To The Face I See Peeking Behind The Doorframe

Rudimentary Blog #12

Tunage is being brought to you by Spotify.
^My goodness, what a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful thing Spotify is.  I am currently enjoying the musical styles of The Movement and oh how they just seem to be the perfect soundtrack to a day like today.

Good evening Universe, specific section of the Universe, Milky Way, lonely solar system, Earth, North America, United States, Southeastern region of United States, Kentucky, Northern Kentucky, Kenton county, Independence, my house and all those who may differentiate from any of those locations.  Let’s get started shall we?

First thing first: My feet are asleep.
Second thing second: I’m stuffed with the delicious chicken of Buffalo Wild Wings.  (It was even more delicious than normal because it was free.  Thanks, Miss Harrier!)
Third thing third:I need to check my e-mail. (Checking e-mail now.)  E-mail checked.
Fourth thing fourth: I can’t think of a fourth thing.

I feel like I need to address something.  It’s about work last night, and it went a little like this.
The Forty Minute Conversation
  Now, this may seem to you like an exaggeration.  Unfortunately it is not.  As you may or may not know, I work as a shelver at a library and as a shelver I am typically the person a patron will talk to if they have a question or they are having difficulties finding a particular item.  After I help them, we take our separate paths and continue on our way.  Last night, this unspoken series of events that most patrons know did not happen.  This patron decided with her other “friend” beside her, that we three were going to be best friends.  No “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts” about it.  Here is how this little, well I shouldn’t say little, situation started:

I was walking out from behind the circulation desk, heading towards the 900s where my cart was.  From the rough sort shelves, I hear a obnoxiously high pitched giggle.  I turn around to see where such a noise could originate from, and I made the mistake of locking eyes with this person.  Her hair was black, short like a pixie cut, and greasy.  Not a normal greasy, that is if you can call any type of greasy hair “normal.”  It was the type of greasy that you get when you don’t wash your hair for about a week.  We have all experienced something to that extent.  Middle school.  Need I say more?  Underneath the child size mop of greasy hair was a face that only a mother could love and I mean that to its furthest extent.  Her skin was just glistening with grease and mountains of turnip colored acne seemed to span across for miles.  Connected to her head was an extremely plump body and the size of her head seemed to match perfectly.  Protruding from her body were these behemoths of arms covered in thick black forest of hair.  She didn’t have wrists, her forearms just continued into hands.  She was wearing this large tank top that was a sea foam green (which I was later to find out that this color was actually her favorite).  Her legs were just what you probably imagined.  Large, thick trunks of flesh that were drier than the Atacama desert.
I kept on walking on towards the back the library.  Back there, I grabbed a stack of books and started shelving.  This is where the story gets interesting.  While at the rough sort shelves this girl wasn’t alone.  She was with this little weasel of a guy who was around sixteen years of age, blonde peach fuzz, and sporadic acne covering his face.  He comes up to me asking where he could find war books.
“Well, right next you is a full section on Nazism, and behind you will find each war in chronological order.  If you are looking for war books, just stay in the 900s.”
While I was telling him where all the books were located, the girl went into the other aisle and waited.  When I shelve, I take a stack of books about six high and place it in an empty spot and I grab from there instead of constantly going back to the cart to grab one book at a time.  As I turned away from the weasel and started towards my stack, the girl stepped in front of me with the weasel behind me.  I was trapped.  I made eye contact for the second time.  She reaches into her pockets and grabs a piece of paper and holds it up.  On it reads her name and two phone numbers and at the bottom is a written reminder that she is in fact a member of Facebook.
“Hi!” she says.
“Hello.”
*For the sake of privacy we’ll call her Grandia, which is Latin for large.
“My name is Grandia!  Do you want to be friends?”
I want to remind you that she is still holding out her makeshift business card.  Politely I tell her that I don’t add people on Facebook that I don’t know.  This apparently didn’t register with her.  The look on her face was full of confusion as if no one in the history of her life has turned down an offer to be her friend.  I then leave the awkward situation to have her weasel of a friend and herself giggle in the same obnoxious pitch as last time.
I’m start to feel uncomfortable because they just hover and giggle in the spot where I rejected her friendship.  So, I leave the situation and head towards the circulation desk.  After about five minutes of waiting, I deem it safe to continue working again.  I walk back to find out that they haven’t left.  I quickly shelve the 900s and move into the 800s.  They follow.  Now the 800s is a section of the library that is only two aisles wide.  While I was on one said, the dynamic duo was on the other.  When I moved to the side they were in, the moved to the opposite. I am now suffering from the “Uh-oh feeling” that we all learned when we were children.  I again leave the situation and head towards the circulation desk.  My coworkers ask what is happening and I explain the situation.  Apparently, this isn’t the first time they heard of Grandia.  At the library, she is a repeat offender when it comes to be a total creep.  After waiting a second time for them to leave so I can actually do my job, I move back to the stacks.  I am now in the 700s and my cart is resting against the wall.  The weasel comes up and asks me if there are any music books.  I have now figured out the pair’s plan.  They want me to take them to a specific spot so they can corner me again.  Not this time weasel, for I have outsmarted you!  Only if that were so.  I point to a location not even relevant to his wants and he darts off.  The two are now not in the 700s anymore, and I cannot find them anywhere.  Finally, there is silence in the shelves.  I start to do my job.  I get one book shelved and then Grandia strikes.  I stand up to find her hovering over me.  She is taking large breaths for that is how fat people breathe and she is obviously nervous.
“Do you like Italian?” she asks.
I’m sorry?  Is that some type of pick up line?  I should of left as soon as she started to speak, but unfortunately I continued the conversation.
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, do you want to learn some?”
Here I swear she asked if I wanted one.  As she finished the question she walks towards me and licks her lips.  I was preparing myself for one of the most disgusting moments that I would ever encounter.
Fortunately, she didn’t say that.  She did her obnoxious giggle and repeated her question.  She tries to teach me some word, but I’m not listening.  I have both of my headphones in, and honestly I could care less about learning Italian. Grandia’s weasel comes over and here starts the most awkward forty minutes of my life.  Now my life has had its share of awkward moments, but this by far is the top.  The duo starts to fire off every question that they could think of.  They probably just memorized the questions off a MyYearbook app that asks you just general things to create a biography.
“What’s your favorite type of music?”
“Do you like R&B?”
“Where do you see yourself in twelve years?”
“Do you believe in inner beauty?”
“Are you a Christian?”
“Oh, since you aren’t a Christian, do you want to come to my church?”
“What’s your favorite type of food?”
“Do you like cars?”
“What about NASCAR?”
“Where do you go to school?”
“What’s your middle name?”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Who is your favorite band?”
“Do you play any sports?”
“Do you like tennis?”
“What color is your room?”
“How old are you?”
“Have you been to Florida?”
“Oh I bet you’ve traveled all across the world, right?”
“Who is your favorite author?”
“Do you like action movies?”
“What is your favorite Shakespeare work?”
“So, do you like comedy?”
“Who is your favorite actor?”
“What school activities did you partake in?”
“Do you like working here?”
“Have you worked at other places?”
“So to get a job here, all you need to know how to stack books and that’s it?”
There were more.  Much more.
After forty minutes of being bombarded with questions I had to leave.  I quickly made up a lie and left them, but not without being given the makeshift business card Grandia made.  It’s safe to say that I threw that piece of paper away.
After I told my coworkers about what just happened, they told me that she was a regular patron and that Grandia comes multiple times a week.
So, I have that to look forward to.  Great.  Grand.  Shit.