bits? How I've always hated security! How I've always craved it. Am I pushing away what I deserve? Am I just the animal I say I am?
Thursday, May 18, 2006
My Soul to Keep
Paul told me he got my position approved and that he'll be ready to send it to HR Monday to have it posted. He said I, Tara, and he will have to get together then. I don't know why, what the meeting will be about. I suppose there's some strange etiquette involved in posting a job you already have filled. You have to interview, but how does an interviewer ethically waste his and an applicant's time going through the motions. I feel uneasy about it, though not so much so as to give up the ruse. I will still feel somewhat dishonest about it, but will anything dishonest have been done? I've worked hard the past four years, trying to find my place in the work-world, taken many a part-time or temporary job, scrimped to a virtually ascetic degree, and now I'm having a job handed to me. I should accept that this is what I deserve, but I've worked so hard for so long for so little that I'd just about taken this life for granted. After all, I've deserved it before now. I suppose this is what I've been working toward all along. All these damned interviews, and I get the job by doing it. That's how I always get the job. The last time an interview actually landed me the job was my first one, as a prospective stockboy. I've had my last interview, unless I have to do one for appearance's sake for this, my last ever, job. It's too late to rescind my Kilmartin application. I'll be getting a call from Lois next week, likely. I'll be glad to tell her I'm not interested. I've imagined her asking, "May I ask why you're no longer interested?" and me answering, "You're as free to ask as I am to not answer." Believe me, that's the best I can say. She doesn't really want the truth--that I don't intend to slough off flakes of my soul into a jar on her desk for her to stir into her coffee until I'm just a Stepford shell of a human being. Hell, even if I told her that, though she might be offended she wouldn't take it to heart as a symptom so much of her behavior as my attitude. Her kind of neurosis didn't get where it is today without buliding up a mighty callous of denial. It wouldn't be worth my effort to add another layer.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Nature Abhors Kilmartin
Lois wasn't at Kilmartin, but she was there. The place reeked of her, from the timid, suspicious employees to the books packed tighter on the shelves than the stick up the library's ass. A great, smothering Lois blanket. A personality vacuum. By the time I was done with that boring day I was exhausted, starved for humanity.
The Kilmartin staff ranged from annoying to grotesque with a ltttle nice thrown in. I encountered the grotesque first. Katie, the branch manager, strode toward me leaning back, right arm stick straight, hand like a cleaver pointing at me, as with a foil, preparing for duel. I couldn't tell if her shoulders were padded by her blouse or surgically augmented with half a broomstick. The closer she got the more pronounced the grotesquerie: Her face was skinless, covered entirely with flesh-colored spackling; when she spoke it was without the least genuineness, betrayed by the intonation of a local newscaster appallingly but obliviously misapprehending what she's reading. My repulsion, which could not have been writ more boldly across my face, she didn't read at all. She introduced me to everyone except the reference librarian, even though he interrupted our tour of the facilities to let her know one of the maintenance guys was in the mechanical room.
Christie showed me the RFID setup. It wasn't rocket science. I didn't have trouble with it all day, but I couldn't tell that it was any more efficient than the old way, except that relatively fewer patrons came to the desk to check out, preferring instead to use the self-check. Christie was okay--not on the annoying end of the scale, and cutish in an artsy way--though every time our eyes met she would say, "Hi," with a tiny forced smile. So I tried not to make eye contact, though I looked at her at every opportunity. She was several inches shorter than I, but her hands seemed larger than my own, and were somewhat beaten, rough and a bit scarred, the skin shiny but creased, like chair leather.
Cheryl was the annoying one. Around me, she seemed to think that I cared about everything she was doing, and would rationalize every one of her actions. I couldn't have cared less about anything she was doing, especially after she expressed shock over my not flipping through each book before I discharged it.
On the circulation desk there were no chairs, and reading was not allowed (books, books everywhere! and not a word to read!), both contrary to what I'm used to, and the desk shifts were ninety minutes long, not sixty as at my branch. I paced along the padded padded mat from one terminal to the other; I poked in the drawers, but everything was so geometrically aligned I was afraid to touch anything; I perused what slivers of sky I could see through the skylights. I did one card registration, wondering all the while what Lois would find wrong with it.
Shelving and shelf-reading were supposed to be done concurrently, not discretely. I shelf-read the shelves on which I placed books, and hoped that that was what was meant, because I wasn't going to do any more than that, opting to get all the books on the shelf with which I came out on the floor. All of the bookends were shoved so hard against the books that it was difficult to squeeze a book in or pull one out, despite the room on the shelf.
I could not get out of there soon enough, and was probably the first one to the car though I was parked much the furthest away. I was already regretting I'd applied for the position there.
The Kilmartin staff ranged from annoying to grotesque with a ltttle nice thrown in. I encountered the grotesque first. Katie, the branch manager, strode toward me leaning back, right arm stick straight, hand like a cleaver pointing at me, as with a foil, preparing for duel. I couldn't tell if her shoulders were padded by her blouse or surgically augmented with half a broomstick. The closer she got the more pronounced the grotesquerie: Her face was skinless, covered entirely with flesh-colored spackling; when she spoke it was without the least genuineness, betrayed by the intonation of a local newscaster appallingly but obliviously misapprehending what she's reading. My repulsion, which could not have been writ more boldly across my face, she didn't read at all. She introduced me to everyone except the reference librarian, even though he interrupted our tour of the facilities to let her know one of the maintenance guys was in the mechanical room.
