Chapter 7: A Typical Day, Part 1

"Excuse me, could you help me with the computer?"

A white-haired woman in a blue jean skirt and pink cardigan pulled me from my philosophic musings. I took a deep breath. Computer help always felt like Russian Roulette. At the library, people with various levels of computer literacy come in, and it can be difficult explaining to someone why the internet is running slowly or why their email needs to be verified. Sometimes, if it were a technical problem, people looked at me with an expression of "Why don't you have the entire computer manual memorized?"

"Sure, how can I help?"

"Well, I need to pay my water bill today, and they said I could pay it online, but I'm not too good with computers."

"Let's take a look," I said, standing up. She led me over to her station. Our library had about fifteen public computers. Some people were surfing Facebook and Twitter; others were filling out job applications or working on resumes. Amanda, our patron with Down Syndrome, was carefully researching the latest movies on IMDB to find something to check out next. She made some notes in a small spiral notebook.

"Oh hi Ariel," said Amanda. "How do you spell werewolf?"

"W-E-R-E-W-O-L-F," I responded.

Amanda typed as I spelled; An American Werewolf in Paris appeared on her screen.

"Thanks," she said.

The older woman sat down at the computer. She tried typing in her login information on the bill payment site.

Computer: Incorrect Password.

She frowned. "Now, what was my password? They make you create so many darn passwords, nowadays, I can't hardly keep up!" She tried typing in her password again.

Computer: Incorrect Password.

"Ok, let's go ahead and re-set your password," I said. It was the third password I had to reset that day. "Click on that, where it says, "Forgot Password?"

"Where?"

"Down there, at the bottom of the screen." I pointed.

Patron: "Oh, I see it now." She clicked the link and typed in her email.

Computer: A reset link has been sent to your email account.

Me: "Ok, so now we just need to login to your email."

Patron: "Oh, where do I go for that?"

Me: "Um, what email service do you use? Gmail, Yahoo, Hotmail…?"

Patron: "My email is [e-mail]"

Me: "Ok, then we go to gmail."

Patron: "Where do I type that in?"

Me: "In the address bar at the top of the screen." *Points*

Patron: *taps out gmail address*

Computer: Loading gmail

Patron: "Thank you very much for helping me. My daughter insists that I get one of these new-fangled phones--" *Waves smart phone like magic wand* "and I have to pay my bill by today."

Me: Oh lord, please let this be over soon. "No problem!" Bright, cheery tone and a plastic smile on my face.

Computer: Login to Gmail.

Me: "Ok, now go ahead and login to your email."

Patron: *Squints at computer* "Where do I do that?"

Me: "Click on where it says, "Login."

Patron: *clicks* "Do I have to type out the whole thing or just my name?"

Me: "Just your username."

Patron *Peck, peck peck*

Computer: Incorrect Password.

Me: *Silently screams* "Ok, it looks like we have to reset your email password. Go ahead and click, "Forgot Password…?"

Forty-three steps and two reset passwords later, the phone bill is paid, and I want a pint of chocolate ice cream.

Before I made the decision to take off my clothes for money, I worked at a medium-sized library in a mid-sized city in Dallas. As my first library job, I was so happy to be in a place that valued literacy and reading, as opposed to the strictly financial, bureaucratic world of banking. The library was divided into two main sections: upstairs, which held the children's area, adult fiction, computer area, and check-out desk; and downstairs, which was dedicated to non-fiction books and held a few study rooms. The downstairs part was what people typically think a library is"the quiet area," for studying and reading and such.

I worked mainly at the reference desk, answering questions or helping people find information as best I could. For simple questions that can be Googled (that pre-internet would have taken an encyclopedia, almanac, or directory to answer), librarians call these "Ready Reference" queries. Sometimes I would get phone calls from people asking for the phone number of the nearest medical clinic, or the address of one store or another.

There was one elderly lady (fondly known to the library staff as "Movie Lady") who would call and ask for the mailing address of retro movie stars, so she could write fan mail. She would also ask very specific questions about random films or TV commercials like, "Do you remember the commercial for the Friskey's cat food in 1995? What was the name of the cat they used?" or: "What was the title of the music composition from the 1980s horror movie where they had the girl chained up in the basement?" In essence, people ask questions that range from the easily-answered to the bizarrely-obscure.

More complex questions may require cross-references and a significant more time to answer, such as, "What was the role of the Book of the Dead in ancient Egyptian religion?" or "What are the current theories of cognitive behavior therapy?" or "What is the average air speed velocity of an African swallow?" I LOVED reference queries, because they were intellectually stimulating challenges. Each question was like a small treasure hunt. Working the reference desk meant learning something new and exploring new ways to find an answer as efficiently and precisely as possible. Most people who journeyed downstairs into the reference section were students who needed a quiet place to study or people with relatively simple questions like, "Where are the cookbooks?" or "Do you have any car repair manuals?" However, there was the occasional challenge, such as helping people with the microfilm machine to look up newspapers from the 1840s or tracking down a legal definition.

When I wasn't at the reference desk, I had "personal projects," assigned by the head librarian, and these consisted mostly of weeding and processing books for withdrawal from the library. Once the librarian had made a list of all the books that were too old, dirty, or outdated (or those that simply hadn't been checked out in at least two years) I would track down each title off the rows and rows of shelves, pull it and place it on a cart, then "process" them for withdrawal. This involved marking out the library's barcode with a sharpie and stamping the books twice with the "Withdrawn" stamp.

There were other various tasks, like shelving the books or shelf-reading, which is literally going through the stacks to make sure every book is in its correct place, by reading the call numbers. (It's not as boring as it sounds, and it can be quite therapeutic for clearing one's mind.)

Other than that, I helped kids with their homework, showed people how to download books onto their Kindle, gave reading recommendations, helped people navigate the genealogy database, and anything any other menial task that assisted and supported the full-time librarians.

Going to the library was one of my favorite activities growing up. I loved the dusty smell of thousands of books, the quiet hum of energy throughout, and the sense that the library was somehow a sacred space. The idea that there was a place you could go and take ten or twenty books without paying for them was magical. Here was a land where there were hidden treasures, mysteries, and fantastic stories of dragons, mermaids, or pirates; a land where kind people would help you with any question you could possibly think of. Any time I came to work, I was in my favorite place in the world.