The Few. The Proud. The Librarians.

1108 words. Commentary.

A few days after I retired, I saw a help wanted ad at my local library for an assistant circulation clerk. I visit the library often, and the thought of a part time job swanning about pushing a wheeled cart of books, chuckling at children as they scamper about with picture books, or murmuring about the weather as I help patrons check out their selections, was very appealing. I updated my resume (grown tech-heavy over a career in computers) to also emphasize my bookishness, and sent it in. A day later, I had an appointment for an interview.

My last real job interview was over 15 years ago, but I knew how to prepare. I imagined the questions they would ask: Why do you want to work at the library? Who are some of your favorite authors? What is the history, purpose and structure of the Dewey Decimal System? What is the ISBN of To Kill a Mockingbird? What, if anything, is wrong with this sequence: A, B, C, D, Z, E? You know, easy stuff. I rehearsed my responses.

On the day of my interview, I was ushered into a large room upstairs behind the state history stacks, take a left past a display case with perhaps the most decrepit Confederate flag I have ever seen. I sat on one side of a long table, across from my two interviewers.

The first two questions were exactly as I had imagined, and I delivered my rehearsed answers in a natural, conversational manner—not glib at all, not me. It was like a real conversation among book-loving friends. We even got into a detailed discussion of the differences between science fiction, which I like, and fantasy, which I don’t. I thought, why would they carry on this way with someone they were not going to hire? I was in—I could feel it.

Then things took a dark turn. I was hit with a series of increasingly alarming hypothetical situations:

What if you asked the clerk next to you a question and they were having a bad day and bit your head off?

What would you do if a patron was in the bookstore room by himself, carrying on a heated conversation with a stuffed animal clutched in his arms?

Would you be able to call 911 in a medical emergency?

Would you be able to remain calm and render aid while waiting for the EMTs?

Could you operate a computer while on hold on the phone and while rendering medical aid, while also not aggravating your co-workers? They may not have asked this exact question, but the trend was situations of ever-escalating difficulty requiring more and more calm and more and more hands. I considered asking whether I could choose to shrink myself to an infinitesimal point and pop out of existence just until the trouble passed, but my interviewers’ steady gazes did not invite humor of this kind.

While I had not anticipated this line of questioning, I had very good answers. I had moved to Anniston from a home in the heart of downtown Atlanta, so I have run into my share of unusual behaviors and situations requiring a bit of finesse. I had defused many an encounter by simply treating everyone as human beings. I had in fact called 911 several times after witnessing car crashes. I shared all of this, and my interviewers seemed satisfied.

Then came the last question: How would you handle an XYZ call? The letters were not actually XYZ. While I was not asked to sign a non-disclosure agreement, I would not want to divulge operational secrets and so I will take the actual code to my grave, along with the ISBN of To Kill a Mockingbird.

They explained that an XYZ call is when someone has befouled the restroom—colored outside the lines, so to speak—to the point where it must be cleaned. I won’t go into graphic details, but they were not talking about a little spritz with a spray bottle and a quick hit with a brush. Would you, they asked, be willing to put on the gloves and make the problem go away?

My mind, as they say, reeled. What about my fantasy of the wheeled cart, the laughing children, chatting about the weather? How did it turn into dealing with troubled or ill people, and with me wearing rubber gloves and scrubbing the restroom? Why did they pave Paradise and put up a dystopian parking lot?

Because, it dawned on me, these are all real needs that are met by this library. The job is to provide a service, and meeting all of these needs is part of the job.

While I had said “yes” to everything up to that point, I had to give an honest “no” to cleaning up XYZ. I’m not unusually squeamish. I helped raise three children, so I have seen and dealt with all manner of X, not to mention Y and Z. But in dealing with the XYZ of any random person not in my immediate family, I found my limit.

Napoleon is credited with saying “Geography is destiny,” and boy was he right. I learned that the book checkout station nearest to the restrooms is the one most likely to receive an XYZ notification. Think about that the next time you see the smiling face of the circulation clerk who greets you as you enter through the doors from the back parking lot.

In fact, think about all of the non-book-related things I have shared with you. My interview was ten percent about literature, ninety percent about other services—and not easy or pleasant services.

I did not get the job. I was turned down with a very polite form letter. I don’t know whether it was because they inferred my disdain for Harry Potter during my denunciation of all wizards in my diatribe against the fantasy genre, or because I started off by telling them that I don’t need the money, or because I said “no” to XYZ. My boss at my last job used to say, “They don’t pay us to say ’no’.” So true. I said it, and they are not paying me.

I still love going to the library, but I see it differently now. I know that our library staff provides a great service, way above and beyond any sense of duty that I felt when I applied for the job, and far beyond merely checking out books. Every person who works there, presumably, answered “yes” to the XYZ question, and I respect them for that.

How would you answer that question?

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