Christie showed me the RFID setup. It wasn't rocket science. I didn't have trouble with it all day, but I couldn't tell that it was any more efficient than the old way, except that relatively fewer patrons came to the desk to check out, preferring instead to use the self-check. Christie was okay--not on the annoying end of the scale, and cutish in an artsy way--though every time our eyes met she would say, "Hi," with a tiny forced smile. So I tried not to make eye contact, though I looked at her at every opportunity. She was several inches shorter than I, but her hands seemed larger than my own, and were somewhat beaten, rough and a bit scarred, the skin shiny but creased, like chair leather.
Cheryl was the annoying one. Around me, she seemed to think that I cared about everything she was doing, and would rationalize every one of her actions. I couldn't have cared less about anything she was doing, especially after she expressed shock over my not flipping through each book before I discharged it.
On the circulation desk there were no chairs, and reading was not allowed (books, books everywhere! and not a word to read!), both contrary to what I'm used to, and the desk shifts were ninety minutes long, not sixty as at my branch. I paced along the padded padded mat from one terminal to the other; I poked in the drawers, but everything was so geometrically aligned I was afraid to touch anything; I perused what slivers of sky I could see through the skylights. I did one card registration, wondering all the while what Lois would find wrong with it.
Shelving and shelf-reading were supposed to be done concurrently, not discretely. I shelf-read the shelves on which I placed books, and hoped that that was what was meant, because I wasn't going to do any more than that, opting to get all the books on the shelf with which I came out on the floor. All of the bookends were shoved so hard against the books that it was difficult to squeeze a book in or pull one out, despite the room on the shelf.
I could not get out of there soon enough, and was probably the first one to the car though I was parked much the furthest away. I was already regretting I'd applied for the position there.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Lo(is)(,) Me
Applied for a full-time position at the Kilmartin branch. I was reluctant to do so. Much as this position is what I've been aching for for years, I don't want to work with Lois again. Life's too short to spend any time under the thumb of an OCD freak, and my life was shortened well beyond the three years I spent walking on eggshells for her at my first library job. Tight as a drum, she had to have everyone else around her at the same brittle pitch. I was always relieved to not see her decrepit two-tone (three, if you count the rust) Broncosaurus when I drove in after school. And the sight of her puckered matchstick head, the dirt-brown hair painted on skin of ruddy transluscence, set on a cadaverous frame inverted my sphincter and whacked my nuts around a tetherball pole. No, I don't want to work for her again.
But I have to have that job. I all but dream about it. Going to movies or out to eat--they seem like rich-people things to do, and have for four years. All that time without health insurance, too. I sometimes wonder how I have survived the continuous stress of timing my bills to meet my paychecks, praying my car doesn't break down. And now the perennial rent-rise is higher than ever while my pay remains serfish. I see getting this job as an almost orgasmic catharsis, the Dutch boy pulling his thumb out of the dike and replacing it with a stick of lit dynamite.
Friday I'm going to be working over at Kilmartin just to help out while Lois is on vacation. Tara arranged it. She didn't say so, but I think she intends it to be some kind of showcase of my talents meant to give me a leg up on the competition. Then Paul told me in confidence yesterday that the hiring is about to begin for the new branch due open next summer, and that he's lobbying for the first opening to be the one he's promised me, the equivalent of the Kilmartin job. The opening seemed so far away that I thought I'd just hang on at Kilmartin (provided Lois would hire me) until the new branch opened, then crawl over to the new place with what's left of my sanity, but it certainly would be nice to skip that middle and last part and start my new position where I am and make the move to the new place with everybody else. Because Lois is away, she won't be getting to hiring over there till the end of June, which happens to be the time frame Paul gave me for hiring me on fulltime where I am (or at least letting me know more definitely what's going on about it).
But I have to have that job. I all but dream about it. Going to movies or out to eat--they seem like rich-people things to do, and have for four years. All that time without health insurance, too. I sometimes wonder how I have survived the continuous stress of timing my bills to meet my paychecks, praying my car doesn't break down. And now the perennial rent-rise is higher than ever while my pay remains serfish. I see getting this job as an almost orgasmic catharsis, the Dutch boy pulling his thumb out of the dike and replacing it with a stick of lit dynamite.
Friday I'm going to be working over at Kilmartin just to help out while Lois is on vacation. Tara arranged it. She didn't say so, but I think she intends it to be some kind of showcase of my talents meant to give me a leg up on the competition. Then Paul told me in confidence yesterday that the hiring is about to begin for the new branch due open next summer, and that he's lobbying for the first opening to be the one he's promised me, the equivalent of the Kilmartin job. The opening seemed so far away that I thought I'd just hang on at Kilmartin (provided Lois would hire me) until the new branch opened, then crawl over to the new place with what's left of my sanity, but it certainly would be nice to skip that middle and last part and start my new position where I am and make the move to the new place with everybody else. Because Lois is away, she won't be getting to hiring over there till the end of June, which happens to be the time frame Paul gave me for hiring me on fulltime where I am (or at least letting me know more definitely what's going on about it).
