We have a few recognizable patrons who are special (read: crazy) and one of our regulars approached the reference desk this evening very upset.
"The computer is covered with blood!" she said.
"What?" I said, already imagining all the horrible ways that this scenario could end.
"There's blood all over the keyboard," she says then starts to walk toward the internet stations so I follow her.
This is an elderly lady with long gray hair, dressed in a pink tracksuit, who might've gone by the name "Starshine" 40 years ago.
We get to the computer she is talking about and I don't see anything. I lean in to inspect the keyboard and look at the other stations for comparison for some reason.
"It's covered in blood," she says again.
I don't have an answer for this because the blood is purely the result of a flashback or something. There is nothing there. Other patrons are looking over and I imagine I sound alot like Butthead with "Uhhhh" as my only response for awhile. I walk to an adjacent terminal and pat the back of the chair, "Why don't you use computer 11 instead?"
She shakes her head. Computer 10 is like her soul mate. "I don't think it's very hygienic to have keyboards covered in blood," she says quietly.
"You want me to get you a paper towel?" I offer.
She considers it then says yes. This makes her happy after she wipes it down and she gets back on computer 10.
When I was a library aide, we called them our "friend." Each of us had a "friend" the one we most often had to deal with. Mine was a loud, overly made up woman with intensely dyed hair, who leaned in too close. Eventually I figured out she was nearly deaf.
ReplyDeleteBarbara's was a homeless guy who wore galoshes and heavy coat, even in the hottest summer, and had an odor that deserved a name of it's own and to be formally introduced.
It was a small branch, just down the street from Social Services, in Detroit circa 1978-80.
None ever seemed to see blood where it wasn't, at least not that they reported to staff.