Library Stories: Incident Report All-Stars

Once upon a time, there was a binder in the branch manager’s office of the public library. In this binder were a collection of documents known as “incident reports.” In these reports were meticulously edited accounts of library patrons who misbehaved in one form or fashion on a given day. A handful of patrons earned a number of mentions in this binder, but most only once. The ultimate purpose of these reports were 1) to detail formally the actions of a patron should they find themselves involved in legal wranglings, and 2) to protect the staff by detailing their policy- and/or procedurally-guided responses to an incident. While these reports excluded the descriptive flair and drama crafted by your favorite novelist, I had frequently remarked while still employed, “This would be great material for a book.” I no longer have access to these documents, but age has not yet withered my memory irrecoverably, though I fully expect that day to arrive in the approaching years. So, while my gray matter survives, here I lay out for posterity my list of Incident Report All-Stars.

Scooty-Car Man

After almost four years as an entry-level reference librarian, I was compelled to pursue a promotion. I had learned enough to know if I was going to learn more than enough, I needed to try my hand at supervision. And the next logical step-up for a professional on the public front-line was “Assistant Branch Librarian” — essentially an assistant manager. These positions made rare appearances in the job listings, especially if you wanted to remain in your 26-branch big-city system. Two became available, and finding my opportunity, I was encouraged to apply.

In my opinion, there is no position in a public library, or perhaps in other similar workplace settings, more versatile than “Assistant Branch Manager.” In a 10- to 20-person staffed branch, this dependable worker bee can be expected to wear the greatest number of hats, and he/she tends to wear them well. More than any other position, its duties expect one to float from circulation to reference desk with ease and grace and perform everything from shelving to management. It is, by design, the ultimate backup for all other positions at a small- to medium-sized branch, and, therefore, offers the greatest opportunity in a public library system to amply pad the “experience” category of one’s resume.

In any event, I was invited to interview, so I dusted off the suit, showed up, and answered the questions. The branch manager, with whom I would develop one of the best working relationships I ever had, was a couple of decades my senior and a veritable extroverted yin to my introverted yang. She also had an uncanny talent for assigning unique, surreptitious nicknames to our more troublesome patrons, merely, it would seem, for our staff’s amusement and as a way to cope with the special kind of intense interpersonal stress they brought with them wherever they would go.

First among many I would get to know was, as she dubbed him, “Scooty Car Man.” Scooty, it should be noted, earned his moniker due to his mode of transport — a motorized wheelchair. At the risk of sounding cruel, it was difficult not to find humor in the way he both filled the chair space and operated it. Resembling a grizzled and bloated Professor X with a death wish, Scooty left both drivers and pedestrians no option but to be vigilantly hyper-aware of their surroundings as he zipped with reckless abandon over sidewalks and heedlessly through crosswalks or crowds, taking the privilege of “right-of-way” to mean that any vehicle’s momentum can and would be arrested without his need for caution. My boss admitted at least once to a narrow miss with her SUV as he sped carelessly across the pavement on his way to who-knows-where.

In the library, he spent his time planted before one of many public computers surfing the web — that is, when he wasn’t complaining to staff in a series of gradually escalating tirades, which characteristically climaxed with accusations of us remotely fiddling with his computer over the network in the back workroom anytime he ran into problems. And as interesting and mischievously fun as that might have been, as our children’s librarian put it to him with all the delicacy of a hammer one fine day in an insufferable moment, “You’re not important enough for us to do that!”

I was the chosen recipient more than once of his ill-temper, merely for the fact that I happened to be the lucky professional seated behind the reference desk when the dam broke. We all kept an eye on Scooty anytime he was in the building. And each time he reversed from his computer station, there was only one question on our minds: will he then turn left or right?

If the former, that meant either a trip to the restroom or, better still, the exit, where he would obliviously provide car owners the unnecessary opportunity to brush up on their defensive driving skills against a rogue, rapidly mobile paraplegic. If the latter, it was a slow and suspenseful motorized crawl in your direction as he fixed his angry, droopy gaze straight at you, trapped behind the desk, having entirely too much time to anticipate what was about to happen as he creeped forward ever closer. I admit to periodic cowardice, having escaped a few times for a “restroom break” as soon as I witnessed him reversing, leaving him ultimately stranded at the desk for a victim. In any event, when once he arrived before you with as much speed and haste as the Nine on their quest to Mordor, you had time to imagine and prepare for at least a dozen variants of verbal lashings, but mostly your patience was tested and tried for the wait. Rarely was it ever rewarded, as either you offered to accompany him back to his station to take a look, or you shrugged your shoulders, recognizing that he merely wanted to spit fire and venom before backing up, turning, turning some more, straightening up, then rolling forward either back to his station or out the door.

