On Sundays, we are so busy, it amazes me how different one question is to the next. A question about James Joyce is followed by a request for a Section 8 housing application, followed by someone who wants me to proofread his research paper.
Next is a very young punk threesome. The spokesman has double piercings in his lip and wizzled up holes in his ears that used to hold plugs. They want books about stocks and personal investments. After them, a young African-American man with orange and black striped hair wants to get on the net to email Australia before his friend goes to work.
Then there’s the man with the question about child custody. He’s still married, but his wife is on drugs and having her eighth affair. He is afraid if he files for divorce, she will get the kids because she’s the woman. Unfortunately, in our state, he might be correct.
Being this time of year, there is always somebody who asks which tax form they need to pick up, eager to tell me how many deductions they have or don’t have and whether they fall into the low-income guidelines. People’s trust just amazes me.
The stream of questions continues like this for four hours straight. Part of it is that on Sunday, students are doing last minute homework assignments. Only two other branches are open; we draw in a lot of families that live in the suburbs and their closest branch is closed. We have the homeless and low-income from our neighborhood also; we get people who stop in dressed to the nines, coming from the restaurant, and church before that.
It all adds up to an interesting afternoon. If I have to be inside on a sunny Sunday day-of-rest, this is where I want to be.