Librarians Ain’t Shit

A couple of weeks ago I was standing on the train platform and a friend of mine’s father said to me: “You know - someone got murdered in that parking lot.” We were talking about my school, the glassy University of Connecticut (Stamford Campus). This poor woman was walking to her car after purchasing some pumps [Editor’s Note: gross speculation] when someone killed her. She was a size 7 ½. Of course, back then, it was a department store. The place where, God willing, I’ll get my degree, used to be a Bloomingdale’s. “That was pretty much the end of that store.” After the murder, the store folded. Abandoned. It was later purchased by the state and turned into the new site of the university. This is the rich, cultured and detailed history of my school: it used to sell slacks. And it’s parking lot may or may not be haunted by a very literal fashion victim. Just thinking about it, whew…

Today I got an email from someone addressing “Spring Weekend.” “Spring Weekend” happens on the real campus, where there will be a Nas and Fabolous concert, promiscuous sex, and several fires set. We have nothing planned for our spring weekend because we don’t actually have a campus. We have an office building. None of the classrooms have windows. It’s kept impeccably clean (you could do lines off of any surface, including the walls). And an original voice or thought cannot be heard for miles and miles. I always thought of a college or university campus as a place where thought and expression and passion spills over the campus’ very surface. It’s everywhere, all consuming and electric. It makes a light, slight hum. This can be felt in places like Northampton and Boston. To a different degree, it’s all around New York City. But Stamford, Storr’s illegitimate child it felt too sorry for to abort? It’s laughably un-college-like.

Anyway, today I had to go up to said campus (which I normally refer to simply as Bloomy’s) and pick up a book for a class. This book is due tomorrow (lectures about the evils of procrastination and my almost certain downfall can be emailed), but the class isn’t until 6 p.m. That’s a lot of time to cram like (what?) a bat out of hell. So I go to the bookstore and there isn’t a copy of the book! What? This is the school bookstore, where I’m supposed to get books for class. Unfazed (well, maybe a little), I head down to the library. I ask the woman at the front desk, who has a craggy face and is reading the newspaper, for help.

”That’s what we have a card catalogue for,” and points me, somewhere, in the direction of her left. Keep in mind that I haven’t had to do much research in the past two years (and thus have little working understanding of it) and that our library (for a regional campus and former department store) is fucking massive. She delivered the instructions in a cold, calculated, and condescending manner. I was getting lectured on working hard from a woman who, up until fifteen seconds ago, was so busy that she was reading the paper. (A person who, through my exorbitant tuition, is paid by me.)

“You don’t have to be so condescending,” I said. And then I left the library. At the time I felt sorry for her, wondering when the last time a man had his tongue in between her legs was. When was the last time she danced? Does she even know that it’s springtime outside? After sorrow I felt very angry and then desperate for a solution that wouldn’t make me come off like the procrastinating, lazy bastard I am.

Then I called the Fairfield Public Library and this douche bag answered. I asked him if he could check on some titles for me. This is the politeness of retail. Retail karma. “Hello, Mr. Fisherman.” “Um, it’s not Mr. Fisherman,” I said. “But I will only assume that Mr. Fisherman is a man of great importance and wealth, and take that as a complement.” Silence for a second or two. He didn’t find me charming or funny or in the least bit entertaining. “How can I help you?” he finally asked. He didn’t have the book either.

My experiences this afternoon left me with the conclusion that all librarians are miserable fucks and that, quite possibly, the library is somewhere that the gods of employment send you if you’ve been extra bad and show signs of accelerated crankiness. It’s like purgatory, except with more John Grisham books. Next librarian: Kevin Faverau.