(Read Part I here.)
After parking across the street from the Mid-County branch of the St. Louis County Library on a chilly Saturday afternoon, my mother and I scraped for change, coming up with about three quarters between us. Forty-five minutes on the clock.
Stepping inside, my mother sat down to work on a puzzle, while I hopped in line. Moments later, I stood at the checkout desk. I proudly pulled out my library card, a fixture of my wallet for the last 18 years—and whose number I'd (I know) even memorized—and placed it on the counter. "I guess I need to renew my card," I said sheepishly.
The fellow there took the card, mercifully refraining from mentioning the DEC 07 sticker or its generally tattered appearance, and scanned it. He peered at my profile on-screen. I could renew it, he said, but he'd have to give me a new card. They were replacing all the old ones this year. Sigh. OK—as long as I got to at least keep the old card. He furrowed his brow. Technically, he said, they were supposed to take it. But it probably wouldn't do any harm if I kept it. He handed it back.
Both cards in hand, I happily set out to explore my new library. I found the fiction section, then scanned for a few favorite authors. Zelazny—no. Plenty of Orson Scott Card—but not his latest. Warren Ellis—not there. Hm. I walked over to the card catalog and punched in my new card number, two digits longer than the old one, and quickly requested about a half-dozen titles.
Ultimately, a small stack of items in hand, I made my way to the checkout desk. The woman there took my new card and scanned it, then informed me that I'd need to renew it again in March. "As in March 2009?" I asked. "Just curious—how come?" She told me all new cardholders were placed on a trial period, after which we had to renew. OK, that made sense. It was a little bit of a buzzkill ("I've been a patron for nearly two decades—don't they trust me at all?" I thought), but sensible. I guess it was designed to separate those serious about their library-card use from the dilettantes. Or something.
As she went through my stack, I made small-talk, telling her how I hadn't renewed my card in a long time, but that I was excited to be back. "It's too bad I couldn't keep using this," I said, pulling out my old card nostalgically, "but at least I got to keep it. I mean, I've been carrying this thing around for 18 years!"
She looked up sharply. "They were supposed to take that," she said. "You need to give that to me."
"Um," I stammered. "May I ask why?"
She glared. "Whoever let you keep that broke the rules. We're supposed to cut those up. If I let you keep it, I'm allowing that person's mistake to go uncorrected. So you see why I have to take that," she said.
I pulled my hand back. "But what harm does it do?" I asked. "What would I even do with it?" Now I was genuinely curious. "I'm just trying to understand the basis for the policy."
"Look, I'm not going to stand here and argue with you," she said. "But we're not supposed to let you keep those, and I'd appreciate your cooperation."
"But I just—"
She angrily cut me off: "Fine. Like I said, I'm not going to argue with you." She shoved my stack to the side of the counter and looked over my shoulder. "I can take the next person here, please."
Dazed, I picked up my items, tucked my now-contraband card in my pocket and went to collect my mother, who was still diligently working on the puzzle. "All done?" she asked. "Yeah, let's just get out of here," I replied, and recounted the story as we walked to the car.
Two months later, I'm still wondering why that librarian got so worked up about my old library card—and whether I should even bother renewing the new one. —Margaret Bauer, Associate Editor
