The Sacrifices of a Lonely Prick

"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.

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.

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).

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.