Every day at lunchtime the smiling redhead who works at the shop next door comes in for soup. She loves asking what the soup of the day is and her face lights up when she is passed her steaming bowl. One day the electric soup warmer blows a fuse. There is no soup. When told, the woman regresses thirty-five years. Her lip quivers, her eyes well. She stomps her feet, shouts and slams the door behind her. The next day she arrives and asks, beaming again, "What's the soup of the day?"

Those working in customer service will inevitably witness this perplexing performance: the adult tantrum. 

If you work in a restaurant, it's a regular occurrence (perhaps hunger strips decades from our maturity). It might be a rarer sight in other industries, but we should still be prepared for it, just like the parent who knows her sweet baby will one day hit the terrible twos and is wise to have her tips, tricks and techniques at the ready for when disaster eventually strikes in the middle of the grocery store. 

In the grand scheme of things, we have it easy in libraries. Our customers aren't completely "customers"; they are patrons of an institution, while we, the library staff, are the stewards of that institution's collections, so a sense of community imbues interactions more often than not. Ninety-nine percent of the time, patrons are gracious. And, most of us, having entered into the profession in order to, at least in part, help people, love doing just that. 

Oh, but that one percent. 

Thankfully many librarians are practically patron-whisperers. Their sheer presence is enough to pacify the most irate individual. I've had several bosses and colleagues with this magical power, and watching their diplomacy, goodwill and patience in action was like taking a master class in patron service. 

It's a tricky business though, because we must strike an extremely delicate balance between providing service and enforcing rules. We must be welcoming and helpful while protecting the collection and the greater good of the library. We must smile while we shush. Ask if there's anything we can help with while confiscating your open beer bottle. 

Our techniques for handling the odd tantrum must be honed for this very particular dynamic. From an institutional perspective it helps to hire people-whisperers, those blessed with poise and imperturbability (for example, the American Midwest is a hotbed of such individuals), right off the bat. But, even if someone's not so naturally gifted, we can still learn how to diffuse challenging service situations. 

But first, certain conditions should be in place at the library. 

At one of my first library jobs, a patron, frustrated at having to produce his student ID in order to enter the library, threw his card in the face of the student staff member who was manning the entrance. The staff member was stunned silent. My boss watched this interaction, strolled over, and with a voice as soothing as warm honey, explained to the card-flinging student that this was his first and last warning and if he ever abused a library staff member again, he would lose his library privileges for life. 

My boss's calm demeanor, coupled with firmness, took the student from recalcitrance to contrition in five seconds. Of course, he was one of those bosses with special powers. But, for the staff, just knowing that he supported us was enough to give us confidence in our ability to handle such interactions. We felt protected by the institution to do our jobs. 

Along the same lines, drawing boundaries helps. At another library we developed a Patron Code of Conduct, providing clear guidelines on proper behavior, just in case. It was rarely used, but it helped staff know how they should expect to be treated (for example, no cards should be flung at any faces). It gave us peace of mind so that, in the moment, we could manage a difficult patron with steadiness and ease. 

Of course, how we handle those tricky tantrums, outbursts or just plain old naughtiness depends upon the situation, but here's a sampling of techniques: 

"The Empath" - At the circulation desk a patron is yelling because he needs a book for a paper due today. Not tomorrow. TODAY. With empathy (the greatest tool in the arsenal of the customer servant) we feel for the guy, knowing his frustration is probably about something bigger than the unavailable book. We don't have to know what, but we recognize that he's just human, and with a little compassion, we might be able transform his bad attitude. "The Empath" is the perfect antidote to taking things personally. 

"The Silent Treatment" -  Sometimes there's nothing you can do to stop the woman stomping and storming out of the restaurant. We know, as she will probably realize, that her behavior stinks like last week's turnip soup. 

What we would like to say: 

• It's time out for you!
• Go to your room!
• You're going to sit in a corner and think about your behavior!
• You've just lost your soup privileges for a month!

What we're going to say: 

• Nothing.