Sunday, May 7, 2006
285
The White Hour is 285 pages long. At first it seemed like all I had was three and five--thirds and fifths--to work with. Then three and five led me to 15; 15 to 19 and 285. 19 is one fifteenth; 15, one nineteenth; 57, one fifth; 95, one third. I could measure my progress through the pages in any number of ways: On page 93 I would be 27 ninety-fifths--a thick, brutish fraction (four numerals and still nowhere near whole)--through the book, yet two pages later be a clean, combed one third on my way. I can never be halfway through the book, but at page 150 I can be 10 nineteenths; at 152, eight fifteenths; at 145, 29 fifty-sevenths; and at 141, 47 ninety-fiths. A number of many faces and strong, independent character, 285 has chosen compatriots of distinction.
Wednesday, May 3, 2006
Mr. Deeps?
Mr. Peeps is reading The Sunlight Dialogues by John Gardner. Yesterday he came in earlier than usual, maybe anticipating the warm day, wearing a baseball cap for the first time and a dirty slate-gray polo. He pulled a book from Fiction, the same one as on every previous visit for the past two weeks, and parked himself in Young Adult, whence he could get a clear shot of the entrance without being seen from the circ desk because of the newspaper shelf in between. At noon he left, leaving the book behind on the end table beside the chair. Julie and I both were curious about the book, and I volunteered immediately and wordlessly to go see what it was. Tara and Julie seemed surprised at Mr. Peeps' choice of reading, but, moreso, disappointed: This somehow made him more of a real, thinking human being,; a little more sympathetic than just pathetic. None of us want that. We want him to be a conscienceless, amoral villain. Moreover, I want him to be less like me. He came back a half-hour later in a pink polo but still in the ball cap.
Today Mr. Peeps didn't come in. Every now and then Paul would make a sweep of the library, peering down each aisle, eyes slitted. I'm sure Mary told him. Paul would be just the guy to confront him and give him every reason to yell, "Harassment!" Peeps missed a good show, though. Multitudes of pulchritude. I know, horny as I am right now, that my standards of beauty broaden every day, but today's display would have held up to my highest, most sated standards, if only for showing more skin. I'm glad Peeps wasn't in, I wanted that show to myself and I didn't want to be reminded of who I might be. The book reminded me well enough.
Today Mr. Peeps didn't come in. Every now and then Paul would make a sweep of the library, peering down each aisle, eyes slitted. I'm sure Mary told him. Paul would be just the guy to confront him and give him every reason to yell, "Harassment!" Peeps missed a good show, though. Multitudes of pulchritude. I know, horny as I am right now, that my standards of beauty broaden every day, but today's display would have held up to my highest, most sated standards, if only for showing more skin. I'm glad Peeps wasn't in, I wanted that show to myself and I didn't want to be reminded of who I might be. The book reminded me well enough.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Mr. Campbell's Brother Brothers
Registered library cards to two Mormon brothers who also happened to be biological brothers. But, wait, there's more. They came in wearing uniforms, but not the tie and white shirt--well, the white shirt, yeah, but with a large horizontal-diamond patch over the left breast emblazoned ORKIN. When they came in surveying the place I looked for the cannisters and hoses, but they just wanted to use the computers.
When I started on their registrations one asked me, "Have you lived here all your life?" It sounded as if he either already knew the answer or didn't really care. He didn't really care: I could see through his blank eyes that my words were only data feeding into a response generator.
The other one, who'd brought in an Og Mandino paperback with a duct tape spine, said, "What kind of books do you read?"
"Scottish fiction."
That led to a question about my heritage, which I answered more expansively than I wanted to, somehow going so far as to explain that I was descended from Campbells. The other one asked if I had any familiarity with the Mackays, and I told him no. Then he tells me about the Scotsman So-and-So Mackay and his role in forming the Mormon church. I thought, "Wow, way to work that in." He thought the same thing--I could tell by the raised eyebrow he flashed his brother.
But then they start asking about my religious background, like what church I go to, and what religion I was raised with--things that I had every right to tell them was none of their business. Instead, I answered monosyllabically and without elaboration. Except when Eyebrow Boy asked me what my ideal church would be like if I were to found one, when I said, "Well, since my brain has never been challenged with that supposition before, I couldn't really answer that, except to say that I wouldn't deign to form a church."
That got a little chuckle from him, a chuckle I've heard many times--it means, "You talk funny"--and then he said, "What God could do with a brain like that!"
I said, "Well, maybe, when I'm done with it, God can have it."
