Sunday, April 9, 2017


I know what to do when my managers mistreat and disrespect me, for I am crafty, psychologically astute, and wield secret understandings of how my library works.

I know what to do when my co-workers wrong me, for I am vengeful and clever and have cultivated dangerous allies and unholy skills all across the library system.

I know what to do when the library patrons are unkind, unreasonable or hostile to me, for I am a master of our laws, invested with their powers, which, as is always the case with enforcers of law, contains the means to control, manipulate and punish while maintaining impunity and the veneer of righteousness and dispassion.

But when the fates conspire against me? What do I do then? 

My knees and back were aching today, not gravely, or seriously, but struggling in the regular course of middle age. And I went upstairs to shelve in Non Fiction. Defying all logic and laws of probability every single book I had to shelve was on the bottom shelf. The bottom shelf! Crouching awkwardly I had to wedge heavy, oversized tomes into cramped, difficult to see and get at places. Then I had to stand up, search, find the spot on a new bottom shelf, and do it again.

Who do I blame for this? Who will pay the price for my pain. To whom can I address my careful and cultivated revenge here? Someone must be made to suffer as I have suffered!

The patrons don't deserve it. God knows it's hard enough out there in the world, and a library is but little enough succor as it is.

My co-workers surely suffer enough already. Don't I know it! So they're out too. 

Right then, managers it is.

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