One day, he ventured too far with our children’s librarian and foolishly allowed his “comments” to assume the form of a threat. While it’s likely he posed no actual threat, there comes a time for any public servant when enough is enough, and a customer — any customer — relinquishes their right to be served. I had learned as much at the larger branch where I had begun my career that you can and may request officers to arrive and simply be present as you issue a criminal trespass warning to an offender, formally banning them from the premises indefinitely. While there are legal limitations to the power and effectiveness of such a warning, as I learned over time, most patrons got the message and departed, allowing us to breathe a little easier.

I’m sure it looked either comical or tragic to any passers-by as I stood next to the officer in the lobby, both of us glaring imperiously down at Scooty as I informed him he would not be returning anytime soon due to his threat, not to mention his general, accumulated mistreatment of staff. I can’t recall how he responded, but I know we didn’t see him again until the new and improved library building was completed a year or two later. While we could have confronted him and reinstated the ban, we chose to let it slide and instead observe. Fortunately for us, his temper had diminished, though he still occasionally had his moments. Overall, he was a much cooler customer. We all have our challenges, I learned, but there isn’t an excuse for a lack of kindness and patience with others, regardless of your circumstances or, as it were, your mode of transport.

Jersey Joe

“Don’t touch a hot stove.“

“Don’t let your kids play in traffic.”

“Don’t consume alcoholic beverages in the library.”

There are common-sense rules in life, which is to say that they shouldn’t require official documentation and find themselves posted in full view of the public as a warning or carved indelibly into stone tablets and carried down a mountain to the waiting world. However, once you enter a “public” place, you quickly learn that anything at anytime can be expected of anyone, and you find sense isn’t quite so common as you thought. And even if it is a generally understood rule, bad habits are hard for some to break, common sense notwithstanding.

He called himself “Jersey Joe.” He rode hither and yon around town atop his faithful pedal-powered mechanical steed — an inexpensive but cherished no-frills bicycle he referred to as “The Flying Fortress.” Small in stature, he wore the simplest of threads and a visage that betrayed a body aged at least 10 years older due to the strains of life and to poor self-care. When sober, he was humble, courteous, and easy to talk to. When off the wagon, all inhibitions slipped away, and you were in for an intervention.

I don’t recall my first encounter with him, but I do remember the evening I witnessed the first of his many transformations wrought by drink. Sitting at the reference station at the corner of the building opposite the circulation desk, I whiled away the evening completing incidental tasks on the staff computer, waiting patiently for 9:00 p.m. — quitting time — to arrive. The last hour was often both the quietest and most sluggish, which sounds dull but can, for the introverted librarian, feel like a reprieve from a challenging afternoon or morning attending to all manner of public needs.

He slipped in unnoticed and seated himself at a public computer along the row on my side of the partition. Only a collection of study tables separated us, and I had full-view of both his back and the chosen contents of his screen, though I paid no attention to either at the time. That is, until I heard it above the otherwise placid evening atmosphere.

Singing. He was lost in the rhythm and melody of the song, belting it out as articulately as a slurred tongue would permit, unaware of his elevated volume, as many of us are when headphones cover our ears. His body likewise participated in the tune and swayed sloppily in time like a drunk, organic metronome back and forth, at risk of knocking into adjacent patrons. My easy coast to closing time would be interrupted.

I rose from the desk and made my way to Joe, prepared only to inform him that he needed to lower his voice. As necessary as that was, with all the uncanny observational skill of Sherlock Holmes, I spotted there beside his seat on the floor an unhidden empty 25 ounce can, accurately deducing that it may, in fact, provide a clue into his rowdy behavior. Information changes things. I now had to don my manager hat and escalate this from a simple noise issue to a possible public drunkenness charge, calling on the assistance of local authorities.

I fruitlessly asked Joe to keep it down, which he accepted but was in no state to do so capably, and then called the police non-emergency number as he jovially resumed swaying and crooning. They arrived and carried him away to dry up without major incident, and peace was restored. He would return again and again over the weeks and months, each time approaching me to apologize, which I graciously accepted. He would, however, fall victim repeatedly into his habit, and once again we would be expected to address it and usher him out.

We all have problems, personal or otherwise. Those disadvantaged with resources the public library provides bring not only themselves but often their addictions as well, which staff is unfortunately forced to address, notably when it infringes upon other patrons’ use of the same resources. It was difficult for me to feel harsh and judgmental of Joe because I knew who he was when sober, and I understood that he wanted to be better. Last I heard shortly after leaving, his inebriated mind convinced him that he needed to direct traffic in the parking lot. The badges, on a first-name basis with him by this time, showed up to relieve him of this unnecessary task. Joe wouldn’t be the last alcoholic I got to know on the job, but I still wonder what became of him and hope to God that he found his way out.

Homeless “Fred”

After four years of assistant management, the opportunity to manage the branch where my career began presented itself. I had imagined that such a responsibility dwelt much further into the future, and I hardly felt qualified to lead. Other colleagues around me felt differently, however, and I was encouraged to toss my hat into the ring. To my surprise, I landed the job, both excited and intimidated at what lied ahead and determined to vindicate those who had chosen to place me in this position.