We're going to throw our reaction right into neutral and let it idle while the tantrum is being thrown. 

"Cloak of Invisibility"- an extension of "The Silent Treatment". Both parties pretend that the outburst never happened. That way the customer can return the next day and ask for the soup specials without embarrassment. 

"Good Cop/Bad Cop" or "Blame the Policy"- A classic. You're just enforcing the policy. It's your boss who is the bad guy (your boss is in on this). If someone is shouting about the library's entrance policy, you can shrug (empathetically), wave a copy of the written rules and refer them to your friendly-but-tough boss. 

"The Information Deluge"- I worked with a staff member who was brilliant at diffusing situations simply by explaining the intricate minutia of the library's policies and procedures. Boredom quickly eclipses anger. 

"The Sneak Attack" - Rather than showing his ID, a man gives the attendant a dirty look, hurdles over the turnstile and sprints into the library. Instead of running after him in a game of inappropriate library flag football, we wait. Eventually he comes to check out a book, and we say, "Sir, your hurdle is impressive, but I'm afraid I have to insist that you show your ID next time." He sheepishly agrees to leave his track workouts outside. 

We're probably all guilty of bad behavior from time to time. Bad moods descend on even the sunniest personalities, and unfortunately, sometimes other people get the brunt of it. Hopefully most of us have left our public tantrums back in our toddlerhood, but we can still find some compassion for the foot-stomping patron. 

In customer service, it can be a challenge to maintain your humor, patience, empathy and faith in humanity. But, if we feel supported by our institutions, if we know that we should expect to be respected, we can stay neutral and not take things too personally. We won't be daunted by the rare tantrum and can enjoy the ninety-nine percent. And keep in mind that the best stories come from the stompers and yellers and hurdlers. 

Those who work in libraries are accustomed to finding odd things in the stacks. Like trash, for example. But, even that can be interesting considering the lengths to which some people go to improperly dispose of their garbage. A wastebasket stands conveniently at the end of the aisle, but instead, the empty styrofoam cup will be found gently wedged between two volumes of a treatise. A single dirty sock, rolled into a neat ball, is found perfectly perched on top of a monograph. They're almost trash installations they are so purposefully arranged. Refuse collection (or appreciation) is not the primary reason that most libraries send out employees to do regular rounds, but it happens enough that sometimes you wish you'd left with tongs and a pair of rubber gloves when you make your way into the stacks. 

Even so, as a librarian, I highly recommend making a daily saunter through the stacks part of your regular routine. For one, you're establishing your presence, so patrons learn to recognize you and feel comfortable flagging you down and asking you questions. Also, you get a sense for how the library is being used. What's the favorite reading nook these days? What kind of food are students sneaking in? Where are people napping?

And, occasionally, you'll stumble upon something important, something even more disturbing than trash, and you're grateful that you're the one to catch it, rather than a patron. Like that guy who claimed to be researching his genealogy who is now looking at loud porn on his laptop. Or, the visiting scholar who reveals either drug addiction or mental illness as he pulls out volume after volume of random periodicals and stacks them in towering piles throughout the library. 

Or, a baby. 

Long ago, as a young shelver, I was doing the rounds in the large, multilevel university library where I worked. This library was closed to the public, and it was nice knowing that all of our patrons were upstanding members of the same community. Unfortunately, that also meant that we couldn't blame the public when we found discarded soda cans behind a range of books. 

It was a quiet afternoon, and the floors, stacks and desks were empty. Floor after floor, there was only the hum of the fluorescent lights and the comforting, pencil-shaving smell of old books. 

And, then I saw a stroller, a stroller with a live baby in it. She was snuggled asleep, parked in the middle of an aisle, with no parent in sight. I'd just walked the entire floor and hadn't seen a soul. What made the discovery all the more odd was that the library didn't allow anyone under 16 into the stacks. Patrons couldn't even bring in their adolescent children. So, somehow someone had smuggled a big stroller with a baby into the stacks and left it there for some poor shelver to find. 

