Back in the day . . .that really wasn't so long ago

I worked yesterday. Let me clarify. I went away from my home, to a library, and got paid monetarily. I work every day at home. Being a mom, taking care of a husband, and a house is a major full-time job. It does not have me getting paid in a monetary fashion though. So I tend to get a little bit excited when I get the opportunity to actually leave the house to go to a job that I really like.

A story from my practicum days. Back in 1996, seems like half a lifetime ago, ha ha ha. I was working in a busy library in an area where there were occasionally sketchy folks that we got to deal with.

On the particular day that I will never forget, ever, in my entire life, I was training on the information desk. It was around lunchtime because I was alone, my coworker was on her break. We are trained to keep watch, see if anyone may need assistance with a computer or finding something. Observe customers, make sure no one is stealing anything, that sort of thing. Always watching.

The automatic doors open, a breeze blows through. I turn to see who might be coming in. The expression 'never judge a book by it's cover' has completely fled. Gone. There is a man walking across the foyer towards the desk I am at. He has rather straggly salt and pepper hair that is hanging in greasy strings down his face and neck. Pockmarked face. Tattoos up one arm and down the other, visible because he's wearing a leather vest over his wife beater t-shirt that has stains on it and I really don't want to know the what or the how of why they're there.

He proceed to sit, TO SIT, on my desk. My face is now level with a skull tattoo. I can sort of begin to tell you what I was thinking, but all real rational thought was gone. I try to ask him if I can assist him and it comes out as a squeak. I try again.  Great, got my voice back. Okay, “how can I help you?” I ask. And he says, get this, “You got any books about serial killers?” You think I jest. I almost fell off my chair when the fight or flight instinct took over. “Ummm, oh, yes, serial killers, uh huh, we do. Let me show you where they are. Were you looking for something on someone in particular? Jeffrey Dahmer? Clifford Olsen? Need I go on?”  Can I get my fingers to type what he's looking for?  I want to run and hide.  I take him to the shelf and leave, quickly.  Have at er, I think to myself and get me outta here.

Back in the day . . . once upon a time I was a newbie.