When I gave them their cards, Eyebrow Boy who'd done most of the talking thanked me ("Mr. Campbell, right?" I nodded--as close as I could come to not lying without telling the truth) and gave me one of those disingenuous diving, elbow-up handshakes before telling me to have a "blessed day." Duct Tape Boy slid a two-by-four card across the counter. On one side was a white-edged psuedo-classical picture of ancient multitudes hugging toppled columns and shielding their eyes from a brilliant radiance defined by a dusty orange sky. On the other side was a photograph of The Book of Mormon and two ways to get hold of a copy. I didn't throw it away before they couldn't see me. Why I cared about their feelings I don't know--as if I thought they gave a damn about me beyond another feather in their cap and robot for their army. I was pissed off at their arrogance and my politeness.
When I started on their registrations one asked me, "Have you lived here all your life?" It sounded as if he either already knew the answer or didn't really care. He didn't really care: I could see through his blank eyes that my words were only data feeding into a response generator.
The other one, who'd brought in an Og Mandino paperback with a duct tape spine, said, "What kind of books do you read?"
"Scottish fiction."
That led to a question about my heritage, which I answered more expansively than I wanted to, somehow going so far as to explain that I was descended from Campbells. The other one asked if I had any familiarity with the Mackays, and I told him no. Then he tells me about the Scotsman So-and-So Mackay and his role in forming the Mormon church. I thought, "Wow, way to work that in." He thought the same thing--I could tell by the raised eyebrow he flashed his brother.
But then they start asking about my religious background, like what church I go to, and what religion I was raised with--things that I had every right to tell them was none of their business. Instead, I answered monosyllabically and without elaboration. Except when Eyebrow Boy asked me what my ideal church would be like if I were to found one, when I said, "Well, since my brain has never been challenged with that supposition before, I couldn't really answer that, except to say that I wouldn't deign to form a church."
That got a little chuckle from him, a chuckle I've heard many times--it means, "You talk funny"--and then he said, "What God could do with a brain like that!"
I said, "Well, maybe, when I'm done with it, God can have it."
When I gave them their cards, Eyebrow Boy who'd done most of the talking thanked me ("Mr. Campbell, right?" I nodded--as close as I could come to not lying without telling the truth) and gave me one of those disingenuous diving, elbow-up handshakes before telling me to have a "blessed day." Duct Tape Boy slid a two-by-four card across the counter. On one side was a white-edged psuedo-classical picture of ancient multitudes hugging toppled columns and shielding their eyes from a brilliant radiance defined by a dusty orange sky. On the other side was a photograph of The Book of Mormon and two ways to get hold of a copy. I didn't throw it away before they couldn't see me. Why I cared about their feelings I don't know--as if I thought they gave a damn about me beyond another feather in their cap and robot for their army. I was pissed off at their arrogance and my politeness.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
I'm Watching Him, But Who's Watching Me?
Seems everyone has been familiarized with Mr. Peeps. I only had to tell Tara. Mary said she's seen him checking out children over in the Easies. Julie told me he's creeped her out ever since she first saw him, long before I ratted him out. He seemed to have spent most of his time today in fiction, and left and returned at least three times. His polo shirt today was yellow. What does this guy do--or not do--to be able to spend his whole day in a library?
Funny thing: He doesn't seem to scope the female employees, of which the library is full. I've seen him glance at Tara and quickly away again, as with either disinterest or caution. How he keeps his eyes off Liz, I don't know. I have a hard time myself. She has a firm round butt, and a firm, long stride with bent arms pumping--like an exercise walker--that makes her high-held breasts bubble. She'll show some cleavage, too, and I can tell by the wrinkling when it closes that she's about my age, or just oversunned. Last week she flashed me her panties, but was cruel as she could be about it, maintaining eye contact with me (we were talking) as she squatted sidesaddle in front of her locker. Oh, to think what I was missing while being a gentleman.
Peeps doesn't watch Dierdre either, from what I can tell. Like Tara, Dierdre's attractiveness has been an acquired taste. At first I just thought she was odd looking--black curly hair, black eyebrows, square jaw and ruddy cheeks. Then she began to resemble a lot of Scottish girls I've met. I still don't think she's pretty, but if I could just see her bounce up the steps a few times a day and watch that small loose bottom jiggle.... I often imagine watching it ripple with the shockwave of my groin banging into it.
Took two fines of over $2 paid entirely in coins, and the first one had only two quarters. On another fine of $2.10 a woman pulls out a wad of bills, peels off two ones, and instead of peeling off another one, says she doesn't have the ten cents and just hands me the two bills. This is someone who hates change and/or can't let go of debt.
Busy day. Scott is off this week, and Tara's at a class, so it's just Julie, Rebecca and me. First thing, I do two registrations before I checked out anything to anyone. Did four or five more. Rebecca and I made a decent dent in the shelving. But why is it, since the inception of the priority labels, that the fiction cart is filling up the fastest?
Once again, as seems par for the course anymore, I pull a book for the pick list that I'd just shelved a few hours before.
Funny thing: He doesn't seem to scope the female employees, of which the library is full. I've seen him glance at Tara and quickly away again, as with either disinterest or caution. How he keeps his eyes off Liz, I don't know. I have a hard time myself. She has a firm round butt, and a firm, long stride with bent arms pumping--like an exercise walker--that makes her high-held breasts bubble. She'll show some cleavage, too, and I can tell by the wrinkling when it closes that she's about my age, or just oversunned. Last week she flashed me her panties, but was cruel as she could be about it, maintaining eye contact with me (we were talking) as she squatted sidesaddle in front of her locker. Oh, to think what I was missing while being a gentleman.
