Monday, October 04, 2004
Why I decided to get Internet access at home, or
This is the kind of thing that usually happens to Anne
Yesterday afternoon, I went to the library to send in one of my freelance assignments. Unfortunately, none of the upstairs computers (which are spaced out every other desk so you don't have to sit right next to a strange person) were available, so I had to resort to using the “adult” computers in the children's library, most of which are uncomfortably close to one another. When I sat down, though, I was pleased to note that the computer next to me was free and hoped it would stay that way until I got my work done.
Of course, I had no such luck. Not only did someone immediately sit down next to me, it was a man who liked to mumble to himself. Naturally, I immediately started shooting him dirty looks. During one of these glances in his direction, I happened to notice a picture in his e-mail that appeared to be a close-up of someone's hands. I wasn't able to tell what was in the rest of the picture, but suffice it to say that it was a lot of skin. I began to get freaked out.
Mumbling Man kept getting up to go to the printer, so on one of these jaunts, I snuck a glance at his e-mail, hoping to reassure myself that what I had seen in the e-mail was in fact a picture of a relative's new baby or something. Again, no such luck. The picture itself wasn't visible (thank God), but I did catch a glimpse of some of the text of the message, in which the sender gave Mumbling Man his phone number, the last four digits of which spelled out “cock.” (This was helpfully spelled out in the e-mail, in case you're wondering if I sat there and transposed it myself.)
Things were not looking good, but I somehow still felt I had to give Mumbling Man the benefit of the doubt. After all, maybe he and his e-mail buddy were British, and they were talking about roosters. My eyes traveled up to the subject of the e-mail, which was “Re: ESCORT SERVICE.” OK, so they obviously weren't British. (Or else they were British and had a thing for bestiality, which is even worse.)
I didn't get to see much more (not that I wanted to), because Mumbling Man was making his way back to the computer. Only he wasn't alone--he had brought one of the librarians with him to look at the message and help him figure out why he couldn't print out the cock guy's phone number. Now, I can't claim to have actually read the library's Internet policy, but I would imagine that soliciting prostitution is in some way a violation of it. Not to mention the fact that we were sitting in the middle of the children's library. Surprisingly, the librarian said nothing about the prurient nature of his e-mail.
I quickly finished my e-mailing and booked it the hell out of there, thinking that maybe it would be a wise decision to invest some of my freelance money into getting a phone line and Internet access for my home. Hopefully that will be the last time I have to sit within spitting distance of a mumbling gay john.
This is the kind of thing that usually happens to Anne
Yesterday afternoon, I went to the library to send in one of my freelance assignments. Unfortunately, none of the upstairs computers (which are spaced out every other desk so you don't have to sit right next to a strange person) were available, so I had to resort to using the “adult” computers in the children's library, most of which are uncomfortably close to one another. When I sat down, though, I was pleased to note that the computer next to me was free and hoped it would stay that way until I got my work done.
Of course, I had no such luck. Not only did someone immediately sit down next to me, it was a man who liked to mumble to himself. Naturally, I immediately started shooting him dirty looks. During one of these glances in his direction, I happened to notice a picture in his e-mail that appeared to be a close-up of someone's hands. I wasn't able to tell what was in the rest of the picture, but suffice it to say that it was a lot of skin. I began to get freaked out.
Mumbling Man kept getting up to go to the printer, so on one of these jaunts, I snuck a glance at his e-mail, hoping to reassure myself that what I had seen in the e-mail was in fact a picture of a relative's new baby or something. Again, no such luck. The picture itself wasn't visible (thank God), but I did catch a glimpse of some of the text of the message, in which the sender gave Mumbling Man his phone number, the last four digits of which spelled out “cock.” (This was helpfully spelled out in the e-mail, in case you're wondering if I sat there and transposed it myself.)
Things were not looking good, but I somehow still felt I had to give Mumbling Man the benefit of the doubt. After all, maybe he and his e-mail buddy were British, and they were talking about roosters. My eyes traveled up to the subject of the e-mail, which was “Re: ESCORT SERVICE.” OK, so they obviously weren't British. (Or else they were British and had a thing for bestiality, which is even worse.)
I didn't get to see much more (not that I wanted to), because Mumbling Man was making his way back to the computer. Only he wasn't alone--he had brought one of the librarians with him to look at the message and help him figure out why he couldn't print out the cock guy's phone number. Now, I can't claim to have actually read the library's Internet policy, but I would imagine that soliciting prostitution is in some way a violation of it. Not to mention the fact that we were sitting in the middle of the children's library. Surprisingly, the librarian said nothing about the prurient nature of his e-mail.
I quickly finished my e-mailing and booked it the hell out of there, thinking that maybe it would be a wise decision to invest some of my freelance money into getting a phone line and Internet access for my home. Hopefully that will be the last time I have to sit within spitting distance of a mumbling gay john.
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