It has been a while since I last wrote about any of the library patrons whose peculiarities add a certain uncertainty to the daily routine of a small-town library. The character about whom I am writing today is one such individual, an elderly and stout man who claims to have been a college professor, but who now totters about our small town and occasionally stops in to use our computers.
His recent visits indicate he is having trouble with an identity theft issue or the like, and he has been trying to fax or e-mail his ID to his financial institution's fraud department to regain access to his account. However, he is extremely bewildered about anything outside his normal routine, and he keeps asking for help we cannot provide. He seems to have lost or forgotten his e-mail password, and he has a habit of leaving behind his notepads and paperwork as he plods in and out every few days.
Professor or not, if he were a fabric, he would be tweed. Image credit
Today, he was dissatisfied with my how-to sheet to create a new e-mail address as a workaround for losing his old passwords. He wants us to fax documents, but we don't have a fax machine. The local business that does fax couldn't send his ID, because it is a low-resolution black-and-white scan that is completely blacked out by reflections from the foil embedded in the newer driver's license cards. He wanted us to email from our personal or professional e-mail accounts on his behalf, but that would be a major problem for his information security and our privacy policy alike. But it is somehow my fault for not being helpful when I don't set aside my library duties and ethics to handle things as if I am his personal secretary.
Please be kind to your librarians. We are amazingly capable, but there are things outside our expertise and outside the boundaries of responsible, ethical action. It pains me to admit it, but we are mere mortals too.