SHORT FICTION
Mr. Congeniality Checks Out: A Revenge Fantasy for Librarians
With Useful Information about Administering CPR
Mr. Congeniality is the mocking secret nickname my library co-workers and I have given our least favorite patron, a steely-eyed, suit clad guy with an insanely short fuse who, for over a decade, has done his level best to make every one of us miserable.
His usual expression is an impatient frown and his normal library behavior ranges from barking orders at us to screaming orders at us. I’ve never heard him use the words “please” or “thank-you.” He has been known to leave otherwise strong and unflappable library workers in tears.
So I have to repress the urge to flee as I see him approach the circulation desk.
“Check this out!” he demands, thrusting a hardcover at me.
“I need your library card,” I say.
“No you don’t — you know who I am.”
I certainly do. You’re a gigantic pain in the ass.
“I need proof of identification,” I tell him. “I can use your drivers license.”
With an impatient snort, he takes his license from his wallet and tosses it on the counter. “Incompetent biddy,” he mutters.
I’m not a biddy. I’m a vibrant 65-year old woman in the prime of my life.
Not only that but when I glance at the birth date on his license, I see that he’s three years older than I am.
“Who are you calling a biddy, gramps?” I refrain from asking.
When I bring his account up on the computer, I learn that there’s a fine on his card. A large fine. Uh-oh. This will not be fun.
Taking a deep, calming breath, I begin. “There’s a charge on your card, in the amount of — ”
“Waive it!” he barks.
“I’m sorry, but…”
“WAIVE IT!” he shouts. “AND STOP WASTING MY TIME”
Deb, my co-worker, shoots me a sympathetic look.
“I always return my books on time,” he snarls. “You idiots didn’t check it in correctly.”
“I’m sorry, but the computer says — ”
“CHECK MY BOOK OUT!” he bellows, slamming his fist down on the circulation desk. “NOW!”
“Can I recommend a good book about anger management?” I think as I silently check out the book and hand it back to him.
Nobody is drawn to library work because they enjoy a good fight. We librarians are readers, not fighters. Courteous. Helpful. Polite. If you go ballistic on us, we’re unlikely to push back.
We’ll just do whatever you want, so we can get rid of you. Then we’ll make fun of you (for instance, by giving you a mocking nickname) after you leave.
Mr. Congeniality glares at me triumphantly, book in hand. Then his expression changes. His eyes meet mine with a wild, confused look. He drops the book.
Then he collapses.
“Somebody call 911!“ I yell, running around to the front of the circulation desk to kneel beside him. He’s unconscious.
“The lengths some people will go to avoid paying a library fine…” Deb mutters, picking up the phone.
A small crowd of patrons has gathered. I check Mr. C’s pulse. We recently had an educational session about administering CPR. You’re supposed to do chest compresses in rhythm to some pop song from the 80s.
Of course, I can’t remember the song.
“What’s the CPR song?” I ask Deb.
Audrey, the reference librarian, who had been on her break, gets off the elevator. When she sees Mr. Congeniality sprawled out on the floor, unconscious, she looks upward and says, “Thank you Jesus!”
“Try mouth to mouth!” a patron shouts at Deb.
“I’m not touching that man’s mouth,” says Deb.
“We’re not supposed to do mouth to mouth anymore,” I say. “We learned that at the session. We’re supposed to do chest compressions to a pop song. What the hell is the song? He’s not breathing! He could die.”
“We can’t let that happen,” says Deb. “He owes the library money.”
“She said hell,” a child says.
I‘m pressing on Mr. C’s skinny chest, trying to get a rhythm going. “Somebody tell me what the song is!” I plead.
“It’s a song by Queen,” says Audrey. “That’s all I remember.”
“We are the Champions?” Deb suggests.
“That can’t be right.”
“We Will Rock You?”
“Layla?” asks a patron.
“That’s not Queen,” somebody says. “That’s Eric Clapton.”
“Someone for God’s sake please Google it!” I yell.
A moment later Audrey calls from the reference desk, “Another One Bites The Dust!”
“Another One Bites The Dust?” says Deb. “That’s the CPR song? Well, that’s deeply ironic.”
I begin to sing “Another One Bites The Dust,” pushing rhythmically on Mr. C’s chest. Having something to keep time to actually helps. “And another one gone and another one gone, another one bites the dust.”
A couple of patrons join in. Somebody starts stomping out the beat. Thump Thump Thump. “And another one bites the dust…”
So there I am, being serenaded by an ad hoc Library Patron Choir and trying to keep one of my least favorite people alive.
Just another day at your local public library.
Talk about “other duties as necessary…”
People imagine that library work is calm and quiet.
“It must be wonderful to get paid to sit and read all day,” they’ll say to me.
That would indeed be wonderful. But it isn’t my job.
Library work isn’t always life or death. There’s definitely reading involved. But we deal with tough, sad, challenging stuff a lot more often than you might think.
The singing stops when the medical team arrives. They have him on a stretcher and out the door in two minutes.
Audrey begins the paperwork you fill in when anything happens in the library. I return to the circulation desk.
“May I help the next patron?” I ask.
A woman steps up to the counter and hands me her card and a stack of DVDs to check out. While I‘m taking care of that, she picks up the book Mr. C. dropped and gives it to me. I hadn’t paid any attention to the title when I checked it out but I glance at it now.
I kid you not — it’s James Patterson’s HOPE TO DIE.
“Holy shit!” I say, showing the book to Deb.
“OMG. We actually have a book in our collection that kills difficult patrons?” she asks. “Check that sucker back in — but don’t shelve it.”
“To stop it from killing again?”
“Are you kidding me? I’ve got a short list of pain-in-the-ass patrons that I can’t wait to recommend it to.”
A library book that kills you if you try to check it out might make a good plot for a novel by James Patterson.
Or even better? Stephen King.
“You don’t actually believe in killer books, do you?” I ask.
“Of course not,” she says. “I’m not stupid. But a librarian can dream, can’t she?”
( Writing Coach and editor-for-hire Roz Warren writes for everyone from the Funny Times to the New York Times, and is the author of Our Bodies, Our Shelves: A Collection of Library Humor, and Just Another Day At Your Local Public Library. If you want to buy inscribed copies, ask her to speak at your library’s next “In Service” day, or just want to say hi, you can reach her at [email protected])