Peeps doesn't watch Dierdre either, from what I can tell. Like Tara, Dierdre's attractiveness has been an acquired taste. At first I just thought she was odd looking--black curly hair, black eyebrows, square jaw and ruddy cheeks. Then she began to resemble a lot of Scottish girls I've met. I still don't think she's pretty, but if I could just see her bounce up the steps a few times a day and watch that small loose bottom jiggle.... I often imagine watching it ripple with the shockwave of my groin banging into it.
Took two fines of over $2 paid entirely in coins, and the first one had only two quarters. On another fine of $2.10 a woman pulls out a wad of bills, peels off two ones, and instead of peeling off another one, says she doesn't have the ten cents and just hands me the two bills. This is someone who hates change and/or can't let go of debt.
Busy day. Scott is off this week, and Tara's at a class, so it's just Julie, Rebecca and me. First thing, I do two registrations before I checked out anything to anyone. Did four or five more. Rebecca and I made a decent dent in the shelving. But why is it, since the inception of the priority labels, that the fiction cart is filling up the fastest?
Once again, as seems par for the course anymore, I pull a book for the pick list that I'd just shelved a few hours before.
274
274, the number of pages in Highland Pack, gives no satisfaction whatever. It doesn't have the guts to be prime and can only be halved. It can't at least be plainly workable, like 275, or a bit more diverse yet, like 276. 273 can even be divided by two primes (7 and 13). I like that. There's some personality. But add one and I get stuck with a cowardly number that does just about as little as a number can do, that can't distinguish itself in any way--unless that is somehow distinctive. Like baloney on white toast.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Part of the Problem
So this is Earth Day, and what have we done? Of three sixty-five, we've given her just one. The traffic still drowns the birdsong twenty-three-and-a-half hours a day, but who hears anything while they sleep? Or sees anything while awake? Who sees the razing of the living to construct the dead? And who doesn't call that progress, a Leading Economic Indicator? Who sees a cyclist, even after he's run over, or a car carrying at least two people? Who sees a tree erect and not a house behind it? Are there more birds in the air, or just not enough trees to go around? The road to Nowhere is paved with dead animals. When we can no longer go avoid them we'll get used to the smell of the feathery, furry carpet beneath our wheels as easily as the fetid gray blanket falling upon our heads. My heart is broken, tired of the wanton ignorance of humanity, tired of believing it will get what it deserves, for as long as it gets what it takes it will believe it's getting what it deserves. I awake early in the morning with anxiety to hear the birds tell the world what it's missing, what it's killing; then, in half an hour, I'm lullabied back into a fitful sleep by the mantric susurration of burdened rubber on asphalt.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Blind
Fell asleep reading after work and dreamed of work:
I went to see Tara about something. We work in cubicles, but I met her at the door to an office--hers--which opened outward to the right. I stood on the door side of the doorway (she opposite), and started to tell her something, but forgot what I had to say and said so. She seemed amused. I closed my eyes, said, "I'm so tired," leaned against the doorframe, and slid to a squat. Inside, her desk was at the bottom of a long slope of slick concrete. I said something to the effect of "Meet you at the bottom," and began sliding down on the small of my back, head facing the door, curled in a ball and leaning lightly against the right wall on my shoulder. I was worried about being clipped by a protrusion but couldn't open my eyes. Then I began picking up speed, and I worried out loud that I might crash into the back wall or her desk. I still couldn't get my eyes open. I untucked and suddenly stop sliding. I felt very weak, and could only barely open my eyes. Tara helped me up. I was touched unduly by her assistance, as if she wouldn't have done it for just anyone. I started to support myself, reaching out to a lamp with my right hand, but noticed blearily that not only would it not likely support me, but was too nice to touch like that, its shade being a kind of suede. My sight came back, and I noticed a stereo and CD's and comfortable chairs around a round coffee table. "Nice," I said. "Is this really your office?" "Yes."When Tara took over from that unbalanced micro-manager Jack (saving both my life and his) she was a horse-faced girl with three-toned hair. But she's grown on me, and somehow she's become attractive. She's always had a decent body, with perky breasts too far apart for a decent cleavage, though that doesn't stop her from wearing v-necks (or me from discreetly looking when she bends over in front of me). I've assiduously avoided fantasizing about her, though my respect for her has made that easy. We get along very well, converse easily. I miss her when she's not there.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Passive, Aggressive, Passive-Aggressive
A kid, maybe five, asked me where Peter Pan was--the "girl one." I told him to ask the librarian. He came back and asked me where the pirate books were, the ones about real pirates. I showed him where they should've been, 910-somethingorother, but there weren't any there. Then he asked me if I'd seen Hook. I said yeah. "Is it scary?" he said. "No. It's more funny than scary. But it's more stupid than funny." "Is this the one you saw?" I looked up from my shelving to see he had the DVD in his hand. "Yeah." He walked away but his little sister (three, I guess) filled the void, went, "Pss." "Yes?" She rubbed the corner of her mouth, where there was an orange streak curving toward her chin, then pointed at her head, on which was one of those layered-foam headpieces. "I have a hat. It's an owl." She turned and left as I was trying to compliment her stylish headgear. Then the dad of the bunch asked me, "Where are the Bar-bar books?" I couldn't help correcting him. "You mean Babar?" Blank. "The elephant?" "Yeah." "They're under 'Brunhoff'," but I knew I was wasting my breath and just walked him over to them and pulled them out a little ways from their neighbors.
