The Elephant and the Library Fine
January 29th, 2008 by The ElephantGraduation from high school affords one the opportunity to outgrow many odious things, hourly bells, yellow buses, and Madame Bovary to name a few.
Insufferable librarians, it appears, are not among them.
Here at college, I yet again find myself stymied by those maddeningly obnoxious book bureaucrats, those pasty stacks-dwellers who from behind their lofty circulation desk thrones wield fearsome imperium over the vast expanses of – the library.
This latest encounter begins with a trip Sunday afternoon to the Reserves section of Columbia’s Butler Library, where I was swiftly and loudly informed that I owed a fine.
The average person at first may not grasp the magnitude of what this means in library culture. To a librarian, owing a fine is tantamount to withholding Willie Nelson-levels of back taxes or committing multiple felony hit-and-runs. It is a deep and embarrassing streak of shame that in a fairer universe would resolve only with a precisely delivered blow to the knee-cap.
One can imagine, then, how indignant the Reserves librarian must have been to see on her computer monitor that my fine totaled in the triple digits, nearly $113. She shot me a suspicious look – as if to make sure I was not at that moment trying to light a book on fire or jimmy the lock on the rare books display – and then sternly informed me I would not be able to check out any books until I paid the fine.
I can’t say I didn’t expect something like this would happen, actually. When I left Columbia in the back of an ambulance on the night before Thanksgiving two years ago, I had about a dozen library books sitting in my dorm room. They were not overdue at the time, but my subsequent, unexpected hospitalization quickly extended past the date stamped in their inside covers.
As November became December, the books remained locked in my room accruing fines, and a variety of external factors, including my lack of contact with fellow students, strict dorm security procedures, and my distance from campus (no person can be in two places at once, thank you quantum mechanics), left me with no way to return the books. Only in January, when my father and I returned briefly to New York to move out of my dorm room, could I return the books at last.
Given the extenuating circumstances, one might have compassion and waive the fees. Not this librarian. She scrunched up her face as I began to explain my story, clearly displeased with my deadbeat book-borrowing.
“You’ll have to take it up with the library supervisor,” she instructed me. “And he’s not here right now. Come back tomorrow.”
Naturally, this suggestion (or should I say, command) was both convenient and helpful. I neither needed the book immediately for legitimate schoolwork nor had a packed schedule that could not accommodate lengthy visits to the dusty recesses of library administrative offices. The only reason I asked for the book in the first place was to bring a delightfully wry sense of irony to her otherwise bland day.
(On the chance that the preceding sarcasm passed by unnoticed, I warn against watching any modern television.)
I admit I toyed with the idea of never paying the fine, going through whatever lengths necessary to circumvent the library’s asinine policies as a matter of principle and spite, but I figured such a stance would put me but one cardigan away from crotchety old-man-dom. I came back to Butler Library the next day.
My arguments were prepared for this supervisor, though I was not sure what to expect. I had never challenged a library fine before and I had never dealt with library upper management, so my imagination was free to run wild. I ultimately pictured this supervisor as a hybrid of Bowser, the end-level Nintendo boss from “Super Mario Brothers,” and George C. Scott.
What I actually got was a fragile-looking, Bohemian twentysomething who no doubt would have been as comfortable working the espresso machine at Open Eye Café as assigning Dewey decimal numbers.
“You are over the limit on fines,” he told me, pulling up my information in the borrower database. This conversation was not beginning promisingly.
“Yes, so I’ve been told. That’s why I am here; I want to appeal those fines.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
I was fighting an urge to roll my eyes and sigh, but I began to lay out the essential points of my case. He interrupted me just as I began to bring up the ambulance ride in a bid for sympathy.
“I’m sorry, but we have a policy on overdue fines.”
Apparently, the terms of Butler Library borrower privileges are inscribed on the back of the tablets Moses brought down from Mount Sinai.
“I assumed you did, but I believe my special circumstances aren’t taken into account by your policies.”
“We generally don’t waive fines.”
The brick wall of bureaucratic bull-headedness quickly approaching, I shifted tactics. I remembered where I was, how in New York City, loudness gets results.
“Look, these fines make no sense,” I pushed. Adrenaline kicked in and I stood squarely, hoping to seem more imposing physically. “It was impossible for me to return the books since I was hospitalized in another state. And I showed good faith by returning them as soon as I was able. I tried to do the right thing, and now you’re penalizing me for it.”
The chinks in the supervisor’s argument turned into cracks and collapsed. He sighed.
“Which fines do you want removed?”
“All of them.”
A flurry of mouse clicks later, the fines were gone. Such bluster for a request so easily fulfilled!
He had to save face, though.
“And… Well… In the future, call us and advise about your situation if you have checked-out books so this does not happen again.”
Right. In the event of hospitalization, my first concern – above my health, above my family, above my schooling – will be my library books.
And I thought high school was over. No matter; I still talked my way out of $113 in fines.