First on the agenda, as I was told, was to address a delicate issue with a problem patron who the staff had been unable to correct. Moreover, handling the issue would inform the policy I would ultimately draft not only for this branch but for the library system as a whole. Simple enough, except for one thing:

How do you politely tell a complete stranger that they stink?

My children have no qualms whatsoever informing each other that they smell. Come to think of it, I tell them frequently myself, followed naturally with instructions to go and bathe. They’re my kids, and I’m their dad. I have the right to expect it of them. Bearing the responsibility to share this information with a customer at your place of work, however, ranks high on the list of awkward and unpleasant conversations no one wants to have with anyone, ever. But there I was, and a job is a job.

So, I inquired of the staff about the gentleman in question. As they explained, they had confronted him many times, albeit graciously, attempting to enlighten him about his odor, of which, it would seem, he was fully aware. They offered information on where to get a good shower, where he might find a place to wash or acquire clean clothing, etc. With each painful interaction, he would hear the advice, but it became evident to staff after each return to the library that he had no intention to change anything.

I asked the staff to point him out the next time he arrived. It proved an unnecessary request. “Fred,” as I’ll call him, bore as potent and putrid a scent as I’ve ever encountered by either man or beast. His overpowering body odor could be detected across a large, open room, announcing his presence from yards away long before you ever laid eyes on him. And it was the eyes that informed you with the final, critical clue that Fred, by all appearances, was homeless.

I recognized him walking the sidewalks in the neighborhoods and streets around the library. He was always patiently moving, aimless, as it were, towards no particular destination. He wore the same drab, oversized coat, irrespective of the weather. His clothing, never changed, might as well had been a second skin, every much a part of him as an essential organ.

The homeless are regular “patrons” of the public library, and this should come as no surprise. As an institution, it exists to level the playing field by offering its services free-of-charge to all, unless you count the minimal, practically painless tax exacted from each citizen to maintain its offerings. It’s a place to escape from the elements, to catch a nap, and, of course, to acquire information or entertainment during open hours. As long as one doesn’t interfere with others’ use of the same facility and services, take all the time that it has to offer. The 2018 film The Public, starring Emilio Estevez, intentionally featured this patron group and setting to drive the plot. However, as the film’s story depicted in more dramatic fashion, their use of the library, unfortunately, often can and does interfere with others’ use — a reality staff and professionals continue to try and address as graciously and justly as they can, though not always with the outcome either would prefer.

In Fred’s case, there was no question that his was an issue of hygiene that affected others who were even a substantial distance away. So, one afternoon, I did my job, asked him gently aside to chat, and shared the unwelcome news with him that he undoubtedly had heard many times before, though providing him options with shelters and services nearby to take care of the problem.

“Once you take care of this, you’re welcome to return.”

It pained me to say it to a stranger, but I did it. He left disgruntled, but he did leave, I assumed, to do what needed to be done.

A day or two later, Fred returned and seated himself at a computer station as the same familiar, offensive odor wafted far throughout his corner of the library. Sighing, I once again approached him privately and engaged in a second difficult conversation with him, changing little, if any, of the message. Again, he left unequivocally unhappy, and I hoped against hope that he wouldn’t force my hand and would either choose to heed my advice and make a change or choose not to return. I received my answer not many days after.

Regardless of our privileges or station in life, we all have choices to make. Those choices can and will affect others. It’s a reality I sometimes think to which we turn a blind eye, quick to assert our rights to ourselves and our “individuality.” While this may not have been running through Fred’s head at the time, it became clear that he had an interest neither in making minimal effort to change nor in considering those around him, regardless of whether he actively engaged with them or not.

So, I did what I was expected to do when all other options were exhausted and I wasn’t being heard, which, sadly, was to call on those charged, if necessary, to exercise force. After sharing with them the details upon their arrival, they approached him and asked him to step aside with them, to which he refused and loudly protested after inquiring as to why. It remains one of the few times in my career when my decision resulted in a patron exited the building wearing cuffs on his wrists. While it was, indeed, a way to fix a problem, and though he never returned again to resurrect the issue, such a conclusion is always, at best bittersweet. Librarians, especially public librarians, generally want and are pleased to serve those they encounter rather than turn them away, and it hurts a little to think that they may not be able to take advantage of the privileges you provide, immeasurably more valuable to those who have almost nothing in this life that they can call their own.

There are many other stories I could tell of difficult people in difficult circumstances, but these three earned a place near the top of my 18-year career. I have a wealth of colleagues who can easily top these, including one at a branch that almost routinely deals with blood in some form or fashion, believe it or not. Public librarians are among the lowest paid professionals out there when you consider that it requires a masters degree, but you won’t hear many of them whine about it. They didn’t get into it for the money but for the love of what they get to provide — not simply information but a little of themselves as well. And while they may not have expected to encounter such “charming” characters as I’ve described, they finish the job with plenty of interesting stories to tell. Be mindful, however, how you treat them, else you find yourself a subject of such stories.