No telling how the cart-tagging scheme is working yet. I was the first shelver, so naturally I took #1. Rebecca was the only other associate. She shelved the following hour, taking #2 out before I got back. Rebecca, scheduled to shelve for two hours, finished the cart (fiction) in 1:20. I'd since re-designated the carts, raising juvenile fiction/non-fiction to the top. But, instead of pulling that cart out to the stacks, Rebecca sat on a step-stool in front of the adult non and began sorting that cart. That done, she took a long break to round out her second hour. What could I say?
Tara was at an Excel class, so I was left with Julie and Scott for overlings. That means Julie found an overdrive gear for complaining, mostly about Scott, her favorite object of scorn--he should do this, he should do that, I'm tired of him always..., I wish he would.... And the one that got her engine really whining: He left all his discharges on the counter for the next backup to clean up. It's his habit, and it annoys all of us to have to spend ten minutes of our hour filling the carts with his discharges instead of discharging. The thing is, he didn't use to do it. It seemed to have coincided with my reconfiguring the carts in order to better facilitate their loading. For 13 years the carts had been lined up in a row across the back of an alcove with metal shelf units for walls. Only the outside of the carts on each end was accessible to place books on without shoving at least one other (usually two) aside. It took me two years, but I finally realized it didn't have to be that way. I visualized the new configuration for a couple of months, until, one morning last fall, I made it real. I arranged all carts equidistant from each other in that alcove by pointing two out from each side wall and one from the center of the back wall. Suddenly, there was room enough to walk between all the carts. I hadn't warned or asked permission of anyone, but everyone seemed to like it--except Scott. For a couple of weeks I'd return from shelving or come in in the morning to find the carts de-configured to the original arrangement. I thought it was Rebecca who was resistant and asked her. She said she had no problem with it, but that Scott blew up at her as she sorted a cart--"Who did this? Put it back now!" This from a guy who'd just as soon not have the responsibility of authority over anyone. That's when it seemed he stopped putting the books on the carts. Anyway, Julie fired off an email to Tara today complaining about it. It's not the first time, so I don't think anything will change, since Tara doesn't confront anyone but sends out a general email to all circ staff that's really meant for one person, stating "we" have a problem with such-and-such and let's all try to do better--that kind of thing.
On the median on Knotts was a twenty-foot trail of bumper pieces and hubcaps. In the middle of all the plastic and styrofoam lay a duck, flat, dead, dirty and bloody.
No telling how the cart-tagging scheme is working yet. I was the first shelver, so naturally I took #1. Rebecca was the only other associate. She shelved the following hour, taking #2 out before I got back. Rebecca, scheduled to shelve for two hours, finished the cart (fiction) in 1:20. I'd since re-designated the carts, raising juvenile fiction/non-fiction to the top. But, instead of pulling that cart out to the stacks, Rebecca sat on a step-stool in front of the adult non and began sorting that cart. That done, she took a long break to round out her second hour. What could I say?
Tara was at an Excel class, so I was left with Julie and Scott for overlings. That means Julie found an overdrive gear for complaining, mostly about Scott, her favorite object of scorn--he should do this, he should do that, I'm tired of him always..., I wish he would.... And the one that got her engine really whining: He left all his discharges on the counter for the next backup to clean up. It's his habit, and it annoys all of us to have to spend ten minutes of our hour filling the carts with his discharges instead of discharging. The thing is, he didn't use to do it. It seemed to have coincided with my reconfiguring the carts in order to better facilitate their loading. For 13 years the carts had been lined up in a row across the back of an alcove with metal shelf units for walls. Only the outside of the carts on each end was accessible to place books on without shoving at least one other (usually two) aside. It took me two years, but I finally realized it didn't have to be that way. I visualized the new configuration for a couple of months, until, one morning last fall, I made it real. I arranged all carts equidistant from each other in that alcove by pointing two out from each side wall and one from the center of the back wall. Suddenly, there was room enough to walk between all the carts. I hadn't warned or asked permission of anyone, but everyone seemed to like it--except Scott. For a couple of weeks I'd return from shelving or come in in the morning to find the carts de-configured to the original arrangement. I thought it was Rebecca who was resistant and asked her. She said she had no problem with it, but that Scott blew up at her as she sorted a cart--"Who did this? Put it back now!" This from a guy who'd just as soon not have the responsibility of authority over anyone. That's when it seemed he stopped putting the books on the carts. Anyway, Julie fired off an email to Tara today complaining about it. It's not the first time, so I don't think anything will change, since Tara doesn't confront anyone but sends out a general email to all circ staff that's really meant for one person, stating "we" have a problem with such-and-such and let's all try to do better--that kind of thing.