I'd heard stories about parents dropping off their young kids in the children's section of public libraries, and the poor librarians who have to act as babysitters, but leaving a small baby completely alone in a big empty library seemed a bit extreme. I started to get panicky. Was this an abandoned child? Would I have to call security? Who leaves their baby in the stacks?

Five minutes went by, and I hoped for someone to come around the corner for their child. Eventually I dashed to the phone at one end of the floor to call my supervisor. A few more minutes passed, and he and a group of other library assistants made their way toward me and the sleeping infant. 

"Yep, that's a baby."

"It sure is." 

"Whose is it?" 

"It's the library's baby now." 

"Put her in the lost and found."

"Isn't our annual book sale coming up? We can put her up for auction then."

"Do they have any Pampers at the circulation desk?"

"No, but I think they have pacifiers to check out to stressed out undergrads." 

"She's in the Russian literature section. Maybe she's just a precocious Dostoyevksy scholar." 

Twenty seconds later, baby-in-the-stacks jokes spent, we had to do something. 

"Well, I guess I'll call campus security. You guys stay with the baby." My supervisor sighed and walked to the phone, and the rest of us gathered around the stroller in a perplexed circle. 

The policeman finally arrived, and we explained the situation. 

Then, a calm, distinguished woman slowly rounded the corner, reading a book as she walked, a few other volumes tucked under her arm. She barely registered surprise as she looked up to find a policeman and several library workers surrounding her baby. 

"Can I help you?"

"Is this your baby ma'am?"

"Yes. I'm Professor X," she said, unflustered, as if she were introducing herself at a fireside chat at her home. 

"You can't leave your child unattended," the policeman folded his arms, looking stern.

"And children under 16 aren't allowed in the stacks," my supervisor added, over the policeman's shoulder.

She looked back at her book and leaned against the bookshelf casually, clearly thinking about something else. Just then a man came from the opposite direction from which she had arrived. 

"Darling is everything alright?" A gray-bearded gentleman, also carrying a stack of books, looked at the group, annoyed.

"Yes darling." 

"Sir, we were just explaining to your wife that you cannot leave your child unattended." 

"I'm Professor Y," his tone conveyed that we were simply guests on his property and we obviously had other things we should be doing. 

The library staff exchanged glances with the policeman and we all backed away, disappearing into the stacks like library elves.

Apparently Professor X and Professor Y had brought their baby into the stacks through the faculty entrance and thought it in their best interest to park their offspring on a neutral floor, so that they could do their respective research quietly, unburdened, on separate floors. Their baby would be safe in the bosom of Russian literature, with the library elves looking on. 

I hope Baby Z grows up to love libraries, and that the woody smell takes her back to a time before time and she feels comforted and not alone, even as she's carried far away by ideas. 

Changing of the Guard

It's the end of the library conference, and the attendees are loaded down with canvas bags filled with the regular loot: free books, glossy information packets, mouse pads. We're still wearing our conference badges, clipped to our lapels or hanging from lanyards around our necks. We will take these home and tack them up in our offices like small plastic trophies. 

Because it's the final day, we have no more words. We've danced and small-talked and asked questions at microphones, and since we understand one another, no one is demanding anything more from us. 

Those of us who gave presentations look like we've run a marathon. Thank goodness we grabbed the last of the free granola bars by the exit as we turned in our satisfaction survey. 

Our shuttles idle outside to take us to the airport for our flights home. Ten of us file through the cold hotel corridor and wait for the next elevator. We know each other, but we're too tired for chitchat on the ride down. One floor below, the elevator doors open to a tall blonde in leopard print and high heels.

"Hi y'all! 'Scuse me, let me just squeeze on in here. Thanks. I'm Sheila from Mary Kay! You probably noticed all the pink cars parkin' out front. We're just startin' our annual shindig! Y'all must be here for a conference too. What're y'all here for?"

We stare ahead in silence. 

One of our sneakers squeaks. 

"Well, y'all have a great day anyhow." 

We march out to our buses, past the pink cars, relaxed in our band of introverts.