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.