On the median on Knotts was a twenty-foot trail of bumper pieces and hubcaps. In the middle of all the plastic and styrofoam lay a duck, flat, dead, dirty and bloody.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Accountability
Told Tara about the fiction cart going out before the heavier ones (happened again--Beth--yesterday), and she decided to prioritize the carts with taped-on numbers. I asked to be in charge of it, but she said she didn't want the other associates to feel I was bossing them around and begin to resent me. Me, either. I acquiesced. Now, if we can just trust everyone not to switch the numbers to suit themselves. I'm concerned with Rebecca, who is always looking for the loophole.
While Julie was vacationing on the bookmobile and Tara was dandling preschoolers at storytime, I spoke on the phone with someone who identified herself first as Tara's, then Julie's, friend. By the time she actually told me her name it was unnecessary, for she'd already told me the story of how she'd just been to Gayton, where they didn't have a copy of Jonathan Kellerman's latest but had told her we did, and could I please hold a copy for her. We did, and I did. Bonnie asked me my name. I told her. I think I'm on her list now--at least until she asks me to recommend something to her.
Mr. Spry was in Tuesday, picking up material for his latest interests, painting and cowboys. He said, apropos of nothing, as a joke that can't wait to be told, "When you're out back working on the deck and your pants split and the lady next door is watching, you know you've still got it." "Maybe," I told him, "she's watching a train wreck. A caboose on the loose." He liked that, got a laugh out of him. Tara, too. Mr. Spry left us with his trademark fake fart and even faker apology.
Disappointed I didn't see any real lookers today. On such a warm day I'd hoped to see some skin.
On the way home saw a hawk in its nest and a beaver, neither more than twenty feet off Gaskins. No telling which construction site forced them so close to the menace.
While Julie was vacationing on the bookmobile and Tara was dandling preschoolers at storytime, I spoke on the phone with someone who identified herself first as Tara's, then Julie's, friend. By the time she actually told me her name it was unnecessary, for she'd already told me the story of how she'd just been to Gayton, where they didn't have a copy of Jonathan Kellerman's latest but had told her we did, and could I please hold a copy for her. We did, and I did. Bonnie asked me my name. I told her. I think I'm on her list now--at least until she asks me to recommend something to her.
Mr. Spry was in Tuesday, picking up material for his latest interests, painting and cowboys. He said, apropos of nothing, as a joke that can't wait to be told, "When you're out back working on the deck and your pants split and the lady next door is watching, you know you've still got it." "Maybe," I told him, "she's watching a train wreck. A caboose on the loose." He liked that, got a laugh out of him. Tara, too. Mr. Spry left us with his trademark fake fart and even faker apology.
Disappointed I didn't see any real lookers today. On such a warm day I'd hoped to see some skin.
On the way home saw a hawk in its nest and a beaver, neither more than twenty feet off Gaskins. No telling which construction site forced them so close to the menace.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Fees, Bees, Peeps, and Two-and-a-Half or Four Celebrities
The usual heavy Monday, though kind of light in the weekend bookdrop. Not a usual day, though: Two cards left behind at computers; while I was on the desk I dragged Scott out to do two lost books and a damaged book, and I got Tara out to deal with a lady who swore she returned her 18 books on time despite the computer's (and Tara's and my) insistence that they'd been turned in three days late. The moment Tara cancelled her fine she said she'd pay it.
Talked to the county spelling bee champ's father. His son didn't make it out of the first round of the regionals. "All those kids were from middle school," he told me. I asked him how long the county bee went on--I having left somewhere around the tenth tiebreaker between the last two--and he said it went to about 25 rounds, when his son spelled "champion" and another word of similar difficulty. When I told him those words seemed pretty easy compared to the ones they were missing when I left, he said they had to finally dumb it down so someone might actually win. (Those weren't his words, just my blunt interpretation.)
Mr. Peeps was in today. His polo shirt was pink today. Friday it was yellow, and Thursday orange. A woman told me she started to go in the bathroom looking for her daughter when a man came out. She had been startled but amused, figuring it to be an honest mistake. I asked her what he was wearing, and she said he was balding (okay, so he wasn't wearing much hair) but didn't say anything about his clothes. I didn't tell her why I asked. I'm sure she knew generally, but I wasn't going to let her know there was a guy of questionable moral rectitude wandering around the library. Last Monday, I was passing the adult non-fiction on my way to the audio books, my curiosity pointing my eyes down each aisle, when they were briefly and discreetly arrested by long legs falling to the floor from a short pleated skirt. I couldn't see a face behind the dark curtain of straight hair shielding her profile, but the rest of her made me wonder if she was old enough for me to be looking at the way I was. But, like I said, I was discreet--not so much as a hitch in my gait as I moved along. In the next aisle, Mr. Peeps had already resolved what pangs of conscience he may have had regarding the same issue. On his knees, a stack of books beside him, Mr. Peeps craned forward, head nearly in the foot-wide gap he'd created, chin just about resting on the partially emptied second shelf from the floor (mid-940's, I checked later). For a moment, after I'd seen her then just spied him, I saw them both, the stacks between. The scene sickened and saddened me at the instant of recognition. My first thought was just to chase him away, make him uncomfortable. All I really had to do was make eye contact. His paranoia usually finds the eyes watching him, and I'm always watching him, and I'm never the first to break eye contact, which is always brief. I'm convinced his paranoia has convinced him that I'm on to him. Maybe I've just motivated him to take greater precautions. I did nothing.
Celebrity sightings: Marg Helgenberger was back in today. She came to the desk when Beth was up. (She never comes to see me! Maybe I give off a Mr. Peeps vibe since I have a hard time not looking at her) Georgette from Mary Tyler Moore was also in, as was a Garrison Keillor/Roger Ebert hybrid (runs on ethanol and solar).
Watched the least-laden cart (fiction) go out in the morning with Beth behind it. Disappointed that she made a personal decision on a professional matter.
Talked to the county spelling bee champ's father. His son didn't make it out of the first round of the regionals. "All those kids were from middle school," he told me. I asked him how long the county bee went on--I having left somewhere around the tenth tiebreaker between the last two--and he said it went to about 25 rounds, when his son spelled "champion" and another word of similar difficulty. When I told him those words seemed pretty easy compared to the ones they were missing when I left, he said they had to finally dumb it down so someone might actually win. (Those weren't his words, just my blunt interpretation.)
Mr. Peeps was in today. His polo shirt was pink today. Friday it was yellow, and Thursday orange. A woman told me she started to go in the bathroom looking for her daughter when a man came out. She had been startled but amused, figuring it to be an honest mistake. I asked her what he was wearing, and she said he was balding (okay, so he wasn't wearing much hair) but didn't say anything about his clothes. I didn't tell her why I asked. I'm sure she knew generally, but I wasn't going to let her know there was a guy of questionable moral rectitude wandering around the library. Last Monday, I was passing the adult non-fiction on my way to the audio books, my curiosity pointing my eyes down each aisle, when they were briefly and discreetly arrested by long legs falling to the floor from a short pleated skirt. I couldn't see a face behind the dark curtain of straight hair shielding her profile, but the rest of her made me wonder if she was old enough for me to be looking at the way I was. But, like I said, I was discreet--not so much as a hitch in my gait as I moved along. In the next aisle, Mr. Peeps had already resolved what pangs of conscience he may have had regarding the same issue. On his knees, a stack of books beside him, Mr. Peeps craned forward, head nearly in the foot-wide gap he'd created, chin just about resting on the partially emptied second shelf from the floor (mid-940's, I checked later). For a moment, after I'd seen her then just spied him, I saw them both, the stacks between. The scene sickened and saddened me at the instant of recognition. My first thought was just to chase him away, make him uncomfortable. All I really had to do was make eye contact. His paranoia usually finds the eyes watching him, and I'm always watching him, and I'm never the first to break eye contact, which is always brief. I'm convinced his paranoia has convinced him that I'm on to him. Maybe I've just motivated him to take greater precautions. I did nothing.
Celebrity sightings: Marg Helgenberger was back in today. She came to the desk when Beth was up. (She never comes to see me! Maybe I give off a Mr. Peeps vibe since I have a hard time not looking at her) Georgette from Mary Tyler Moore was also in, as was a Garrison Keillor/Roger Ebert hybrid (runs on ethanol and solar).
Watched the least-laden cart (fiction) go out in the morning with Beth behind it. Disappointed that she made a personal decision on a professional matter.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Happy Whatever
You know what Easter means to me? It means not going to church but walking the gauntlet, coffee mug in hand, of the block of Gasten with the Baptists coming out on one end and the Catholics going in on the other, on my way to Starbucks. It means smirking at the tightly wound matrons with lacquered hair and not pitying the kids--boys in their strangling ties, girls in their formless bags of drapery-patterned dresses hanging on formless wraithin bodies--though they plead with envious, despairing eyes to be rescued from the soul-sucking indoctrination. Easter means sipping Papua on the way back, smelling the wiegela, and smirking from the other side of my mouth at the continuing procession of fools. Easter means not going to the "parade" downtown with all the hats and dogs and dogs with hats, and doing what the hell I want and not speaking to anyone if I don't want to. (I don't want to.) Easter means another pagan holiday co-opted by Christianity. It means it's Sunday, that's all.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
11
11 fascinates me lately--at least its multiples. The Lost Chart is 352 pages. By the time I picked it up at the library I had 32 days to read it--11 pages a day. 352: 3 plus 2 equals the 5 in the middle, and 3-2, 32, the time I have to read the book. Great fun until I get to 209. 2 plus 9 does not equal zero, and 29 times 11 does not equal 209. The interruption in the pattern is annoying. At 209 I have to subtract 11 from the sum of the two end numerals to equal the middle numeral. The original pattern resumes with the next multiple, 220, but is interrupted again by the first two multiples over 300, and again by the first three multiples over 400, and so on, until there's only one multiple of 11 betwen 900 and 1000 to which the first pattern applies. Let's not even talk about it after that. Decent number, 11, but it's not up to my standards.
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